CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

As State of the Union Nears, Congress Plays Musical Chairs
We pace our minutes. protest our fortune, one chair remains.

Consumers downbeat on job, inflation worries: Nielsen
The rock gives way to water, the tree bends with the wind, flowers blossom in our hands, the scent rises inside like a flood.

Rock, water, tree, flower, wind, and we restrain the shadow inside of us, purchase the downbeat, trade away, inflate and fail.

Police: Suspect in 1987 kidnapping seen at pawnshop
Where have you been, Ann? You show up to pawn another child, to be seen swapping beauty for ugliness, love for anguish, deceit for truth?

Should have been a politician, you could have kidnapped children for war.

Flotilla raid 'regrettable' but legal, Israeli commission finds
Regret walks near, deceit moves alongside, our head is buried deep in the regrettable sand.

Obama to Press Centrist Agenda in His Address
I’m amused by the way we daydream. Attention warriors and peacemakers all, if, at the center of goodness, swims a green peace nearest your belief, love.

Search continues for boy swiped from grandmother's arms
Oh return our child to his affection, his shroud of grandmother, his love within her grasp. The boy’s gone from her sight, yet not from her seeking.

Documents raise questions on treatment of detainees
Where our skins have grown slack of their grave use, where love’s fallen short of it’s ascending worship, where glee’s shell game has duped both of our hands- words cannot bring mankind a superman…

Incumbent Senators Weigh Options
Our fear is that choice is but illusion, that daydream’s drain away truth leaving hope to comfort man’s failing.

Former Haitian Dictator to Face Charges
Their hands of kindness have been tightly bound, barbed wire scraping at the flesh of love. Run away, Mr. Duvalier, your hands are much too tender for such affection.

Vatican Warned Bishops Not to Report Child Abuse
Yes, we’ve known. It’s not invention, it is anguish recognizing itself; monstrous sins hiding under a cassock with amaranth trim.

Giffords's husband says she recognizes him
You know me. My hands hold your hands. My prayers speak your name. My love loves your love.
You know me.

Eric Fuller, Shooting Victim Arrested Due To Outburst at ABC Meeting
You really don’t know me. My blood ran over your care. My fears shook your restraint. My wounds were your wounds. You really don’t know me.

I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word. __Martin Luther King, Jr.

It was at that moment that the poets observed the famished ertH; a sight worth sharing, peace and brotherhood, the revolutionaries of humankind making their way, stepping to the dream of freedom.

If a person hasn't discovered something that they will die for, they haven’t begun to live.

Now spirit up your voice stewards! Remember your plea to the heavens, recall the days of sacrifice and chains, never let slip their lessons. We’ve heard them spoken time and again; words radiating a sky of courage residing within the divine rights of all life; a hunger to be esteemed and always free.

They cannot erase our fingerprints. They may shackle and beat our flesh, but they cannot cage our collective hope. They may bring us to our knees, terrify our wits, but never can they remove the indelible wish.

It’s long in coming now, these many years of wavering wings, fading embers and loveless wars. Have you heard the pluck of liberty dancing upon the strings? It’s nearing Home; our heart, most ready to live if we’ll but greet the eartH with a great Love!

It was at that moment, The instant that the bullet released its quake and moved across the eartH’s soul like a bow, bidding us to soar above the wounds of humankind, in that instant, the child of peace began its long journey, the poor, the tired, the tangled masses did begin to move; the strings this murder had set aquiver commenced to stir a famished (H)eartH.

Anger and sorrow move inside of me, boiling flesh and bone.

I seek liberation and find it missing, mislaid, hidden, stolen.

Truth groans lifeless, sagging low, seeking self, and Love, known to me, creation reaching out with limbs of exactness.

Born on September 11, 2001, Christina Taylor Green died January 8, 2011, gunned down in a Tucson supermarket parking lot. Christina had just been elected to her school student council and was interested in politics, her family said. She wanted to meet her Congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords, and learn more about politics.

But until then, whatever your party and whatever motives you assign to her killer, let her death remind us of the high price of our ideologies. Her life unbegun, let her death reveal the cost of our comic book politics and our bullying, overheated rhetoric.

~

Remind us of the price of our beliefs. Expose the cost of incensed tongues. Bring us to kneel before truth. Honor man’s kinship before belief, above all else. We’re nearing your ill-timed fate.

