Thursday, March 8, 2018

Never Point a Loaded Politician at Any Human Being Published on February 26, 2018 in Opinion by Joe Cottonwood


My first job, no trifle,
I taught children to shoot a rifle.
Summer camp, shooting range,
no one thought it strange
to show 8-year-olds, sweet kids
to cock the bolt, squint and squeeze.
Blow holes in the paper target, please.
That same summer
I had a girlfriend, cute as molasses.
We met every night, hid our asses
in the boathouse under canoes.
Her expertise: teaching peace.
Next summer, age 18
told them I was pacifist but the Draft Board
saw the job history, me a crack shot.
They said not.
Kissinger lied.
Nixon lied.
Young men died.
Age 25, on impulse at a garage sale
a .22 bolt-action rifle I bought,
same model I once taught
and it came with bullets in a box
plus thirteen pairs of jogging socks.
Wore the socks, raised three kids strong as molasses
to be mindful, to be kindful
while Reagan lied
then Dubya, oh my God
and Dick Cheney who never heard my safety rules
filled his hunting buddy with buckshot, the fool
and lied.
Now grandkids come merry as molasses
mindful and kindful.
The rifle dusty, still here
just in case for the hard to believe
worst ever bad-ass liar president,
a civil war.
When I die, bury me
in jogging socks
with ammo, the whole box
plus that rifle rusty, unshot.
Give me oil, a rag.
First job is now my final task.
Teach those ghouls gun safety:
be mindful, be kindful.
The best weapon is never fired.
The best war is never fought.

Joe Cottonwood has worked as a carpenter/contractor for most of his life. Some jobs come out pretty; some, crap. Nights, he writes. Same split. A dozen books, most recent is Foggy Dog. He lives in La Honda, California.

Remember Langston Hughes’s Anger Alongside His Joy

Photo
Langston Hughes in Harlem in 1958.CreditRobert W. Kelley/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images
Reading Langston Hughes’s poetry is like going to church.
And by church, I mean the type of church where the congregation calls out “amen” as the pastor preaches. Where people wearing their Sunday best — big hats and polished shoes — wave their hands giving praise, shouting, “I know that’s right!” when a line of Scripture resonates.
When I was growing up, call and response was a part of my church’s culture. At Antioch Missionary Baptist Church, in Portland, Ore., church services were interactive — a silent congregation was deemed rude and was subject to rebuke.
Our pastor’s sermons were laced with history lessons about the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s, and he challenged us — especially the young people — to keep our eyes on the prize, to carry on the work that had been started. Sometimes he chastised us, urging us to make our faith something practical and do something — feed the homeless, visit the sick, care for the motherless.
I looked forward to Sundays because I got to sing in the choir next to my friends, because we gathered as a congregation for a potluck dinner in the basement and because there was an older woman who pinched my chubby cheeks and called me her beautiful chocolate girl every time I saw her.
Continue reading the main story
Church was home.
As a black girl growing up in the Pacific Northwest, I so needed that space. I attended a predominantly white elementary school. My classmates often let me know that they detested the way I talked, the way I wore my hair and the food I brought from home for lunch.
So when my English teacher introduced her poetry unit, using Langston Hughes as the first poet, my spirit leapt for joy just as it did at church. I recognized the vernacular in his poems. I knew that mother who told her son that life for her had been no crystal stair. I understood the stench of rotting dreams, I knew the longing of a people wanting America to make good on its promise. When Hughes called his people beautiful like the night sky, my grandpa and cousins and neighbors came to mind. I said “amen” in that classroom for the first time. The lesson spoke directly to me, about me.
Poetry became my sanctuary.
I grew up in a state where black people make up 2 percent of the population, so I needed a refuge for my blackness. I needed permission to celebrate and critique where I came from. It was validating to know that the struggle of someone like my mother was worthy of a poem, that my dreams were important enough to be recorded. Hughes’s poetry was a witness to my experience, my existence.
Throughout my schooling, there were many more poetry units of study, and almost always there was one black poet on the syllabus: Langston Hughes. But the poems were always the same ones — the ones about dreams. Every year during Black History Month, my classmates and I recited “Harlem” and “Dream Variations.”
EIt wasn’t until college that I learned that Hughes wasn’t just a dreamer. The poet who wrote about deferred dreams was the same writer who wrote, “If the government can set aside some spot for a elk to be a elk without being bothered, or a fish to be a fish without getting hooked, or a buffalo to be a buffalo without being shot down, there ought to be a place in this American country where a Negro can be a Negro without being Jim Crowed.”
Hughes wrote, “I swear to the Lord/I still can’t see/Why democracy means/Everybody but me.”
He wrote, “I tire so of hearing people say,/Let things take their course./Tomorrow is another day./I do not need my freedom when I’m dead./I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread.”
Sometimes he wrote rebukes: “Americans of good-will, the nice decent church people, the well-meaning liberals, the good hearted souls who themselves wouldn’t lynch anyone, must begin to realize that they have to be more than passively good-hearted, more than church goingly Christian, and much more than word-of-mouth in their liberalism.”
Hughes declared he, too, was America but also wrote, “America was never America to me.” He loved and critiqued his country, his people.
I often wonder why my teachers didn’t share this side of Hughes. Why were they so comfortable with black struggle but not our rage? Hughes’s words were not just dirge nor were they only jubilee. They were protest, too.
Hughes’s words were — and are — sanctuary. The kind I grew up in: loud, comforting, affirming, challenging, political. They sustain me as I work in the Harlem brownstone where the poet lived during the last 20 years of his life.
The first day of February is the beginning of Black History Month and what would have been Hughes’s 116th birthday. As we honor his legacy, I hope we remember this dreamer-poet who loved Harlem and his people with a fierce, unapologetic love. As we commemorate his birthday, I hope we embrace his anger and frustration and remember not only his dreams but also his demands.
I hope we dig into his work, as we do Scripture, and find something that speaks to us, pushes us past comfort, makes us say amen.

