9/11: A Poem

I wrote this poem on 9/11 in 2002.  Be forwarned, I am unashamedly liberal and this poem reflects that.

September 11th, 2002

A year has passed

In the aftermath

Of our country’s greatest unlearned lesson

We name the dead

And fill our heads

With the insidious propaganda of retribution

We are told that this is war

Assured

We don’t know what’s in store

It’s an eye for an eye

A tooth for a tooth

While orphaned children cry

And we ignore the truth

Years of Americans on Unamerican shores

Tallying it all in incursions and tours

Passion plays of collateral damage

And we have collectively managed

To forget

The regret

We should feel keenly especially now

When we have gained the understanding of how

The majority of the world lives

And dies

Yet the cries

Of children of third world nations

Of lesser stations

Fall on our deaf ears

How many years

How many souls

Can we kill or control

Before we grasp the error of our ways

How many days

Of playing god in countries

Who have never known plenty

Before we learn

The hatred we’ve earned

How many schools and hospitals burned

How many lives wasted

How much blood tasted

Before we understand

The impact of our heavy hand

It is this that perpetuates

Deep seated hate

Causes men to take to the skies

And our snide

American pride

Allows us to believe that jealousy

Is the cause of this tragedy

When the truth lies

In that which we deny

Our culpability

Our responsibility

In a thousand tragedies

In poor countries

Who could not refuse

To be used

To be “aided”

And we wonder why they are jaded?

How lucky are we that terror lives in one day

Not an ever present threat that is constantly replayed

When all are affected but most indirectly

Instead of fearing for your loved ones daily

When your home is destroyed in a bomb strike

Whose purpose is to avoid a gas hike

In the land of big screen tvs

And shiny SUVs

Then you can claim righteous rage

When your children waste away before your eyes

To support the lies

Of the thinly veiled fascism

Of overt capitalism

Each person lost

Is too high a cost

Whether you believe them black or white

Wrong or right

By whoever’s standards you choose

We all lose

When we close our eyes and turn our backs

On pointless and futile attacks

What it all boils down to

Is doing all we can do

So the few

Don’t drag the earth’s entire population

Down to prove their’s is the greatest nation

Because it will not matter

If everything is shattered

To satiate the thoughtless, heartless bloodlust

Of small men

We must make sure it doesn’t end this way

That we all accept our responsibility and say

This is our pain and our loss

And it has come a too great a cost

We will not see this wrong redone

On other mothers daughters sisters brothers fathers and sons

This has to end here

Let us be clear

We will not defile the dead

We will not turn our heads

We will demand an end to the cycle of violence

We will proclaim our defiance

We will not be misled

By the lies we are fed

We will not enforce freedom with an iron hand

While sticking our heads in the sand

And ignoring the loss of our own freedoms:

Freedom of speech

Freedom of choice

Freedom to teach

Freedom of voice

We have done more to diminish our freedoms with our own denials and lies

Then any could do with four planes in blue skies

Our nations encroaching mediocrity

Painted as patriotism does not fool me

I will not participate in a misguided pep rally

For a game with a death tally

And it’s true that my one voice may be small

It’s true it may not be heard at all

But if you speak out with me

Then emerges the possibility

That all of us will be

Heard

And rest assured

There will be persistence

In the rejection of resistance

To the party line

But it is not yours and it is not mine

I will not accept this

Continue to reject this

Until more of us accept our arrogance

And are ashamed by our ignorance

And act

Forcing them to react

Or move aside

To avoid the tide

Of America propelling itself to a new day

We must accept that it is a long hard way

To a path of empathy and peace

But it is a place that we can reach

If we sing loud enough

Stand proud enough

Fight long enough

Are strong enough

We can surpass our individual inability

To affect change

Together we will counteract the eventuality

Of wars being waged

I believe in our country can become more than it has been

That coming together we can truly begin

To take our place

Not just take up space

Together we can alter the way in which our country behaves

To truly reflect that this is the land of the free and the home of the brave

The Absence of Home

I used to live here, but I don’t anymore.  This used to be where I put my keys, over there where I hung my coat.  In here was my bedroom and there was the study.

