Saturday, February 23, 2008

Poem for the Day

Bush went to Rwanda and what did he see?
Masses of humanity, believe me.
A world of troubles from SIDS to HIV
Killing fields remembered vitriolically.

“I’m gonna help,” said the Pres, “heal the sore.
It’ll take billions, but, hey, now’s ‘la jour!'
We need an idea that could help make ends meet
A focus with promise; an end game that’s neat.

"Where to get money, enough for the job,
While protecting our interests, my final big lob?
Surely, it’s easy, if I could just think. . .
My image is tattered, lost down the sink."

An American answers; small voice from the land,
“The good life for us, for none should be banned.
We live in a place that allows us our rights,
To speak out with candor and reason and might.

“With apartheid, oppression, no clear moral code
Why invest in a country so sure to implode.
Billions for Israel, plus rockets and gear,
Bring nothing to others but harm and more fear.

"Will Bush use the last of his time to consider
America's options or will he just dither?
Will he bend to a country that asks us to shirk
The path that our forefathers built in great hope.

"Take the billions, a war chest, from a cause that’s passé
And pass it to those who want a new way.
America’s strength lies in its giving,
If the gift brings to all – just and good living."


Brenda Bentz is a savvy woman: loving and emotional and full of life. She loves and is loved and for good reason: she cares about people. After a recent trip to Palestine, for her a truly holy land, she began to share short vignettes accompanied by one or two pictures per story with her friends and family. So far, what's she has done is a blog without the site. The great thing is that I can look at her stories and read them in just a minute or two before delving into my day or panicking about what to have for dinner, or jumping under the warmth of my feather comforter for a cozy night's rest. Her writings are a sort of a devotion for me. As I do the ordinary things that fill my day, I think of people who must sleep on cold, hard floors in hopes that missiles will fly over their heads and miss their bodies or who hope that no hooligans jump out of the banana groves to take the little they have in the dark of night or the extremely well-educated friends of mine who live in left over Communist cement block apartments with only a hope that they'll have water each day. I am reminded of these things, and I am prompted to write my stories, too. I want to give 2-minute reprieves from the mundane, the luxurious or the ease of life that bless many, though not all, in American. So, I dedicate this little bit of work to my beloved Brenda and many of the ideas and emotions to the parents who brought me up to care about everyone and the great Bishop Tutu who is a religious leader that lights any semblance of spirituality still left in me. I shall begin.