I asked myself daily—
What would Jesus do?

Did you read the Word of God?
Preach it amongst the followers?
Find comfort in your parish?
Fellowship in the church?

Do you walk the walk?
Or just talk the talk?

Do you follow the teachings of Jesus?
Do you help others?
Give of yourself—
The shoes off your feet,
The clothes off your back?

If so,
You walk the walk.

But—
Do you tell them of your good deeds?
Read from the Word?
Practice what you preach?
Or do you talk the talk
But don’t wanna walk?

Do you follow in His path of righteousness—
Or are you just righteous?

Do you practice your religion,
Or parade it?
Do you heed the words you read,
Or twist them when it’s convenient?

Do you show kindness to the less fortunate?
Do you care for the poor?
The marginalized?
Do you teach them the ways of God?

“Blessed are the poor in spirit…”
“Sell your possessions and give to the poor.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
“The Kingdom of God is for the poor.”

Jesus Himself showed compassion to the poor.
Healing the sick,
Feeding the hungry,
Speaking out against injustice.

So remember His words—
Before you use them as your own.

Walk the walk.
Don’t just talk the talk.

“Whatever you did to one of these brothers and sisters of mine…
You did to Me.”

They ask me if I’m proud to be white.
And I pause—
Not from shame,
But because I’ve learned not to answer
Without first remembering what came before me.

Proud of what?
Of conquest dressed up as progress?
Of freedom that came with a foot on someone else’s neck?
Of laws that wrote Blackness into *******
And whiteness into power?

My people wrote the rules,
Then broke the spirits
Of the ones they feared would rise.

They burned books
To keep minds dark.
They banned reading
Because education meant rebellion.
And rebellion from the enslaved
Was labeled violence,
While the chains weren’t.

They tore families apart,
Sold children like stock,
Then centuries later
Wonder why Black homes
Are fighting to stay whole.

They unleashed dogs on marchers,
Sprayed fire hoses at children
Just for asking to be seen.

This is how I remember.

I remember Emmett Till,
Fourteen years old,
Lynched for a lie.
I remember Tulsa, 1921,
Where success was a threat

Black Wall Street turned to smoke and ruin.

I remember redlining,
Where maps bled prejudice
And banks drew lines
That locked Black families out of futures.

I remember the war on drugs,
Where addiction in white skin
Was a health crisis,
But in Black skin,
A crime.

I remember George Floyd,
Face pressed to pavement,
A knee on his neck
For nine minutes and twenty-nine seconds
A public execution
That still needed a trial
To prove what we all saw.

This is how I remember.

And today
The Confederate flag still flies
On porches,
On plates,
On shoulders
Like a badge of glory.
Some still preach “heritage”
But won’t name what it honors
A war to keep humans in chains.

They talk of “states’ rights”
As if those rights weren’t
The right to own a man.

In some parts of this country,
They still act like the South won
Like their freedoms were stolen
When the shackles came off someone else.

And racism?
It didn’t die.
It just learned how to dress.
It put on a suit,
Picked up a microphone,
And ran for office.
It showed up in school curriculums
That call slavery a migration,
Or erase Black names from the pages.

It whispers at kitchen tables,
It votes in silence,
It marches in khakis,
And calls itself “tradition.”

This is how I remember.

I am a white man.
I didn’t own slaves.
But I live in the house they built.
And every brick
Carries the weight of what was done to build it.

I’m not proud of that.
But I won’t pretend it isn’t mine to reckon with.

I am proud of my shame.
Because shame means I still have a conscience.
Because if I can feel it,
I can face it.
And if I can face it,
Maybe I can change what comes next.

I remember
Because forgetting
Is the first act of violence.
Because pretending
Is how this all keeps going.

We don’t heal
By rewriting history.
We heal
By learning to carry it honestly.

This is how I remember
And this time,
I refuse to look away.

Author’s Note:
I am a white man.
Fourteen generations here in America
I sought my family history
I choose to remember all of our history—
not just the parts that make us proud,
but the parts that make us pause.
I refuse to wash it away.
Because truth, no matter how painful,
is the only path to justice.

I wish I could
But you’ll soon see,
The words don’t always come to me.
I stutter, stall, unable to rant,
And what I’d say, I simply can’t.

I don’t speak much,
Though I wish I might,
But my thoughts don’t land just right.
From brain to mouth,
There’s something lost
A moment’s pause,
At such a cost.

