Why I Will Vote For Biden And Harris

Someone I love dearly posted something the other day about why they are voting for 45. I won’t go public with who it was out of respect for them and their opinions. I will, however go public with what the dissapointment i felt, even though I knew of their intentions. Dissapointment not because we disagree, that’s fine and even expected sometimes. Dissappointed because I had hoped that they might see the light. AT any rate,, it provoked me to think about why do I feel the way I do. This is my answer to that post,,,, The words are my own but if you wish to copy and paste them, feel free…..

For those of you who wonder why I vote for Biden and Harris, it is because I believe that they both are passionate about our way of life, our right to self- determination, to free speech and peaceful assembly, our right to guide our own lives without interference from a government run by a party that no longer has our own best interests at heart.I believe they care about the education of our children and the equal right to pursue a better life regardless of the color of their skin, their sexual preference or their gender. It is because I believe in these things. I believe in them for everyone.

I believe that Biden and Harris value each person for the individual they are. I believe that they will pursue an administration based upon empowerment for all, and not limited to the wealthiest. I believe the person I want as my president would never publicly make fun of a person with a handicap. My president would never be so incredibly cruel.

While I am not a strongly religious person myself, I believe that despite his posing with the bible, the current president cannot be the slightest bit religious when he is constantly fanning the flames of racial hatred and division, and he claims that these people who spread hatred and violence are ”Very good people.” According to the Christianity I was brought up with, there is no place at all for such behavior or beliefs. And certainly, no place for sexually abusing women and bragging about grabbing them. I believe the person I want as my president would never be so obviously hypocritical.

I believe that the person I want as my president would stand up for what they and we believe, stand up for what America has always wanted to stand for. I believe that the person I want as my president would do all they can to keep our world safe and our allies strong and not cozy up to dictators or authoritarian governments.I believe the person I want as president would never encourage his or her followers to beat someone up on national tv, promising to “pay your legal fees” because that person disagrees with his policies and has the courage to say so. I believe the person I want as president would instead do all they could to quell protests by listening to what the protestors are saying and acting accordingly before they turn violent,

I passionately believe this could be the most important election America may ever have. The choices are so clear. We either fall further into the darkness, the abyss of lies, abuse, division and hate, or we take the time to heal and find ways to begin to come together and set aside 400 years of racist abuse. I believe we can become, finally, the America that has brought so much hope to the world. I believe we can find an end to racism, to hate, to gender fascism, to illiteracy. I believe we can find a way to end the greed of the one percent, I believe we can still save our globe and end this climate crisis. I believe the choice is clear.

Please feel free to copy and paste my text if you feel the same as I do. Pass the word and spread the light of hope. We so need it. We will only find a way out of the darkness when we search for it together. #JoeBiden#JoeBiden2020#Kamala2020#KamalaHarris#vote2020#sayhisnameGEORGEFLOYD#blacklivesmatter

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Che Guevara on the 50th anniversary, if you will) of his death, no, murder by the CIA.

He wasn’t perfect, but who is? The unrelenting commitment he gave to the cause of human rights, and the sacrifices he made for the struggle right up to the ultimate sacrifice, continue to inspire those who fight the corrupt system.

To quote the great poet Kenneth Rexroth from his beautiful poem For Eli Jacobson;

”There are few of us now, soon

There will be none. We were comrades

Together, we believed we

Would see with our own eyes the new

World where man was no longer

Wolf to man, but men and women

Were all brothers and lovers

Together. We will not see it.

We will not see it, none of us.

It is farther off than we thought…”

Rest in peace, perturbed spirit.

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/09/world/americas/che-guevara-death.html

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The Sadness Of Leaving Paradise

“Perhaps like me you have no address” Mahmoud Darwish

 

And we will go, again and again
Down roads unwanted and unmapped.
Thrust out of our past and present,
We go slowly from, but never towards.
Away, it seems, always away.

You, I, our families,
The disconsolate unwanted,
In mournful unison, go
To where the nightingale flies over sky-less lands,
Circling in silent arcs past our
Rainbows of no color, the solemn hues
Matching the smile
We’ve forgotten to show and
The eyes we’ve left behind
Like an empty wine bottle and
An unmentionable promise of return. 

