2022-03-08T09:40:32-08:00February 24th, 2022|Musings on life|


I didn’t want to write this poem.

I wanted to write the poem
about the angry man
who almost
went too far.

I wanted to write the poem
about the moment
just before he tipped
his troops
across the invisible line
that separates
one people
from another.

I wanted to write about the part
where he hears a baby cry
and the truest part of him,
without thinking,
reaches out
to soothe her.

In that moment,
he realizes how powerful
he already is.

The entire world is watching him
and he says to us,

We can be this for each other.
We can soothe, not strike.
We can share, not shout.
We can forgive, not fight.
We are all brothers and sisters.
We can do this simple thing.
We can be kind.

But the baby is still crying.

She is tucked under a mother’s coat,
shivering in a subway station,
a bunker packed with strangers
breathing the same fear
as sirens wail above them,
like a city’s own awful cries.

I didn’t want to write this poem.

But I won’t look away
as history leaves
another scar.

I will write for all of them,
even the angry man,
poems of hope,
and when they soften,
I will finally write a poem
of peace.

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