They call me quiet,
Say I’m shy,
But they don’t know how hard I try.
To shape my thoughts into a stream,
To speak aloud what I dare dream.

I long to stand
And boldly say,
The things I hold back every day.
A public speaker, I’ve wished to be,
And I’ve worked hard in therapy.

They taught me breath,
To roll each sound,
But still my voice gets turned around.

So if I stutter
Please just know,
It breaks my heart
To let it show.

To simply speak
As you all do
To say what’s real,
To say what’s true.

But I stay silent,
Face composed
The quiet one
That no one knows.

Oh child,
so young to be alone,
no means to cope,
left sobbing on gravestones,
void of all hope.

Now searching for a home,
the old one now torn,
wanting for what’s gone,
lost is the memory
forlorn.

When all those who passed,
love’s shadow is cast,
young sorrow to last,
Left aging so fast.

When your child was born,
you laid her on a blanket on the floor.
You crouched low,
looked her in the eyes.
You goo-goo and gaga’d to draw her in—
you came down to her level.

As she toddled through your home,
you dropped to one knee,
met her where she was.
You spoke gently,
corrected softly,
always guiding her—
down to her level.

As she grew,
your words stayed kind,
you negotiated with patience,
nudged her with wisdom—
still
down to her level.

But now she’s grown.
A woman, yes—
but still your child.
And now, you talk to her as your equal.
You try to relate adult to adult.
But you forgot
to come down to her level.

Because even now,
she looks up to you.
She needs your words
not as a peer,
but as her parent—
measured, loving, grounded.
Down to her level.

I’m sorry your bond is broken.
Not because you changed,
but because you couldn’t find
that shared ground again—
that quiet space where love meets understanding.
Because you didn’t
come down to her level.

Who are they calling Them?
Like Them doesn’t have a name.
Like Them has no story.
Like Them just appeared one day
uninvited,
unwanted,
unwelcome.

Is Them different than me?
Does Them not bleed red, dream big, cry soft at night?
Does Them not hold memories the way I do
with trembling hands and silent prayers?

Who are they talking about when they say Them?
Oh… Them.
The neighbor. The worker. The mother. The son.
The one who speaks with a different rhythm,
prays with a different posture,
loves with a different fire.

Why are you so afraid of Them?
Do you think Them will replace you?
Take your place,
steal your space,
erase your name from the page?

There are fewer of Them than there are of you.
But still, you tremble.
Still, you point.
Still, you speak of Them with spit on your tongue.

You use harsh words to describe Them.
But I know Them.
I’ve laughed with Them.
Worked beside Them.
Heard Them sing when they thought no one was listening.

You claim strength,
but your fear betrays you.
You built this nation on the backs of Them.
Sent Them to die in wars you declared from safe rooms.
Expected Them to serve your plate,
then disappear before dessert.

But don’t you still need Them?
To harvest, to heal, to build, to teach?
To raise your children
and bury your dead?

I don’t want Them to go away.
I like Them.
I am Them.

And maybe…
maybe you are too.

They speak in Scripture,
but they govern in greed.
They wear the Word like a badge,
but never bleed for it.

They promise morality,
but legislate division.
They quote the Sermon,
then sell the sword.

They say “God bless America”
but mean “God bless our base.”
They stir the faithful—
not to save,
but to sway.

And still,
the churches cheer.
Still, the crosses wave
on lawns and bumper stickers,
as if Christ Himself
endorsed a party line.

But Christ healed the stranger.
He fed the poor.
He turned over tables—
He didn’t sit at them
and bargain for votes.

They don’t walk with Him.
They walk ahead,
dragging His name
like a flag.

You say—
You don’t agree with me.

My opinions are heard
Engage until enraged
I’m using my words

against you.
I’m  speaking the truth
Based on facts
and you’re not using facts.
You’re repeating false claims

I’m speaking truth.
Not to win—
but because it has to be said.
Because silence
lets the lie live longer.

And when I am in power—
if I’m wrong,
then use my words against me.
Hold me to them.

I hope you do.

Because I speak the truth,
and truth must be heard.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it turns on me.

Let the record show:
I stood on truth.
So use my words—
not to destroy me,
but to remind me
who I said I was.
hood

I left you
standing on the hill.
Not in anger,
not with hate—
but with the quiet ache
of knowing I could not stay.

