poem for All's Hallow

when rainfall batters barren earth
and wind comes in through hollow drapes;
when the moon hides in shrouded berth
and shadows dance in ghostly shapes;

listen for the knowing silence
to find your friends amoung the dead
and hear them with a spirit sense
like the voice inside your head.

welcome them for this one day
and do not shun their presence;
give thought to what they have to say
for they and you share essence.

and when the morning comes again
and the layers of darkness shallow
give thought to how your life shall be
when next year comes All's Hallow.

an open letter to Chelsea Manning

i struggled with writing a letter to Chelsea Manning for some time because, while i wanted very much to extend my support to her, i knew that whatever i sent would have to make its way through prison authorities whose dispositions would likely as not be diametrically opposed to mine. so i am posting what i finally sent, in order that there be a record of it, somewhere, even if only in the dubious digital domain.

Dear Chelsea,

as i try and imagine what you were feeling as you watched that video and came to the place where you decided that something had to be done, i conceive a kinship with you that is almost like a shared, spiritual identity. i feel that you acted for all of us who believe in democracy, and honesty, and decency toward our fellow human beings. i want you to know that in my eyes you are a hero, a shining example of courage, integrity, and sacrifice.

indeed, during your trial and the time leading up to it, i used a photograph of you as my profile picture on facebook, so that whereever i (metaphorically) went and whatever i said, i was always saying "i am Bradley Manning". i hope you won't object to this subterfuge, but i would willingly have changed places with you if it would have saved even one innocent child's life or helped the United States of America evolve into a true democracy, of, by, and for the people, like its constitution says. when i heard the apology you presented to the court i was heartsick, for in my way of thinking you have done nothing warranting regret, and although you have endured terrible and cruel treatment and degradation, i don't want your spirit to ever be broken.

i know that you have gone through many changes, Chelsea, and will go through many more, but i hope that in reaching out i have made it possible for you to take a small, indefinable piece of my heart with you, that part of me that would stand with you, and deeply appreciates what you have done for all of us. for the Tunisians, Bahrainis, and countless others whose desire for freedom finally ignited into the Arab Spring, sparked by the information you provided. for the awakening Americans who, because of your example, have found the courage to not contribute to war crimes carried out in the name of mindless media-induced patriotism. for the journalists who comprehend the sacred duty entrusted to them, so vital to the functioning of a healthy democratic state, and the whistleblowers, those torchbearers of an informed citizenry, who have and doubtless will follow in your footsteps. but most of all, for the children who may yet survive into adulthood because you cared about their future, and recognised in each one of them a sacred, living being with an inherent and inviolable right to exist. thank you, Chelsea.

Motherland

in the national game of ninepins the soldiers are meant to fall
but technology knocks the civilians dead and no one counts the haul
while the media convenes complacency to keep the mob in thrall
we defend a deafened democracy where death is free to roam
and there's no one left in the homeland with the right to call it home
save a few remaining Indians who are watching out for drones
we humans began in Africa with weapons long buried in sand
then someone thought of guns and bombs and migration got out of hand
now we're lost transported Africans in search of our Motherland.

apples in a basket

ten apples glistened in a basket, one of them was bad
the stepmother seethed in anger, a wicked witch gone mad
she could have made a soufflé, she could have baked a pie
some recipe that didn't call for arsenic and lye
but rage and insecurity possessed her tortured mind
blindness to reflection sees no method to unwind
her parenting skills were negligent, her empathy obtuse
her compassion and her loving heart were never put to use
self respect and confidence were the sparks she couldn't nourish
with a cup of understanding or a dash of faith and courage.

nine apples remain in a basket, one of them's been had
her promise was ceded to anger, and now she's only sad.

dusting the shadows

in not many days the Spirits of Christmas will reappear
one wonders how they pass the other seasons in the year
you can feel their approach in the lessening of light
as sharply featured landscapes fade into shapeless night
there's a scurrying emerging from somewhere behind the walls
and echoes are resounding in the cellars and the halls
you think you hear footsteps but you know there's no one near
it's always hard to disregard these hearkenings of fear
one shivers and shudders from a host of haunted feelings
as glances from headlights cast mutant slideshows on the ceilings
my but it's the most, dusting the shadows and living with ghosts!

twelve

twelve jurists and steps, disciples and hours
star signs and months with their stones and their flowers
there were twelve ancient tribes on wandering feet
and that many eggs make a dozen complete
it's the most you can get from a pair of dice
and the span of the small hand that goes around twice
the edge of a ruler and the final bell to chime
the drummers who were drumming at the end of christmas time
the animals in menus illustrating Chinese years
the planetary houses that forecast our hopes and fears
in this last lucky number dwells redundancy of form
the compulsion of consistency, the safety of the norm
so let the witching hour obfuscate the hold of things mundane
turn back into a pumpkin, live thee free, or go insane.

one more drifter in the snow

thirteen starlit silver moons in turn may wax and wane
etching frost and forecast on a darkened window pane
casting eternal cycles that bless this ancient earth
calling forth the breath of spring and summer's enduring mirth
we dance with yearning flowers amid life enhancing rain
dismissing last year's worries as they all go down the drain
likened to the harvesting of autumn's golden grain
then coming round the circle we find we begin again
seeking solace and safety in deep midwinter's den
beckoned by ancestral fires first lit so long ago
sharing tales spun from embers that set our hearts aglow
clasping hands we sing our songs so our lonely souls might know
the harmony of finding one more drifter in the snow.