A nurse in Boulder snaps her suitcase closed.
An Ohio surgeon drives to meet his plane.
A well-digger packs her boots in Glasgow.
Optical tools are stowed for the flight from Sydney.
A dentist tucks her passport in its sleeve.

           Faces of the kin they dearly love
           read of blended pride and sorrow.

But they must go where mercy calls.

Their planes touch down across the globe -
in Kenya, India, Bolivia, Sudan.
Their clinics housed in shacks or tents.
Their board, assembled huts or barracks.
At day's first light their healing gifts begin.

           Villagers faces glow with grateful love
           as hope foretells a new tomorrow

for loving help has come where it was called.

The vaccine line ends at the nurse's station.
New glasses bring a child the gift of sight.
The dentist’s art relieves a father’s aching molar.
The surgeon sets a fractured radius.
Shouted joy acclaims a new well's teeming flow.

            Let us praise that gentle love -
            given from Delhi to Kilimanjaro -

by those who came when they were called -
by those who loved when mercy left no choice.

I gave my globe a spin
and watched it whirl -
far too fast to read
the blood-bought labels,
printed on its paper shell.

The summer dawn summoned me
beyond the entry door,
so I stepped outside to
plant my boots on a larger sphere
where the scale is one to one
and all the hues are earth tones.

I raised my hand to feel the sweep
of a morning breeze
and stooped to cup a draft
from a meandering stream.

That hand might be mine or theirs
or yours or ours. It’s all the same!

There is only one air mass,
but a single body of water
and not a hectare of sod
can draw its borders or confess its name.

April, 2025

There seems to be no escape.  
    The MAGA cult groupies are all queued up.
Tickets in hand, they gather their baggage
     Lining up to board the leaky ship
For a one-way trip to the bottom of the sea.

Their bags are exceedingly heavy -
    Filled with their leader's failures
Formed of laundered cash, ****,
    Top Secret document theft, fraud,
Abandonment of faithful allies
    and defenders of Ukrainian freedom.

There are no first class seats on this ship
     because there are no first class passengers.
They long ago sold off all they should value
     to stand by a creepy hotel clerk
Consumed by arrogance and self - idolatry.

Their hero arrives in a three-piece suit
     to escort them to their cabins
As soon as he scrapes the mashed potatoes
     off his corruption soaked soul

But wait - there seem to be empty seats
     Many former voyagers are turning away
tearing their tickets as they go.
      They tell how they’ve had it.
With lies and losing and treachery.

Too bad for them - for you see,
       There's no place like the ocean floor
To gurgle on the wrong side of history.

“When will they ever learn?” - Bob Dylan

Secure in the golden cradle
    Of our past, we are schooled to know
        Just who we are and ought to be.

Then gales of change toss us seaward –
       Reeling in the crests and troughs of doubt -
             Adrift, abandoned and lost -
       Hung between heritage and revolution.

Tempers boil, ignite and explode
      Sabres are rattled then swung
            In ****** of fratricidal madness.

When will we ever learn?

Our fertile sun-washed globe spins on -
       Impervious to such juvenile conceits
           But perhaps sorrowed by our petty spats.

In time we wash ashore with fresh resolve
      To build new bridges - vessels - public works
            Born of vibrant craft and
      Designed for tomorrow’s tests and triumphs.

New cities rise - dedicated with noble speeches
     That once more tell us
          Who we are and ought to be
      Until history’s sermons again are forgotten.

Will we ever learn?
     When is never soon enough!

In that brief interval
Between first and final dust
Comes the song.

Lying supine in my crib,
With limbs flailing,
My curious eyes meet
Those of strangers
hovering above my cradle.

They sing softly to me
And I am mysteriously calmed.

In time I too will learn to sing
The names of everything -
Of what to do and why
And learn to check the ragings
Of my feral heart.

Someday I will sing the day long -
Serenading the fruits of the soil -
Belting out tunes of celebration
Or chanting lamentations of loss and sorrow.

But now, lying in my cradle
With arms and legs flailing,
I listen with curiosity
To the mysterious music that comes
In that brief interval
Between first and final dust.

April, 2008

When men cry, “Battle!”
And bullets are flying,
How dare they call “Glory!”
While children lie dying?