Issue Date: September 19, 2003
POETRY
Give me a teacher
Give me a teacher who gives a damn, needs to know more than
my name, strains for the song I have not sung, follows me in my
ennui to find my fishing hole.
Give me a teacher who gives a
damn seduces and surprises spades the soil of me, fertilizes feelings
for what is fair, with anger at what is not, hope for
solutions, appetite for application.
Give me a teacher who gives a
damn who tenders truth and trust more than rules and roles, favors
sticky freedoms over cool controls who risks career and cares to take
a stand for students, is not unknown to laugh.
I can build you a
future in what I am if you give me a teacher who gives a damn.
-- Tom Keene San Antonio
Stones
At times you see the world as it was-- a scene ventured into
by pioneers or even the dinosaurs well before them
or some of the
people in between, a passing scenario, just a glimpse of how earth was
with more forest, less
of what weve brought. Not so much
granite had been converted to gravestones. Some sea creatures had not yet
become
limestone. Even one hard shard of flint was sometimes enough
for survival or rescue. We, of course, grew up scorning stones,
had
no holy pebble to caress for good luck, nor was hope for immortality assured
by a jewel. But even in a dream to see the world as it was
before
sabers and cannons and too much fear and too many words is a great joy, most
often achieved at dawn before gentle pink clouds conspire
to lure us
back to the age of dread, the rule of the ubiquitous giant mushroom and the
men who worship it, at the edge of the stone age to be.
Strange
indeed that men renounce fiery dawn for that.
-- David Ray Tucson, Ariz.
|
Hari Raya
The rains come in the afternoon turning the sultry streets
of Jalan Sultan into rivers scattering the shopkeepers who huddle under
their tarps and lean-tos to shield their counterfeit watches Gucci
handbags, designer sports clothes and tennis shoes from the weather I sip
my beer on the patio of the Swiss Inn with pen in hand waiting for the wild
one who arrives at midnight
You have no inspiration only
desperation
She says as she struts away to go shopping in the
night market in Chinatown leaving me on the patio with pen in
hand hope sinking into the pit of despair when suddenly the rain
stops and the streets come alive The fasting ends and the prayers and
the feasting begin again
-- Thomas Gayton San Diego
-- Kathleen Gunton |
If Women Ruled the World
No emperors, no kings, no chiefs, Just leaders all called
Mother. And no more war forevermore. Wed never
allow -- no way, no how -- Our kids to kill each other.
-- Anna Lee Brendza New Philadelphia, Ohio
Memorial
Inside, we called to mind the one whose blood was shed for
others. The choir sang and swayed, the lectors read his words, and the
priest intoned the prayers while one by one we stepped
Outside, where
a medic swabbed our arms and punctured our veins and waited while our
blood was shed for others. Then, we returned
Inside, to sip from the
cup of wine and know the sharp taste of the blessing of the
blood.
-- Catherine Wolf Maresca Washington
|
National Catholic Reporter, September 19, 2003 |