I told you
it would never be my home.
Not because it lacked beauty,
but because it lacked foundation.
Still, you asked me to stay,
to shield you from the wind.

You wanted a protector,
a wall against the storm,
but I am not the wind’s master.
I am not the mountain.
I cannot hold back
what was always coming.

I watched as your hill
began to erode—
not from neglect,
but from the nature
of what it was made of.

I tried to build it up,
to shape it into safety,
to sculpt from sand
a fortress strong enough
to hold us both.

But you can’t build forever
on something that washes away.
And love,
as much as it longs to stay,
needs something solid
beneath its feet.

So I left you
standing on the hill,
not because I stopped caring—
but because I finally saw
I was sinking too.

You visited me last night,
In your angelic, glowing light.
I saw your shadows dance with mine,
Your golden hair, a holy sign.

Your smile, it wrapped around my fear,
A gentle pull, you drew me near.
No need for words, no need for sound,
Your presence was where peace is found.

You brought me comfort, soft and true,
A moment shared with only you.
One I won’t forget or hide
It lives in me, it grows inside.

Your hand reached out to calm my soul,
In silence, somehow made me whole.
Your aura wrapped the night in grace,
I saw the stars light up your face.

To be with you
it stilled my mind,
A sacred hush, a rare rewind.
Though brief, your light erased my fear,
And left a warmth that lingers here.

When morning came, you slipped away,
But I still feel you in the day.
So if you can, return in flight
And find me on some quiet night.

Love sent me searching, longing for more,
The kind that don’t knock—it kicks down the door.
The love that you showed me was twisted, confined,
Not trinkets or words stitched frozen in time.

Love is a feeling, it crawls down your spine,
Fills up your heart, takes hold of your mind.
It’s not always gentle, not always kind—
Sometimes it hurts, leaves pieces behind.

Love sends you reeling, hoping to find
A flicker of joy from someone in time.
But love made you angry, it tore you apart,
And the love that you gave me—
It bruised my heart.

Not of my kind, not born from the same—
I’ve learned that now, it’s not all a game.
But it’s hard to show love when you think you know how,
When your past plants a flag and won’t let you bow.

I learned from my father, my mother was kind—
Their love carved a space that lives in my mind.
So the love that I carry, the love that is mine,
Is gentler, is deeper,
It’s not of your kind.

MMR.
Three letters.
A shield forged in science.
But you turned your back,
Called it poison,
Chose pride over protection.

You read one blog.
Watched one video.
And suddenly,
You’re wiser than the centuries
That buried children
By the thousands.

You walk freely,
But carry death on your breath.
Invisible.
Unknowable.
Unforgiving.

The infant at the store-
Too young to be immune.
The neighbor with chemo-
Too weak to fight.
The pregnant nurse-
Counting heartbeats
That may never take their first breath.

You say,
“It’s my choice.”
But your choice
Becomes their grave.

The virus doesn’t care
What you believe.
It only cares
That you were kind enough
To let it in.

So when the fever comes-
When the rash blooms
Like fire under your skin-
When the breath shallows,
And your lungs forget how to rise-
Know this:

You could have stopped it.
You could have been the break in the chain.
But you chose to be the link.
And now,
You’re the strain.

Do my politics matter to you?
What I say,
Who I stand for—
Red or blue?

You talk down to me
when I stand up for my right.
You call me stupid,
like what I believe has no place in the light.
Red or blue.

Every conversation—
a confrontation.
We don’t listen.
We just wait to speak.
We don’t hear each other.
We don’t see each other.
Red. Or blue.

But when I show up to work,
and you’re the one on the table—
heart exposed,
life hanging in the balance—
should I even stop to ask:
Red?
Or blue?

Because out here,
in the real world,
that line we draw in our minds—
it disappears.

When it’s life or death,
when it’s breath or no breath,
when it’s me and you—
I have to be red and blue
just to deal with you.

Not because I choose to,
but because I need to.

Because underneath the votes,
beneath the noise,
we are more than colors,
more than sides,
more than lines drawn to divide.

And maybe,
just maybe,
we could remember that—
before the next fight.

Red or Blue

The only thing
I’ve ever truly had to give
is myself.

A piece of me,
left behind in every place I’ve been,
in every hand I’ve held,
in every heart I’ve touched.

I gave all I had
freely, fully,
without expectation.