Now these things are gone.  Someone else’s pictures are on the walls.  Someone else’s coat is by the door.  Someone else’s bed occupies the space once reserved for mine.

Being in this place confuses my senses and my memories.  I feel a sense of loss, but I do not know what for.  I feel a connection, but I do not know what to.  I feel an absence, but I do not know what’s missing.

Nothing but Blue

The plane tipped to one side as it curved away from the earth.  The land fell away leaving nothing but blue.  She wanted nothing more than to be back on solid ground in her own hometown. 

 

The last two days had taken lifetimes.  The exhaustion was starting to creep in around the corners.  But she had a long way to go before home.

 

Puffs of white cloud streamed over the wing breaking the monotony of blue.  “Just close your eyes for awhile,” he had said, “Get a bit of rest before we land.”

 

She held a book, ignored in her fascination with the blankness.  The book started to slip from her fingers as her eyelids drooped.  She pulled it back before the fall and laid it in her lap.  “I’ll just close my eyes for awhile,” she thought.

 

When her eyes closed the events of the past few days played across her memory.  Driving her father and aunt to the airport, getting everyone through security and on the plane, landing in the bright light of the nation’s capital.  Then navigating the terminal, getting the rental car and checking in at the hotel.  Finally, the reunion.

 

These were family members who had been virtual strangers for over twenty years.  People drawn together by loss and grief.  And, as was typical of this family, to cope they drank.  Heavily.  At one point she had to negotiate with the police on her cousin’s behalf.  At another she was responsible for a rather large bar tab left behind by members of the party long departed,  At another she found herself dragging a heavily intoxicated young sergeant back down the hill to his hotel room.

 

When she finally made her way to her hotel room it was hot and dry.  Her body was exhausted but her mind would not stop.  Sleep was fitful.  Morning came too soon.

 

She went through the motions of morning routine.  Shower, dress, gather and go.  There was breakfast with the family followed by the military hurry up and wait in the lobby.  When finally she eased the rental car behind the limousines, she breathed a small sigh of relief to have the proceedings underway.

 

The cemetery was a sea of white headstones, occasionally punctuated by something more personal erected by a family of some means.  She found herself wondering which type of headstone he would have. 

 

There were checkpoints and protocol.  Then they were all ushered into a small room to wait some more.  His beautiful baby girls were dressed in matching dresses, coats and hats, identical impressions of one another but in reality two halves of a whole.  One angel slept while the other was engaged and inquisitive.

 

There was the service and her cousin’s powerful remembrance of her brother.  Then the journey to the grave, once again through the field of lost soldiers.  The cold air, snowflakes flying.  Her father held her arm and she clasped his hand.  She shivered, but not from the cold.  But she had to stay focused.  Her role was to worry about the logistics so her father and aunt could be there.  To hold the space so they could grieve.  And she still had to get them home.

 

The plane tilted again, an indication that this leg of the journey was drawing to a close.  She opened her eyes to a blank white outside the window.  They were in a cloudbank.  Flying through a clean slate.

 

She didn’t feel so tired anymore.  She would be able to get her aunt and father home.  She could hold it together a while longer.  And then she could succumb to the sadness. 

 

Sadness for the loss of a good man.  Sadness for those who were forever affected by that loss.  Sadness for the realization her father was indeed blind.  Sadness because her aunt was so much older than she imagined her to be.  Sadness for twin angels who would grow up with two American flags and a set of medals to represent a father they would never know.

 

The plane burst through the clouds.  The city below was a marvel of motion.  The plane banked making its final turn toward the runway.  Once again there was nothing but blue.  She wiped away the tear and reminded herself that it would have to wait.

