Remembering D-Day 70 years later

It was a long day at the beach
as boys ran in the surf
the 6th of June in 1944
Unlike the days when they were small
and mothers watched nearby,
this beach day far from home was bloody war.

The castles in the sand they shaped
were freedom’s fortresses.
They forged a beachhead but at quite a cost.
These boys without their mothers
without thinking of themselves
found the means to dig the graves for soldiers lost.

On this poignant anniversary
as we ponder that long day,
we give thanks for mothers’ sons who dreamed of home.
And we bless the sainted memories
of those whose dreams were dashed
as they left footprints in sand and died alone.

Remembering my reactions to the news from Dallas

A half a century has passed
since deafening and shocking gasps
were heard throughout all fifty states
that bleak November day.

“From Dallas,” Walter Cronkite said,
“The president’s been shot. He’s dead!
The victim of a sniper’s aim
has left us leaderless.”

It seemed as if my world stood still
although I could not get my fill
of non-stop news that chronicled
the nightmare of that day.

I still recall that long weekend.
I was eleven way back then.
But not too young to fully feel
the sting of corporate grief.

I watched as Oswald flinched in pain
and as we learned Jack Ruby’s name.
And though I went to Sunday School,
my mind was not on God.

The images on our TV
were black and white (ironically).
The brilliant colors of my world
had suddenly turned gray.

The simple view of life I’d had
was shattered by this glimpse of bad.
The death of John F. Kennedy
had opened my young eyes.

Fast-forward half-a-century
to where I look back soberly
and glimpse the day I first beheld
how evil stalks our land.

A prayer on this 12th anniversary of 9/11

A dozen years ago we woke
to chilling news that left us broke.
The peace of mind on which we’d banked
was stolen in a day.

Four hijacked jets like flying bombs
destroyed our apathetic calm
as we collapsed in corporate fear
unsure of terror’s plans.

We fled to church and joined in prayer.
And though such piety seemed rare,
the slogan on our currency
called us to trust in God.

And as we think back to that day
when friendly skies turned ashen gray,
Lord, we remember those who died
and those who saved far more.

Now once again we wring our hands
as we try hard to understand
what’s happening in Syria
and how we should respond.

When crisis rears its ugly head
and hope dissolves to haunting dread,
the most agnostic finds his knees
and verbalizes faith.

When terror knocks at freedom’s door
and we despair at what’s in store,
the posture most appropriate
is that reserved for prayer.

Lord, as our leaders seek to lead,
on their behalf we intercede
requesting that their minds be bathed
with wisdom birthed by You.

May moral courage guide their hearts
as they make choices sure to start
a chain-reaction far from home
whose outcome is unclear.

O God, our help in ages past,
when votes in Congress have been cast,
remind us You are still in charge
and long for worldwide peace.

Reflecting on Martin’s dream fifty years later

A half a century ago
the White House residents
observed a black man mount a make-shift stage.
And a quarter of a million
braved that August afternoon
to find themselves typeset on history’s page.

As Lincoln’s marble eyes looked on,
that preacher voiced a dream
that cast a vision few (at first) could see.
His focus was on equal rights,
on color blindness, too.
He called for inter-racial unity.

This prophet quoted Scripture
with emotional resolve
as he exorcized the demons of his day.
A King, clothed like a cleric,
without scepter, crown or throne,
gave a speech that blew the masses clean away.

And now fifty long years later
that short speech can still be heard
in the consciousness of we who share his dream.
It’s a dream that’s still in process
as we pray “Thy Kingdom come”
and resist the racists’ manifested schemes.

* On August 28, 1963 (three months before President Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas) The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech to a crowd of some 250,000 people on the steps on the Lincoln Memorial.

Recalling Katrina eight years later

Eight years ago Katrina raged!
In history’s book she claimed a page!
Her temper tantrum terrorized
that city by the Gulf.

Old Man River’s mouth was sore.
It bled for half a year (or more).
The hemorrhaging of New Orleans
resisted tourniquets.

As thousands fled from flooded homes,
they camped out in the Super Dome.
Deprived of worth and dignity,
they grieved for what they’d lost.

But the Big Easy refused to die.
When life got hard and grownups cried,
their will to rise above the storm
was music to our ears!

Yes, all that jazz can still be heard.
It drowns out memories time has blurred
and if you listen carefully
you may hear flutists play.

They’ve gathered down in New Orleans
in hot pursuit of lifelong dreams
and if that “Cajun will” rubs off
who knows how far they’ll go?

* As the nation prepares to recall the devastation caused by Katrina eight years ago, the National Flute Convention is taking place in New Orleans. The poet’s daughter is performing there this weekend.