But there are those
who thought I did not give enough,
so they took
what they needed from me.

But what they took
was always mine to give.

That~
was my gift.

Changing the Message
We need to change the way we speak to our children.
The stories we hand down—the warnings, the guilt, the fear—they shape not just how our children see the world, but how they believe they’re allowed to exist in it.

If we change the message, we can change perception.
If we change perception, we can change the future.

Too often, we speak in threats:
“There are too many people.”
“There isn’t enough to go around.”
“If you don’t act now, it’ll be too late.”
“If you don’t obey, you don’t deserve love, or joy, or even salvation.”

Even religion, once intended to teach love and restraint, has become a source of shame.
Yes, faith gave us structure. It helped early societies define right from wrong.
But today, that same faith—especially in the form of Christianity—has been co-opted.
Twisted into politics.
Wielded as a weapon.
Used to divide, to judge, to impose guilt instead of grace.

People are made to feel like their worth is tied to obedience.
Like their future depends on conformity.
And like the only way to be “good” is to believe exactly what they’re told.

That is not the message we want our children to inherit.
That is not the kind of future we want them to build.

We must evolve.
Keep the compassion. Keep the reverence. Keep the community.
But strip away the guilt.
Cut out the fear.
Unravel the political agendas wrapped in scripture.

We are not here to raise children who cower.
We are here to raise children who create.

So I ask again:
How do we change the message?
How do we raise a generation that is grounded in truth, guided by empathy, and free from inherited fear?

You didn’t want my love
just everything else.
Took my time, my peace, my pride
Then whispered poison in my friends’ ears,
Made me the villain while you played the bride.
But when I finally found my voice,
And faced them with truth, not noise
They saw me still, the same old friend,
Not the broken man you tried to end.

I am not of faith,
I am of reason.
Where others find comfort in belief,
I search for clarity in proof.

Faith asks for trust without sight,
a leap into the unseen;
but reason keeps my feet
on ground I can measure,
on truths I can question,
on answers that withstand the weight of doubt.

Religion begins
where explanation ends.
It thrives in silence,
in the places where reason cannot speak.
For many, that silence is solace.
For me, it is emptiness.

I do not deny the light that faith gives to others,
but my light is inquiry,
my prayer is understanding,
my devotion is to logic,
my worship is in truth revealed
through patience, thought, and proof.

I am not of fait,
I am of reason.
And in reason,
I find my peace.

I wasn’t very good at it—
and truth is,
it wasn’t very good
for me.

I give too much.
Try too hard.
Fall too fast.
And forget…
to breathe.

It’s not the people.
It’s not the place.
It’s the hope I hold,
the pace I chase.
The kind of happiness
I keep reaching for—
maybe it was never meant
to be.

Love—
or what I thought was love—
left me empty.
Not whole.
And not for lack of trying.
I gave it all.
My heart.
My soul.

But I’ve learned something soft,
something real:
What’s not good for me
still hurts…
even when it looks
like love.

What is good for me?
It’s quieter.
Gentler.
Steady.

It’s the laughter
of my family.
The stillness
of the trees.
It’s in the work
that feels honest—
in friendships
that don’t ask me
to be less…
or more.

It’s peace
in the mirror.
Peace
in the morning.
Peace
in just being.

That’s what’s good
for me.

So when I go—
when the story ends—
remember me
not for the love I lost,
but for the peace
I tried to give.

I’ll leave it with you.
Soft as a whisper.
Quiet as a prayer.

That—
that right there—
is what’s good
for me.

I think about giving
If I had something,
Something that makes me happy
But what I like to do
Is hold joy in my mind,
Keep it there,
So I don’t drift
To thoughts of my own fate
That unknown answer
That waits in silence.

Because I have nothing.
Nothing that’s mine.
Nothing to give.

But if I did
If I did,
I would give it.

And that,
That giving,
Would make me happy.

“Waiting on a Wee One (O’Brien’s Lass)”
with love

There’s laughter in the kitchen,
A hum in every hall.
The O’Briens are all buzzing
Awaiting someone small.

The kettle sings more sweetly,
The days are dressed in cheer,
For a miracle is growing,
And her debut time draws near.

We toss around sweet names like Maeve,
Saoirse, Niamh, or Róisín
Each one like a lullaby
For the baby of our dreams.

She’s Irish, she’s a wonder,
She’s the first of Alden’s line,
With a dad like kindhearted Kevin.
This child is sure to shine.