Sad Sad Songs

She put on the sad sad songs and decided to wallow awhile.  It was self indulgent and fruitless.  It certainly wouldn’t help.  In the moment none of that mattered.

 

The wallowing gave a temporary reprieve from the pressing air.  There was a fiction of movement.  As though this was somehow moving on.

 

But she was not entirely naïve.  She recognized this as the junior high school response to heartache.  There was only so long this could fill any need in a grown person’s life.

 

The volume increased along with the wallowing.  The reprieve would only be temporary, so she may as well take it for all it was worth.  She could feel baselines in her belly.  She was tapping rhythm with her fingers.  She felt melody welling up inside of her.

 

She was tentative at first.  Her movements were subtle.  Her voice was a whisper.  She was aware of how this might look.

 

And she let the crest of the wave break on her.  She sang.  She danced.  She closed her eyes and gave herself over. 

 

Time ceased to matter.  Outside concerns melted away.  She was only aware of the sound of her voice and the beat of her heart.

 

And when she had poured everything out into the ocean of sound, she breathed deep and opened her eyes.

 

“Enough” she said to the empty room.

 

The Rhetoric Becomes Real

I struggle with the necessity of war.  I have thought about its place in the world.  I have studied the concepts of pacifism, wrestled with the validity of “Just War”.  And I have come to no definitive conclusions. 

Conflict is a part of human interaction.  I am idealistic enough to believe there are better ways to resolve conflict than aggression.  Conversely, I am not so naive as to believe aggression is entirely avoidable.  It is one thing to want to believe the best in people.  It is another to cleave desperately to that belief when it is being disproved before your very eyes.

I have been opposed to the Iraq War for many reasons.  Diplomatic options were not exhausted.  The legality of the declaration of war was questionable at best, both from an American and an international standpoint.  It was foolish to tie up so much of our country’s resources in a conflict which did not make our nation safer.  Sacrificing the lives of men, women and children on both sides of the conflict was unnecessary.

I wrote letters. I attended protests.  I supported politicians who were opposed to the war.  I would debate my opinions of the matter openly.

I, like many of those with whom I had discussed the war, did not have a true connection to the subject matter.  While one of my strongest opposition to this war and war in general was the loss of young Americans and its impact on their families and communities, I observed this from a distance.  I was disconnected.

I did have a family member stationed in Afghanistan.  We had been involved in each others lives when we were younger, but grew apart as is the case with extended family scattered to the four winds.  We heard about his life’s progression in Christmas letters from his father’s new wife.  He married.  He had lovely twin daughters.  He joined the military.  He received commendations for his service.

When I would discuss the impact of the war on military men and women and their families, I did not necessarily think of this relative.  I was aware of his service.  He was in Afghanistan which wasn’t the same as Iraq.  I had a more fluid opinion of that conflict.  I still believed the devastation on both sides was excessive and unnecessary.  I still mourned the lost potential.  I still grieved for the families and communities impacted.  But I did not make the connection between this family member to the losses I railed against, because he was not lost.

That changed on Christmas Eve.  He was lost when his outpost on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan came under enemy attack.  The family was told he fought bravely.  He died a hero.

He was a good man who loved in his country.  He was a father who loved his daughters.  He was a husband who loved his wife.  He was a brother, and a son.  He was a hero to those people everyday.  And his life came to an abrupt end far from home engaged in conflict with men and women he had no conflict with.  His wife is now a widow, his daughters are without a father, his father must now endure the pain of outliving his son.

If someone could explain to me why this was necessary, perhaps I would find it comforting to know he died a hero.  I would accept the pain his loss has caused for his family and by extension mine was in pursuit of something larger than all of us.

I do not believe his loss was necessary.  I do not believe it was justified.  And I find myself saddened far more greatly than I would have expected.  This was not simply another story of a soldier lost.  There have been so many of those we have almost become desensitized to it. 

This was a man whom I had played with as a child.  This was someone of whom my father was incredibly fond.  This was an individual who mattered a great deal to people I love.  This was a person to whom I had connections. 

