My son only 2
Cheeks like white moons
In July’s summer sun
Dancing with a bubble gun
Happiness that sweats
A breeze that I would catch
A smile that’s been made
in my heart that has been taken
“Charleston Church Shooting” keeps blasting on my screen
my phone, my laptop, and my TV
I hear the phrase from those shopping
a radio host talking
once again, how do we understand a stab to the gut kind of story
when another racial matter stops loaded chests from their rising and in people we
fail to show compassion
When I first heard what happened, I thought, “of course again this has happened”
and then a thought
something has happened
something inside of myself has horribly happened.
I am stone
where is the blow that this news brings my heart of what I thought was always warm?
Why am I so unmoved by the earth shattering broadcast that is supposed to cause a knee buckling sensation and why are my hands not shaking? Have I gone crazy or is this world beyond a cure- a saddening acceptance I’ve been carrying
& how long? Where is my hope – the one on my sleeve I preached proudly? Did it wash off like a tattoo’d thumb or was it stolen from me when I was – oh how long was I
That sort of loss when you cry so hard you can’t cry anymore type of break up – with an American hippie’s dream, “peace, love, and unity” – my patience
a desert run dry from too many rainless nights to water its kindhearted intentions.
“Charleston Church Shooting” please pinch me from this sedated-by-news-gorging slumber and help me feel again, so to speak
up for other mothers grieving the loss of loved children because of something so irrelevant in meaning
No, I can’t sit back any longer and let the world my children grow up in be flooded with hate, crime, and hate crime then keep saying, “We’re doomed so why must I bother?”
It was Nietzsche who once said that famous phrase, “God is dead”, but not for the reasons our atheists hold certain.
The phrase was not a winning statement but, a heartbreaking murder of greatness
we killed the almighty argument because we stopped caring for the questions that kept arising from such beauteous wonder.
And so what would Nietzsche think? If he never died from the wretched green
would he say, “We are dead” just the same?