She’ll bear the name O’Brien,
With pride and grace and grin~
A fierce and gentle warrior,
With all her roots tucked in.

So Alden, through the cravings,
The waddles and the sighs—
Know every ache and flutter
Brings you closer to those eyes.

And Kevin, soon you’ll master
The swaddle and the song—
You’ll rock her through the midnight hours
When the nights feel extra long.

There’s magic in her heartbeat,
There’s stardust in her kicks

And a family here behind her
With open arms and tricks.

We’re counting down the moments
‘Til we meet this mighty lass

The very first O’Brien girl
To shake up all our past.

So here’s to joy and diapers,
To bottles, love, and grace.
We already love her dearly
Though we’ve yet to see her face.

Your world teeters on the brim,
Washing away with every wave.
Soaked with suds that numb the skin,
Deluded just to soothe the sting.

You drown yourself in alcohol,
A sea you drink to flee the day.
Each sip, a tide that pulls you in,
Further from the shore, astray.

You think the burn will cleanse the ache,
That silence lives in every glass.
But pain still floats beneath the foam,
And truth returns as shadows pass.

The mirror ripples when you look
Your face a blur, your eyes unsure.
You wipe the steam, but not the truth;
You’ve made escape your only cure.

Yet no wave washes guilt away,
No ocean swallows hurt for good.
To heal, to break the deepest spell,
You’ll have to see just where you stood.

Not in the drink, not in the night,
Not in the lie you try to sell
But in the stillness, in the light,
When you begin to face yourself.

Fairytales left there
on the hospital floor,
as a young child watched
his mother slip
from this world to the next.

Dreams shattered
of a happy life,
of holding her hand
the trembling now broken,
forever undone.

Nurses and doctors,
helpless and heartbroken,
knowing nothing
could rewrite the story
unfolding in that room tonight.

Home becomes a museum
of aching silence.
Closet doors sealed tight
for years,
too heavy with memories
and sweaters
still scented like her.

Left only
with the will to carry on,
to hold their head high
walking through school halls
where other children stare,
some feeling the loss,
some blind to the pain.

Counselors, teachers,
principals, and bosses
reaching out,
offering love,
doing their best
to stitch the wound.

But the day will come
when they forget.

Except for the ones
still walking
with the wound wide open,
a daily limp,
a raw reminder
of who won’t be waiting
at home.

Life,
short and cruel
for the ones who grieve
what can’t be given back,
who carry a love
too heavy for this world
to hold.

The memories I hold fast,
gathered as a child
when time moved slow,
and every breeze
was a new lesson whispered.

The slam of the old screen door,
a bird’s familiar song,
a scent that pulls me back,
the smell of breakfast rising
from the kitchen,
as I rubbed the sleep
from my eyes before school.

These were the treasures,
but as a young man
I had no time to open them.
I was running headlong into life,
chasing work, love,
the next horizon,
while those memories waited patiently,
content to live beside me,
quiet as shadows
until I was ready to see them.

But now, as an old man,
I move more slowly.
The chase is behind me,
the horizons have been met.
Now I pause,
I listen,
I lean into silence,
and there they are again:
the echoes, the scents, the songs
I once outran.

For every small detail
is a doorway,
a hidden passage
to where I once belonged.
A secret trip
to long ago.

We met on a cruise, the stars overhead,
Where laughter was shared and kind words were said.
In oceans and sunsets, I saw something true
But nothing as stunning as finding you.

We wandered through cities, through rain and sun,
With every new place, a new page begun.
You showed me your world, its warmth and its light,
And I offered you mine, with my heart held tight.

We’ve tasted new foods, we’ve lost track of time,
I’ve learned that your suitcase is bigger than mine.
You’ve taught me that love is both tender and strong
A dance through the chaos, a soft steady song.

And now, in this moment, as I look in your eyes,
With friends and with family beneath open skies,
I promise to love you, to cherish and stay  
Through every tomorrow, beginning today.

Wherever we go, whatever we do,
My heart is my compass, it always finds you.
So here’s to our journey, just starting to run…
You’re my greatest adventure. You’re my only one.

Yeah, I said it.
Your kids are lazy
Not because they’re broken,
But because you broke the cycle.
You gave them a screen,
Not a skill.
You gave them silence,
Not structure.
You gave in
Instead of showing up.
You didn’t wanna deal,
So now they don’t know how.

