It is a tumultuous year,
where the fruits of seeds
sown long ago
are ripening in the sun.
One with floating corn silk hair
above a boisterous mouth,
bereft of tender sentiment
and pandering to fear.
The other grim and shrilling
draped like chairman Mao
Tse-tung,a visage that once
enjoyed protection in the womb.
Both promise their very selves as
America’s future dream.
But near and far the sounds
of thunder – herald rain storms,
earthquakes, bombs and
tumbling concrete. Telling
tales of hundreds to millions
of broken lives, bodies and hearts.
Our world is bursting with
anguish – and I cried.
Not just because the waves of
despair and depression threaten
to drown me in their tide. No.
I cried also because my heart
was moved to pray for it could
not coax my mind to build either
rational or reasonable petitions.
It knew only how to soak itself
in tears for countless souls in pain.
More than this I cannot do when
grief is at its peak – than simply
stand or kneel with God –
heart pleading onto heart
completely drenched (confused)
by the storms of human crisis.
Comment about the poem:
Today – August 27th – on the feast of St Monica, I am reminded of the power tears have when praying to God. She who spent so many years, drenching the earth with her tears for her son who would become the great St. Augustine. Tears are a language simple and clear in sentiment for they come from the very depths of the heart.