Soapbox

In the center of the future lie the deeds of yesterday,
In the center of the ripples fell a stone.
Wrapped within each lie is a truth about yourself;
In the center of hate is fear alone.

In the center of true justice there is no concern for winning,
In the center of the breaking is the whole.
In the center of each ending lie the seeds for all beginning,
The center of the diamond remembers coal.

In the center of conflict you must find a road to peace,
In the center of each soul there burns a flame.
In the center of all life is a love that will not cease;
In the center of my heart I wrote your name

In the center of each trying there must be a believing
In the center of knowledge there’s more to learn
There is love still in the center of all loneliness and grieving.
In the center of goodbye waits a return.

T. Meisky

This poem won first prize one year in the Ohio Poetry Day competition. It is also a song. A friend described it as "Blowin’ in the Wind" for the 21st century." No way I would go that far, but it’s not half-bad, if I do say so myself. so now I think of it as "Emily Dickenson meets Bob Dylan"  with apologies to both of them.

I never saw a sunrise whose colors could portend
What good or ill the sun would see,
And how its day would end.

I never saw a sky of blue that cared what deeds we sow.
We spend our lifetimes reaching up-
It does not glance below.

I never saw a mountain to benefit by man;
Where banks and steeples and logging roads
Improved upon God’s hand.

I fear there is no justice that is truly blind, blind to one and all,
Whose scales will mete a portion same
To the mighty and the small.

I never saw a war in which the cost of victory fell
On those who sound the battle cry,
For they do profit well.

There is no pain or illness dark upon the face of earth
That benefits from promises,
Or patriotic words.

And there ne’er flew a flag, no matter how bright
That could turn back a bullet in swift, deadly flight.
Each action moves onward, as clear waters flow
And a flower, once picked, cannot grow.

I have not known a frightened soul, about to lose his life
Concerned with the religion
Of the hand that wields the knife.

I never saw a hungry child or mother with bowed head
Who cared for fiscal policy
Or the politics of bread.

This song is dedicated to the crew of the Space shuttle Columbia
and shining stars everywhere

They dare to dream, they dare to try;
They dare to spread their wings and fly-
Those golden ones who inspire us all,
Too fast and strong to fall.

And oh, how they shine like a guiding star
Across the morning sky.
They show us the way in beauty so fair,
So bright, we must close our eyes.

They reach us, they teach us, they show us the truth
Of what man at his best can be.
We love them, and fear them for how can we hope
To see what their eyes have seen?

And oh, how they shine like a guiding star
As they cross God's deep blue face.
Arms open wide- see how they fly!
Clothed in courage and grace.

And some will reach the golden prize,
And some will slip away.
but they will live within us all
Far beyond this day…
In a thousand ways.

It's the fortune and fate of all mankind
That our reach will exceed our grasp
  And in our endless reaching
Some will fall too fast.

And Lord, won't they shine like the morning star
As they trail across the sky!
They bid us farewell with beauty so fair
It burns our sorrowing eyes,
And so we close our eyes,
And so we say goodbye.

This poem is based on the story “Growing Up” which is found in the “So I’ve Got This Kid” section of this archive.

Gentle spring:
First of May
Tiny chicks have hatched today
Just beneath our window bay.

Verdant spring:
Life abounds
Father red and mother brown,
Tiny bodies fletched with down.

Callous spring
Rushing past
Scarcely notices, alas
Brown feathers on the grass.

Heartless spring
Has no care:
Tiny bodies struggle there,
Shiver in the evening air.

Sad spring:
A child’s hands
Try to help the best they can:
Cannot change fate’s solemn plan.

Silent spring:
Petals fall,
Fragile bundle, much too small
Lies beneath the garden wall.

Wise spring:
Children play,
The red bird has flown away
Hoping for another May.