When I see deadly violence anywhere
acted out by hooded men to hide their grief
neo-nazi common criminals
pedophile priest, shooters in a theatre
I wander a wilderness of disbelief
Hearing about it again on the web or t.v.
I commit myself to the Asylum of Ahimsa
pushing back harder on the evil in myself
anywhere it reveals a heidous head,
helping the wounded if I can.
Odd this, it generates awareness
seeing how not to be
turns a blessing on all of us
returning the freely given
I turn to what some think a normal life
but with the pluck of a griffin-headed trucker:
“Fuck these motherfuckers!”
where will another come up from underground
where’s the fire of Jordan River John
flame of Saint Jude, will it ever
pop out our brows, explode our heads?
Strangely sacred, I know
my mother’s loving fault: Where there’s help
there’s hope she always said, yes
“Bless the beasts and the children”
I forgive the perps with leaders I dread
call me fool, I know no better
that isn’t lame or bad you know
no one lives forever
grief and toil make that sure–
a catholic poet I confess, but I’m no saint
when evil clowns throw shade and linger
all I’ve got for alt-right leaders
fake preachers and presidents, is a finger.
Poet, Terry Busch.