So now my theoretical conversations involving the devastating impact of war on those it leaves behind has become real.  And I find that my theory was sound.  But there is no comfort in that.  I would gladly be wrong about it all in order to stop the suffering of those to whom I am connected by blood, love and a broader sense of family.

Heartbreak Even

Heartbreak is a funny thing.  The walls close in, all seems dark and it becomes hard to breathe.  The constant dull ache of emptiness is paralyzing.  It suppresses the will to create anything positive or good.  It invites wallowing and drama.

 

There is a misconception heartbreak is typically the result of one action or incident.  Heartbreak is really comprised of a thousand paper cuts.  Often we are blissfully unaware of how are actions are doing irreparable damage.  They are selfish acts for the most part.  It is when we forget to consider the other half of the equation that we do the most damage. No one can hurt you quite like the people you love.  Fortunately most of the time people work very hard not to hurt the people they love.

 

Very rarely is heartbreak one-sided.  Chances are if a person has caused it in you, you have done the same in them.  People aren’t as good at being direct with each other as they probably should, especially when it comes to love.  Instead of addressing minor slights when they arise, we tend to suppress.  And we retaliate in small passive aggressive ways.  Perpetrating small acts of unkindness upon each other, escalating from one to the next until you are at each other’s throats and you don’t know how you got there.

 

It is almost never a scenario were its just one person was an asshole and the other a saint.  We are all assholes some of the time and very few of us are ever saints.  We act out, behave badly and throw tantrums.  We expect unreasonable things. We don’t take others into consideration.  We expect others to read our minds and get unfairly angry when they don’t succeed.

 

We are all insecure and scared when it comes to love.  It causes us to react illogically and irresponsibly much of the time.  It takes work to do right by your partner.  Sometimes it requires doing things that are not comfortable or easy.  Love works when both people involved are willing to do that for each other without condition or complaint.  If that doesn’t happen, you end up with heartbreak on both sides.

On the Road to Denmark

It was a beautiful fall day when I decided to play hooky and go for a drive. I headed out to the back roads that wend through the country near my home. The leaves were brilliant in the warm autumn light; golden yellow, fiery orange and deep red.

I followed familiar roads for awhile before deciding to take an unfamiliar turn. The road told me it led to Denmark, which tickled me. It turned out to be a good decision. The road followed the side of a hill which afforded breathtaking views of the valley below.

I was so preoccupied with the vista that I almost missed him. He sat atop a stone wall at the side of the road lazily sticking his thumb out for a ride. His hair was shaggy and his beard was a bit wild. He wore a flannel shirt and suspenders. I was in love immediately.

I’ve got this thing for old men. I love white hair, crusty attitudes and being called “young lady”. I love colorful language and inventive metaphors. But what I really love is the storytelling. The depth of experience. The history lived.

The gentleman took his time rising from the wall and walking to the passenger side door. He opened the door and leaned in. His bright blue eyes sparkled impishly. “It is very unwise for a pretty young thing such as yourself to offer rides to strange men.”

I smiled and replied, “I can take care of myself. Besides you don’t seem that strange.”

“Only because you don’t know me. Now if I were any sort of gentleman I would refuse your offer of transportation and insist that you refrain from such foolish behaviors in the future. However,” he sat heavily on the seat, “I am old and tired and I am certainly no gentleman.” With that he winked and closed the door.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Well not too far. Where might you be going?”

I shrugged. “Just driving.”

“Ah, an aimless wanderer. We’ll get along fine. I’m heading to my friend’s farm just up the road a way.”

He introduced himself as Nick. As we drove Nick pointed out houses and shared the story of the people living there. “That white house there is the Jones’ place. Of course it been near a decade since a Jones has lived there, but it’s the Jones’ place just the same.” or “That’s where Tom Brown’s widow lives now. She’s a fine lookin’ woman that one.”