Leaving is now in our bosom,
The uncultivable feed of our soul,
The cold in our summers.
The sense of loss removes our fingerprints
From the al-mahmas and the al-houn.
We express our losses in silence as
Our soul bears its’ grief
Like an olive tree without roots. 

Upon our next inevitable leaving,
I will change my name
To as yet unknown letters
In a non-existent language,
Denying what we leave behind,
Drawing the letters from what we have
On our backs,
Forged from yet
Another star-less sky
And burned into our souls here,
Times own cryptography.
All we were is spilled from the carts that
We draw silently away,
Along the streets with no sun. 

 

 

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Blackboard

My sky is my life

My life is the sky,

My mind is a valley, covered in fog,

Like an glass eye, staring vacant,

Like a treetop aching for the sun.

My soul is spread across the horizon

Like an undiscovered canticle

On a blackboard, hidden,

As if anything written across its virgin black

Might change the world before it disappears.

Are we but a blackboard with

Words wiped away?

The lost thought, the pretext, now the past,

Sent away to define their own east and west?

Our words, our lusts, our prayers,

Words where there are no words

Souls where there are no souls

Abandonment where there was once substance

But with a little imagination

Can we find ourselves un-erased?

 

A blackboard obscure and somber

The sun fades forever

Into the blackness,

Into the dust.

Phrases hidden in faint visions

Our once solemn vows are but

Remnants of a civilization.

Ideas that never flourished

Never gave a reward,

Never gave nourishment to an empty soul

Never a grain left behind, but an already eaten morsel,

Stale and quotidian

My life is a brazen question

Unasked and unanswered

Forgotten on the lips of a corpse.

 

 

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Hope, (A Lament From The Trail Of The Refugee)

There can be no I here,

And I can see

There is to be no you,

But soft, that we go together

As friends

To where the dogwood will flower

And the scent of lilac fills the breath of

The disappointed and

The forever tired

With calm. And

We shall bathe in the universe,

Bask in the glories of the sun.

Sweeping aside

Who we were, what we are,

As the day laps on our skin

Gently like a kitten

On a path.

We can’t look behind us.

It is but a sad illusion for those such as us.

We can bring no oil, no wine, no myrrh.

No more of the streets of our youth

No more of the wine vats

In our once luscious gardens.

There is but small growth among them.

Olive trees, dark, like skeletons,

Scorched and barren.

All growth for them is finished but for

The light we afforded their charred roots.

Nothing is there but exile for us.

Let us go.

Let us hasten our renewals.

Now is the time to be kind.

Let us not have this darkness now.

Their suns and moons are no longer ours,

Let us go, as friends should.

Our clouds will flow immaculate over the hills

And leave their traces gently on their souls

With the softness of the freshest cotton,

Lambs wool in the pink morning sun.

Let us go on our way

With nary a backwards glance,

But there, towards our own new present.

Me, the poet

You the eternal traveler.

No longer reticent, but brave in our pace.

Let us go to that place

As friends to the day.

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Thoughts On Listening To *This Land Is Your Land”

Thoughts On Listening To *This Land Is Your Land”

 

I had a dream today, got me thinking,

On the bus on the way home from work,

A dream I’ve had before,

A dream many have probably had

I was on television, talking and singing,

The whole world was a’ watchin’

Woody Guthrie was a’ watchin’

Pete Seeger, he was a ’watchin’

Bruce Springsteen, he was a ’watchin’