Yeah, I said it.
We bred a generation of slackers,
Who push buttons but don’t push themselves.
When I was their age,
We had summer jobs,
Cut grass, flipped burgers,
Sweated for a dollar
Because goals meant something.

You placed your child in front of a screen
Because you didn’t want to entertain them.
You didn’t send them outside to play
You coddled them.
When their grades slipped,
Did you help them?
Or just ask around,
Waiting for the school to fix it?
Now the schools are stripped bare,
Defunded and dying.
Back then, we had after-school sports,
We learned how to lose,
How to win,
How to be part of a team.
But these kids?
They show up at my door,
No eye contact, no backbone,
No clue how to speak like they belong in the world.

Now I’m training kids
Who don’t even want the keys.
They don’t wanna be the boss,
They just want the break room.
No grind.
No plan.
Just vibes and complaints
About rent,
About food,
About life
But they don’t want more,
They just want easier.

Yeah, I said it.
They wear pajamas with pride,
And call it style,
But don’t own the ambition
To move beyond survival.
And I get it
The system’s rigged.
Education costs more than it’s worth,
Healthcare’s a maze with no map,
And the ones in charge?
They don’t give a ****.

Yeah, I said it.
We are divided by design.
Because unity doesn’t win elections.
Hate is a headline.
And kindness?
That’s for suckers now.
Being cruel is political currency
And people are cashing in.

So yeah, I said it.
And I’ll say it again.
Because silence is complicity,
And I’d rather be the villain
With a mirror
Than the hero with a blindfold.

But now I’m saying this
It’s not too late.
Turn off the screen.
Talk to your kids.
Hold them accountable.
Teach them how to speak,
How to strive,
How to fail,
And still keep going.
Show them what it means
To earn something,
To dream bigger,
To stand for more than just survival.

Because the truth?
We don’t need more noise.
We need leaders.
We need parents who parent,
Kids who hustle,
Teachers who are paid,
And a country that gives a **** again.

Yeah, I said it.
But don’t just hear me
Do something.

The pleasure found in a like-minded friend,
Where words aren’t needed for time to transcend.
Nurtured in childhood, wild and free
A bond as old as the tallest tree.

We ran like puppies through the pines,
No path to follow, no need for signs.
Branches bowed as we brushed by,
With nothing but laughter beneath the sky.

We chased the wind and played pretend,
Each game we started had no end.
Side by side, we roamed for hours,
Wading through streams, picking wildflowers.

Not lost, just far from grown-up plans,
Just boys with bark-stained knees and hands.
In the woods, we found our place
A world untouched, our sacred space.

Now older, with the forest far,
I still recall who we were, we are.
For in my heart, that trail remains
Two boys, one bond, and no restraints.

And women, they watch with tender eyes,
Not quite sure where its magic lies
They may not grasp the way it grew,
But they smile, knowing it’s something true.

When you’re too afraid
to let them do what’s right,
too afraid yourself
to do what’s right,
yet you watch
watch me tear myself apart
to do what you’re too afraid to do.

I do what’s right.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because it’s safe.
But because silence
has never saved a life.
Because silence
has never broken a chain.

Your fear is comfortable
it sits quiet in your chest,
keeps your hands folded,
your head down,
your conscience clean.
But my fear has no such luxury.
My fear wears a target.
My fear walks into rooms
already judged,
already tried,
already sentenced.

And still—
I rise.
Still—
I speak.
Still—
I fight.

Because racism doesn’t die
from the whispers of the timid.
It doesn’t vanish
with well-meaning thoughts
and quiet prayers.

It dies
when courage is louder than comfort,
when justice is heavier than excuses,
when the ones who were afraid
choose to stand anyway.

So don’t tell me
you’re waiting for the right moment.
Don’t tell me
it’s complicated.
Don’t tell me
you don’t see it.

If your eyes are open,
then your silence is a choice.
And if your silence is a choice,
then your fear is complicity.

I will not tear myself apart
to stitch together a world
you are too afraid to build.

Do what’s right.
Do it trembling.
Do it unsure.
Do it afraid.
But do it
because racism will never fall
by those who watch,
only by those who act.

So… you’re having a baby? Oh heavens, oh dear!
Prepare for the chaos, the diapers, the cheer!
There’ll be giggles and burping and onesies galore,
And toys you will trip on from bedroom to floor.