Now we sing. Our mouths, creased upon misery, upon regret and loathing, weeping for you, mourning for ourselves. Let’s allow our sleep to restore decency, bring humankind to lower all weapons, come to an emerald joy dancing in our dreams. Enter the laughter that waits upon our smile. Draw nearer to peace that has legs of steel. Know, when fingers point to bereavement, we’ve you, dear child, to lead us.

I believe we had best prepare them to quell their rage, said the wind.

We must ready them for an infuriated ocean, said the rain.

We’ll steady quaking limbs ahead of death, said the forest.

We’ll pray with our loftiness for man’s love, said the stars.

Our instruction’s come too late to breathe, said the dust.

I believe

Upon the edges of The Mother’s temple, splashing her soul that's filled with goodness, snuggling with her unblemished love, rotating like honey-joy spun to form laughter, comes a silent prayer; a wish mad-thrown to Heaven.

With all of the hard years fogging the windows, mothers look past the broken dish, the noise, her child’s flaws are made of angel dust that she'll breathe away. Prayers aren’t answered, they’re performed, said Mother.

(The Beginning of the Wind 4 by
Jana Sharecky)

The wind cuts through with a chill. I am but a man, one man, I’ve no more than any other. What is it that I may give that others cannot? Might this wind be for me? Might it be telling me to lift my feet, act upon the truths that I believe, leaving room for flowers and thorns?

Then the voice said, No one can vanquish god…

The sky was clear, the stars glistened with rhythm, the ground stood sacred, openmouthed with sorrow like the gaping of a self-inflicted bereavement, a cheerless revelry meant to imprison truth’s throbbing, a delay of my own failure.

The stars then spoke to me, seek goodness in all things. Resist all suffering. Cleave away all noise that nests within prejudice. Hoist no flag, nothing that separates you from Love's kinship.

The wind tossed its breathing over the yard, conjure no name, face, or verse for the creator. Place no demands upon others. Walk in kindness. Love.

There will be no revelations of the failure to love.

Hatred’s come on solid legs; struts of steel, water and wood, bending the throat to gloom.

Love and goodness breathe next to this world’s gravity.

There will be no revelations…

I must prepare to live for what I believe, for if I'm not willing to live for what I hold as truth then what good am I, save for death?

Whoever accuses humankind of having irreparable misery…
Whoever accuses humankind of unattainable importance...
Whoever accuses humankind of having no purpose…
Whoever accuses humankind of being an orphan…
Whoever accuses humankind of being loveless…
Whoever accuses humankind of being godless…
Whoever accuses humankind of being empty…
Whoever accuses humankind of ownership…
Whoever accuses humankind of being evil…
Whoever accuses humankind of mortality…
had best be prepared to live for what they believe...

If I am to love
might it be full-throated and soaring like a songbird?

If I am to love
might it rumble, cough and spit like an old truck clunking its way home to a gated community of metal parts; a gold and silver paradise of rusty gadgets as far as the eye can see?

If I am to love
might it be a clamorous breath come forth to lift the darkened sky and hold the weary worn that they might greet me with a lover’s lips?

If I am to love
might it be a panic, like that of a terrified people, a family who’ve pulled down their shades to shroud their fears as if the world didn't exist there amid the electronic beeps and lights and the grave rumbling heard just outside their front door?

Steak knife, orange, half peeled, coffee, smoky morning, moved inside to write, clock read 11:11...

It's gone too far.

Peace cannot breathe air into the waters. Love’s unable to recover from its suicide. Torture and war; their oppression, failing too. Goodness pushes its scent like a petal’s breath in the wind.

The clock reads 11:11?  What’s "too far"? 

The scent; a reminder of her beauty. Eleven eleven. That’s too near. A mirror for love to hold. I’ll need more time! My reflection, my fortune, full Love. I’ve gone too far. My regret, my sadness, my complicity. Yes. My greed, my lovelessness, my death.  

Something is coming.

Haze trippin’ in the morning- something’s going to happen. ...November the eleventh, twenty-eleven, not horrific, but tragic nonetheless...

II-II-II.
IIIIII.
IIIII.
IIII.
III.
II.
I.
Too many I.

Perhaps I arrived a minute too early or late. (Perhaps I forgot what came after eleven?)

Steak knife, orange, half peeled, coffee, smoky morning, moved inside to write, clock read 11:11...