MAY SHOWERS BRING…?

I haven’t written in a while, and this time I REALLY have an excuse: first, carpal tunnel, then tendonitis, then arthritis and what may be a pinched nerve, all in my writing hand. So I may not be writing a lot for awhile.  But I have a few random thoughts (two actually):

I do not understand how the three young men from Minnesota who were found guilty of “conspiracy to commit murder abroad” face life in prison, when cop after cop who has actually committed homicide here gets off with nothing.

I am not a supporter of people going to Syria to fight for ISIS, but could we be honest about who actually is ever tried for “conspiracy to commit murder abroad”?   Lots of Americans go to serve with Israel’s army, there are U. S. veterans fighting with militias in Iraq and Syria, there are many mercenaries (called “contractors”) committing murder in countries all over the place.   We should at least call it “conspiracy to commit murder abroad for people and groups we don’t like”).

That’s the first thing.  The second is that it’s a beautiful spring day outside: lots of rain, lots of green and colorful things bursting out all over.  But when we turn on the local news today, we will hear it’s a “bad day” a “gloomy day”, and that the “good day” of the weekend will be when it doesn’t rain.  Of course, prior to the newscast, they will tell you that they are going to tell you that and then at the beginning of the newscast they will tell  you that they are going to tell you that, and then five minutes into the newscast they will tell you part of that, and promise to tell you more of that later in the newscast.   And sometimes apologize for the rain.

Yes, I am in a good mood today, honestly!  It being spring and gardening time, maybe you’d like this poem, recently out in Philadelphia Stories:

 

ASCENSION DAY PLANTING, NORTH PHILLY

                                                                                                                "God does what she wants.

                                                                                                              She has very large tractors."
                                                                                                                                           Robert Bly

It is the first time Jesús has planted, and

his haircut is on backwards.  His eyes are
little birds, hinged at the wings.  His hands
spend their days combating eagerness.
Give him a shovel.  Give a boy with poking eyes
an extra hand to carve his name in dirt.
Some boy's house fell into its own pit here
and made hole-homes for rat-friends,
for pawned treasures and secrets that never
got redeemed.  Jesús can make time with a shovel.
Make it march backward.  Stand on its head.
Do tricks.  Blink back nobodies.  Earth is a bag
to hold heaven, and Jesús is a hole's best friend.
Big sister Milly (one leg over the fence into babies,
the other still in diapers), hands him a tomato
with its web roots of tiny feathers.  It is a small
bird fallen out of heaven.  It is a troubling
miracle, that rests a moment in Jesús’ palm,
cupped between the thumb and the dirty nails,
until his knee bends, his hands 
swoop down, and his fingers
release the peeping prey to the freshly dug earth.

Be justice. Be beauty.  Be ye not afraid of the rain.

Patrick