I listened to his ramblings as we rolled over the country road. Eventually we came up on a good sized farm he identified as his destination. “You should stay for lunch. It’s the least I can do for giving me a lift.”
I raised one eyebrow and chuckled. “You wouldn’t be doing anything since your friends would be feeding me.”

“This is what makes the whole thing work so well. Trust me; Martha’s much happier with folks to entertain. She may hide it well, but she really loves it.”

I was skeptical about the whole thing to begin with. When Martha came out onto the porch my fears seemed validated. She was a stern looking woman, her steel gray hair pulled into a tight bun and piercing eyes squinting at my unfamiliar automobile. When Nick stepped out her face softened slightly. “Nick, you devil, what poor soul did you con into bringing you up here?”

I climbed out of the car and smiled nervously. Nick came around the car and clapped me on the back while introducing me to Martha. “She’s a fine lady this one. You two’ll get along just fine. Oh and I may have told her you would provide her with a little noontime sustenance. Where’s Johnny boy?”

Martha rolled her eyes. “He’s in the barn working.”

“What in the hell is he doing that for? I got here just in time.” Nick winked at me as he headed toward the barn. “Don’t let her fool you, she’s really a pussycat.”

Martha sighed the sigh of the long suffering. “John’s got work to do today Nick. And if you distract him, so help me I’ll….”

“I’ll make sure the job gets done dear. You just make sure to take good care of my young friend.”
Martha shook her head. “Come on in. I could use some help getting lunch together.”
I followed Martha into the house. It was a beautiful old farmhouse. The wood floors glowed and everything was neat as a pin. The kitchen had a huge cast iron wood stove and miles of gleaming countertops. The smell of fresh baked bread and drying herbs filled the air. An ancient golden retriever was sleeping next to the woodstove. When I walked past him he raised his head and sniffed the air. He got up and shuffled slowly toward me and nuzzled my hand when he reached my side. I bent down and scratched his ears. He had the sweetest face and softest fur. “That’s Farley. He’s a good old dog. Be careful though, once you start petting him he’ll expect you to continue.” Martha said.

She began pulling food out of the fridge and cupboards. She directed me to chop vegetables. I watched her move about the kitchen as I sliced carrots. Martha was perhaps the most efficient person I have ever met. There was no movement wasted, no time ill spent. She was preparing lunch, canning vegetables and paying bills simultaneously. And she never missed a beat. She was not a talkative woman, but that didn’t make it uncomfortable. In fact it was soothing to be around her as she worked.
We made the lunch and set the table. When everything was ready Martha sent me out to fetch the men. “And don’t let Nicky give you a hard time.”

I went out to the barn to find Nick and John sitting in the barn sharing a pipe. “Well hello there young lady. I suppose Martha sent you out to bring us in for lunch?” Nick said.

I nodded. John stood up and introduced himself to me. He was a giant of a man, broad shoulders, strong rough hands and thick arms. His blue eyes were caught in a permanent squint from years of working in the sun. This was a man who had spent his life working this farm.

We all walked back up to the house. When Farley saw Nick enter the kitchen his tail began to wag furiously. “There’s my boy!” Nick boomed.

Farley charged at Nick, trying to jump up on him. “Oh that’s my boy, who’s a good dog?”

“That will do Nick. You’re going to get him all riled up and then his hips will be aching later on. Now everyone go wash your hands.” Martha instructed.

After we washed up we sat at the table. The food was delicious and the conversation lively. When we finished I helped Martha clear the table and do the dishes while Nick and John went out on the porch to share another pipe.

“Why don’t you go out and sit with the boys while I serve some desert?” Martha smiled at me for the first time. It felt like a seal of approval.

I met the men out on the porch. “Ah, Martha release you from kitchen duty?” John asked.

“Yup. She said that I should join you while she serves up desert.”

Nick patted his ample belly, “That wife of yours is going to make me a fat man John.”

