American Spring

A nation may be reborn
out of flame and darkness,
broken glass, death, ignorance,
blood, beaten and broken bones.
The trial and terror of birth –
its unknown face
weak and trembling
shouts in the corridor.

Birth tears an opening
out of which it comes.
It wounds forever
what came before –
history, tradition, belief.
What comes cannot return
from whence it came.

The child of birth cries
comes, cresting before our eyes.
Scream if you must.
Healing, salve, balm –
chrism poured over a living being
beginning to stand, flex, stretch.
Let it come. Let it be.


Portland, Oregon – June 9, 2020

As I write, America is in a raging and justifiable turmoil. We do not know what will come of it. I have hope. I am given hope by what I see on the streets of America.

Black Lives Matter

I watch as the sun sets –
western Oregon in the fulness of spring.
I sit in my back yard
with flowers, fountain, and bees.
I would be a contented man
for, in all the world I,
a white man, with my own worries
have not the worries of men
whose skin is not like mine.

A man in Minnesota is dead
days dead and the face of justice
is hidden there, hiding
for fear – the fear that killed
the man in Minnesota. He
has a name – George Floyd.
I did not know George Floyd but
as another man said so true:
“Any man’s death diminishes me.
Therefore, never send to know
for whom the bell tolls.
It tolls for thee.”


Portland, Oregon – May 28, 2020

Mr. George Floyd was murdered by a Minneapolis Police Officer.  Brothers and sisters in Minneapolis and around the country are righteously protesting/rebelling at this unjust and prejudicial act of racially motivated murder and terrorism.

Of course, the poet and poem referenced above is from the Rev. John Donne in his poem, “For Whom the Bell Tolls.”