Fireflies and Fiddleheads

Rain and Rust

 

Between all the self-talk —
fiddleheads
and yearning for a potato chip.

If only I could paint this time
between rain and rust
how would that look?

Once I was a river wild,
whiskey notes, and
summer squalls bending light.

The day you asked
I could not explain
in search of some moment.

Despite all the doubts
it was worth the while
it takes to see fireflies

In the words you whispered,
wearing my wounds,
and the distance of blue.

AG ~ May 2016

A Sunday Stoll In The Rain

 

He Walked His words

RIP Father Daniel J. Berrigan

I just read about his passing on the front page of The New York Times Sunday paper. It brings back a lot of old rather painful yet poetic times of protesting the Vietnam war and injustice altogether.

He was one of the leaders in the movement for change back in the day. That he and his brother Philip were clergymen did not matter, except to keep alive the hope that there were still some souls in the Catholic church hierarchy who responded to their core values.

He was jailed, dismissed by peers and loved by many. He was his own man to the end.

an icon of the 60’s protests
a priest with a poet’s soul
a visionary with integrity
fallible with feet of clay
he walked his words

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