On the election of Trump. (11/09/16)
Oh, in the darkest of days,
When weeping is the only action known to eyes,
And inside your chest the twisted rag of your heart wrings itself
In agony, when Hope is lost and Faith’s gone roaming
In the deserts of Imagination,
How is it that You find a way
Dear God, to touch the lyre of my soul?
I glance up, eyes blurred by tears,
Toward the picture hanging on the wall above my desk,
“The Hand of God,” I call it – this ocean depth,
deep, black and billowing beneath
A sky with outspread fingers formed of clouds
Shredding—it is the blessing
Of God’s palm outstretched. I see it every day
But now it hits as if I’d never noticed it before:
“I’m Here,” it says, “All’s well. Be still.”
I open the computer then to find a stranger’s letter
Thanking me for words in books I’d written
So long ago I don’t remember what they said.
He gifts me with his angel tale of hope and energy–
This when my heart is breaking, rainbows needed now.
In the deepest Valleys of the Dark
You are with me, angel,
Singing in small silent sounds and only heard by
The one to whom you Sing. O Mother!
O Goddess! O Daddy! Care for me. For us.
I am afraid.
I am afraid for my beautiful country,
For Democracy, afraid of the rise of Ignorance
And hate, oblivion of Wisdom. O Help us, Dearest Love,
To remember kindness. Is that too much to ask?
Help us to be kind
To one another.