Everything we thought was true was not true

Everything we thought was true was not true.
Everything we thought was right was wrong.
The leaders whom we idolized were madmen,
Mass murderers, whose crimes we helped along.

We were the volunteers for genocide,
The dupes who gave out leaflets for the devil,
For whom obscene dictatorships were good
And our own democracies were evil.

We were the organizers of the poor,
The builders of unions, champions of justice,
Sacrificing self only to serve
A mortal yearning for significance.

We were blind in service to our passions.
We were deaf in service to our need.
Now we must drive the truth straight through our hearts
That we might die at peace with what we did.

Note: The author of this poem classified it under communism. I would think it also fit the rhetoric of American liberals who are heirs of the American communist movement. It was also called socialism and secularism. Jonah Goldberg traces its history to European fascism. One day this poem will describe many Americans felt realization just as it did those in the USSR.

Source: http://www.poemsforfree.com

A Memorial Day Poem

The following poem is a tribute to our veterans on Memorial Day. It was discovered on the Moment of Remembrance website. To listen to a MP3 version, click here.

“ Last Monday in May”©
   By John T. Bird

We pause to remember those who die
With so much courage, so much pride

They’ll never come back, yet memories endure
To remind us of freedom: fragile, pure

We’re worthy of their sacrifice if we pause each day
Not just on the last Monday in May

©John T. Bird, copyright 2006

American Income

The survey says all groups can make more money
if they lose weight except black men…men of other colors
and women of all colors have more gold, but black men
are the summary of weight, a lead thick thing on the scales,
meters spinning until they ring off the end of the numbering
of accumulation, how things grow heavy, fish on the
ends of lines that become whales, then prehistoric sea life
beyond all memories, the billion days of human hands
working, doing all the labor one can imagine, hands
now the population of cactus leaves on a papyrus moon
waiting for the fire….

An excerpt from American Income by Afaa Michael Weaver posted at The Poetry Foundation

XII Mon. February [1746] hath xxviii days

by Benjamin Franklin

Man’s rich with little, were his Judgment true,
Nature is frugal, and her Wants are few;
Those few Wants answer’d, bring sincere Delights,
But Fools create themselves new Appetites.
Fancy and Pride seek Things at vast Expence,
Which relish not to Reason nor to Sense
Like Cats in Airpumps, to subsist we strive
On Joys too thin to keep the Soul alive.

I didn’t know Ben Franklin was a poet either!

In Kingdom Celebrating Easter

Oh, God, descend upon this unworthy life,
cleanse my soul by your Son’s holy sacrifice.
Let my mind comprehend his Cross and blood,
the terrible price Jesus paid for my moral crime.
Thank you for your unending love and grace.

Please, God, complete my soul with your glorious
presence enabling me to live like your beloved Son.
Let the power of your love unrecognized so often
annul all the effects of all deserved consequences.
Thank you Lord for your abiding Shekinah light.

Lord, I pursue you with all of my heart and soul,
my Savior and my God. Reveal to me your way
to an upright life lived not by empty conversation
but by covenanted action both now and forever.
May my life be a fragerant prayer well-pleasing.

Do not allow mundane rituals of my daily habits
rule my relationship with you, precious Lord God,
Let not redundant religious practice muzzle your
still small voice or printed words supplant it in my
heart. Keep talking to me Lord and I will follow.

Your voice is a light seen in the good of others;
words of life and service making my soul glad.
Your leading me to all truth is expeditious joy.
Thank you, Lord, for eternal fellowship with You,
in the kingdom of Jesus risen in crucified people.

by Daniel Downs
March 23, 2008

We’re All in the Telephone Book

We’re all in the telephone book,
Folks from everywhere on earth–
Anderson to Zabowski,
It’s a record of America’s worth.

We’re all in the telephone book,
There’s no priority–
A millionaire like Rockefeller
Is likely to be behind me.

For generations men have dreamed
Of nations united as one.
Just look in your telephone book
To see where that dream’s begun.

When Washington crossed the Deleware
And the pillars of tyranny shook,
He started the list of democracy
That’s America’s telephone book.

– by Langston Hughes

Source: Carmela Ciuraru, ed., Poems for America: 125 Poems that Celebrate the American Experience (NY: Scribner Poetry, 2002), 114.

The First Atlantic Telegraph

With outward signs, as well as inward life,
The world is hastening onward to its end!
With higher purpose our Age is rife,
Than those to which with groveling mind’s we tend.
For lo! beneath the Atlantic’s stormy breast
Is laid, from shore to shore, the Electric wire;
And words, with speed of thought, from east to west
Dart to and fro on wings that never tire.
May never man, to higher objects blind,
Forget by whom this miracle was wrought;
But worship and adore the Eternal Mind,
Which gave at length to man the wondrous thought;
His Providential Purpose to fulfill.

– by Jones Very

Source: Carmela Ciuraru, ed., Poems for America: 125 Poems that Celebrate the American Experience; (NY: Scribners Poetry, 2002), 38.