You’ll learn to survive without sleep (more or less),
You’ll Google strange rashes and babyproof stress.
You’ll master the swaddle, the bottle, the “shhh,”
While whispering prayers during midnight **** squish.

Your fridge will be filled with things puréed and bland,
And “me time” now means wiping spit off your hand.
Romance might be “Did you wash the pump parts?”
And “date night” is counting your baby’s heart farts.

But through all the madness, the bottles and binkies,
The strollers, the coos, and the blowouts in pinkies.
One thing stays true as the months pass you by:
Your village is here. (Yes. We mean us… hi.)

We’ll show up with casseroles, wipes, and advice,
(Some helpful, some weird, and some… not so nice).
We’ll offer to babysit—yes, even at two!
(Okay, maybe three. But we’ll show up. For you.)

You might roll your eyes, wish we’d give you some space,
But we’ll still be lurking with gifts and a face~
The face that says “Please… just one cuddle, I beg.”
We don’t need much. Just a sniff of a leg.

So Alden, dear Kevin, from now till you’re grey,
We’re here every tantrum, each night, every day.
You’ve got this! But when you feel tired or small.
Don’t forget: You’re not doing this solo at all.

We’ll be right beside you, and yes, slightly pushy,
With pockets of tissues and cheeks that are cushy.
We’re family, we’re loud, and we love you like crazy~
And honestly? We just want to hold that baby.

Oh child,
so young to be alone,
no means to cope,
left sobbing on gravestones,
void of all hope.

Now searching for a home,
the old one now torn,
wanting for what’s gone,
lost is the memory
forlorn.

When all those who passed,
love’s shadow is cast,
young sorrow to last,
Left aging so fast.

I remember you, Mother,
not in fragments, but in fullness
a presence woven into my days,
the shelter of your arms,
the steady warmth of your gaze.

You loved me,
you nurtured me,
you protected me,
never too close,
always just enough freedom
to let me grow,
while knowing you were there.

Others knew you differently
a sister, a friend,
a confidant, a soul with laughter and sorrows.
But the mother I knew
was the same for each of us

my brother, my sister, and me

you held us all in equal light,
loving and nurturing,
carrying our fears as though they were your own,
holding our small world together
with nothing but tenderness.

Many years have passed
since that August day you left,
yet your love lingers,
a thread I carry still
a quiet strength
that shapes who I am,
a light I cannot lose.

O Mother,
though the years widen their distance,
I remain your child,
cradled by the memory of your care.
Your love is mine forever,
and through us,
you live on.

Until you…
I had never known
what makes a heart truly beat.

You are the glow
that awakens my spirit,
the tremor beneath my feet,
the hand that steadies me.

Until you…
I had only dreamed of love
a longing I could never hold,
an image I could not release.

But now I stand before you
not desperate, but whole.
Ready…
to be the best of me.

So I vow,
to honor the love you’ve shown me,
to cherish the joy you’ve given me,
and to never forget
that until now…
I had never known
a love like this.

The tone of your sorrow
I could not shout above.
It was buried…
too deep.
Like tears the soul forgets
to weep.

There was sadness in your eyes,
but only in the shadow you cast
when the light
tried
to love you.

You were the only one
the only one
I ever loved.
But I couldn’t break
the hardness of your heart.

I couldn’t shake
the silence
that stood where tenderness
should start.

Yes
you shared your love with me.
But even love
couldn’t undo the ache.

Some wounds
they’re just
too proud
to break.

Safer
without the one
who claimed to make us safe.

You enriched those
who tithed to your cause,
while silencing
every voice
that dared to speak
against your racism.

You stripped the rights
that held the powerful in check
eliminated
what bound the governed
to justice.

You cast long, dark shadows
over refugees
our laws once shielded.

You widened the chasm
between have and have-not.

Propitiated wealth
while deep pockets
overflowed
on the backs of the broken.

And still,
you called it freedom.

But I know
it would be
a better world
without you.

Last night, I found it hard to sleep,
Your memory continued to creep
Into my mind you found a space ,
A joyful spot where memories chase
The thoughts I simply can’t escape,
Down deep into my happy place.

A vision of you danced all around,
An angelic form without a sound.

You kept me staring all night long,
That memory played like a favorite song.

It’s morning now, and I embrace
Those dreams that showed this Angeles face.