And old orange face, Mr. Trump, he was a ’watchin’ too

Kept droppin’ the big TV remote outta his small hands, poor thing,

Anyways, like I said, I was on TV,

Had a guitar in my hands,

Strapped over my favorite flannel shirt,

And my favorite pair of Levis

And my bestest boots. I was a’ wearing all of that

And the song I was gonna sing,

This Land Is Your Land,

Well it weren’t no regular song, sir,

It was, I reckon, one of the most beautiful songs

I ever heard, I was telling people about it,

It was all about this country of ours,

And all its’ natural beauty,

And how it was built for you,

And built for me

And how it was built for him,

And him,

And her

And her

And the preacher

And the doctor

And the lawman

And the bus driver

And the children playing in the schoolyard,

Sir it was built for them too,

It didn’t make no mention of names

Nor what school they went to,

Nor even if they didn’t go to school, well it didn’t mention that neither

Nor what church they go to, who they pray to, iffn they pray at all,

No, sir, not even where they come from,

Not which part of town, not which coast,

Not which country,

Cuz everybody here comes from someplace else in the long run, don’t they?

Iffn ya trace it back far enough, I mean, we all come from immigrants

– Well, almost all of us –

Yes, sir, the song was plain and simple and beautiful, and indeed

This here land was made for you, and me, and him, and him, and her, and her

All to share equally, don’t that sound like a place you wanna live in, sir?

I know I would, if I could find it.

What say we find it together, sir?

 

 

Click the link below to listen to This Land is Your Land – Live by Bruce Springsteen
https://open.spotify.com/track/4MvJlIpDpdZi4sCXvAhrym

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Backwards by Warsan Shire, a poem that reminded me of my fathers death last month

Yesterday I received a copy of my fathers last will and testament in the mail as is a required part of the probate of his estate. I won’t go into the contents publicly, but it brought the loss once again very much to mind, as well as the years of absence we both endured from each other.

 

I found this beautiful, sad poem written by one of the best young poets I have found in quite some time, Warsan Shire. It brought a needed calm to me, as it embraced the emotions I feel as well.

 

 

Backwards

by Warsan Shire,

 

for Saaid Shire

 

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life;

that’s how we bring Dad back.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.

We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,

your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can write the poem and make it disappear.

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass,

Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Maybe we’re okay kid?

I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love,

you won’t be able to see beyond it.

You won’t be able to see beyond it,

I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love.

Maybe we’re okay kid,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass.

I can write the poem and make it disappear,

give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums

we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,

that’s how we bring Dad back.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

 

Warsan Shire, “Backwards.” Copyright © 2014 by Warsan Shire.

 

Backwards, a poem by Warsan Shire

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Buddhist teachers, on social media, respond to “Muslim travel ban” (Updated)

 

 

An interesting look at Buddhists doing something one might not expect. Well, okay, maybe doing 2 things one might not expect; Protesting and using social media in ways other than teaching Buddhism or reaching followers. But then, perhaps it’s not as unexpected as one might think on first glance. The issues that are presented by the Trump administration are plentiful indeed, depending on your individual politics. The travel ban, or whatever he might wish to call in on any given day, is obviously the most contested so far. I’m sure that his policies and my own philosophies will clash many times.

Do have a read, dear reader. I hope you find it interesting.

Buddhist teachers, on social media, respond to “Muslim travel ban” (Updated)

 

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And The Gods Told Our Fathers

And the Gods told our fathers

Give us your sons

And we will trade their smiles for death.

Send us their coats of many colours

And we will change those colours to red,

Give us their sandals

And we will exchange them for boots with which

To tread upon the lives of nameless mothers.

Give us their shirts and

We will smother the children in them.

And they will hate us for it.

 

We will lie to them,

We will never set them free.

 

We will take the lives of your sons

In wars over greed and lust.

Our altars of sacrifice will bleed once more

With glorious blood.

The spilled blood of your sons

The sons of the poor, the sons of the illiterate,

The sons without hope, and the foolishly brave.

 

And we will teach you deception,

We will teach you loss

We will teach you sorrow and

We will desert you when you grieve

And you will thank us for it.

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Two untitled poems on the passing of my father

1. Your ashes blown eastward

Memories fade like flowers

Phoenix cries at night

 

 

2. We take our final walk

Your ashes mix with the frozen ground

The snow learns your name.

 

David Henry Hass,

Jan. 5, 1928 – Jan. 12, 2017

Missing my father, he died last week and his ashes were spread over his favorite hunting spot without a ceremony, as was his wish.

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