I laughed, “It looks like you made a good start all on your own.”

Nick winked at me and smiled. “I had a bit of help.”

John laughed a deep booming laugh. “That’s true. Nick’s wife was one of the best bakers around. I never had anything tastes as good as her blueberry pie. Don’t tell Martha.”

“You were married Nick? I would have thought you were a confirmed old bachelor.”

Nick laughed and shook his head. “That’s what my wife used to say. But yes I was married. Forty years. She was a saint.”

“She would have had to be to put up with you for forty years.” I laughed.

“I was quite a looker in my day and I own land. I’m a keeper. She was lucky to have me.”

John and I laughed at this. Nick join in at first but his smile faded. After a moment he stood up and said, “Where’s that dog? I fell like stretchin’ my legs a bit.”

As Nick walked away John said, “He’s still hurting about losing her.”

“His wife?” I asked.

“Yup. She was his whole world and he was hers. Never seen two people so in love.”

“How long since she passed?”

“Three years today.”

“Oh…if I had known I wouldn’t have….”

John held up his hands. “Nick’s a big boy and he has a thick skin. I wouldn’t worry about it much.”

I nodded. “I think I’ll go see if Martha needs a hand.”

I went around to the kitchen door and found Nick staring out over the valley. I watched him for a minute before he realized I was there. “Hey there lady.”

“Hey.” I kicked at the dirt for a minute. “I’m sorry about joking around like that. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Nick shrugged. “No harm done. You know you’re a bit like her. She was pretty feisty too.”

I smiled. “She must have pretty amazing.”

Nick squinted at the sun and nodded. “She was. One of the most amazing people I’ve ever had the good fortune to know. There was a lot to love about that woman. A lot to love. I was completely mad about her. We were crazy about each other. It was a fiery affair our marriage. Both stubborn as the day is long. We would fight like cats and dogs about all kinds of things. Then I would whisk her upstairs…. Well you don’t need to know about that. There were all kinds of things that drove me crazy about her too though. She used to love to eat toast before bed. She’d make two slices with butter and bring them up into the bedroom. Then she’d cuddle up in the covers, eat her toast and leave her plate on the nightstand. A little later I would come upstairs to crawl into bed and the sheets would be full of crumbs. Made me crazy.”

We both laughed and sat on the step to the kitchen. I was quiet for a minute and then asked, “What happened?”

“She had cancer. It came on real fast. She was in the hospital for a few weeks. I stayed beside her as much as they would let me. Don’t think I was home one night the whole time. Then one morning I woke up in the chair beside the bed and she was gone. It was peaceful anyway. Then there was so much to do. Paperwork, funerals. It was a regular circus. I don’t think I stopped moving for days afterward. A lot of folks showed up for the funeral. She was well liked. Then there was the reception afterward. Martha took care of all that. The house was full of people. I don’t think there had ever been that many people there. At the end of the night after everyone left I got real tired all of the sudden. So I dragged myself upstairs and got ready for bed. When I climbed in the sheets were full of crumbs. I hadn’t slept in the bed since she left for the hospital. And you know I didn’t cry when she passed, I didn’t cry at the funeral, I didn’t cry at the reception. I held it together the whole time. But lying there in the bed we had shared with toast crumbs all around me I bawled like a baby. I guess it was realizing that this was the last time I would sleep in a bed full of her toast crumbs. It sort of broke my heart. I still tear up a bit thinking about it.”

And he had. So had I. We sat in silence for a while both squinting at the sun. Then he patted me on the leg and said, “Let’s get some desert.”

Nick gave me a gift that day. He gave me the gift of understanding the truth of love. Love is not just about the good times and the redeeming qualities. It is about arguments and irritating habits. Love is seeing a person for what they really are, all of them, and choosing them. Love doesn’t happen in spite of flaws, it happens because of them. Love is forgiveness. Love is acceptance. Love is all encompassing.

Love is crying over the last toast crumbs.