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

H.E. Khandro Rinpoche: The meaning of taking refuge

Forgiveness from Soren K

Søren Kierkegaard
Jesus says, “Forgive, and you will also be forgiven” (Matt. 6:14). That is to say, forgiveness is forgiveness. Your forgiveness of another is your own forgiveness; the forgiveness you give is the forgiveness you receive. If you wholeheartedly forgive your enemy, you may dare hope for your own forgiveness, for it is one and the same.
Source: Provocations

Listening, just listening to the muses and the spirits...

This Blog has been in cyber space for years I believe...a place where often I have dropped articles and stuff I thought would be helpful, inspiring,and need to be heard. I plan in this new year, 2018 to do some writing of my own here as well. I am working on a book, the working title is


Duende
A momentary burst of inspiration,
A playful hobgoblin,
 the breaking of plates
the causing of noise, and being a playful nuisance…

This title came to me as I reflected on my first visit to Naropa University and the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. My workshop teacher and since then good friend Jaime Manrique, a wonderful writer and poet, introduced us to this concept. We read, talked and wrote from the lecture by Federico Garcia Lorca IN Search of Duende.

Karen and I had an opportunity to experience this spirit on our trip this last December (2017) on a island off Spain as we entered the world  of canta jondo or deep song, flamenco artists and the guitar.
It was wonderful.

One writer reminds us that Lorca's understanding of Duende has four elements as he writes about it;
irrationality, earthiness, a heightened awareness of death, and a dash of the diabolical. Not a bad mix for poetry.

If you are reading this, share your thoughts, let's have a chat about the spirits that move and scare you on your journey. I use scare in the best sense, waking us up!  Bye for now....

Surprising God (a poem in respect for the vets who struggle with taking their own lives, data tells us 20-22 will surprise God today )


Surprising God

How does one surprise God?
I have heard the door or gate is not locked, it is always open

Every day I think of a vet I knew,
he told me about the river boat he was on,
the murky river water, many small boats alongside,
action all around
He was a sailor on a ship
What the hell was he doing on a river boat, he often asked, even now
Can’t remember the name of the river,
but it was Nam…

You come home, home from war…
you are different now
No one seems to know that,
“but glad your back bro” they say

Yes, you are home, but then there is the addiction,
not of killing but of forgetting

the time comes to report,
remembering my service,
Out in the woods, away from it all
There is that standing at attention, hair and beard trimmed,
muster for the last time…

How does one surprise God?
I have heard the door or gate is not locked, it is always open


A Powerful Message from Mathew Fox, many thanks


...AND NOT WITH SISSY PROMISES OF "THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS" 
As a spiritual theologian who has written at length on prayer and spirituality and on the mystics and prophets who know something about prayer, I am sick and tired of the insult that is hurled at prayer every time a politician stands up to shed tears over gun violence in schools (or night clubs or concerts or churches, etc. etc) while behind the scenes he is in bed with the NRA.  
Yes, I mean you, Governor Scott; Yes, you, Marco Rubio; Yes, Paul Ryan; Yes, President Trump.  Yes, Yes to all you sissies who as are as deceitful and full of lies (such as “I love my children and grandchildren and fear for them in school”) as you are of sentimental piety feigning as religion.  
You are sissies because you are afraid of losing your job and your status, i.e. your next election, should you dare to have the courage (yes, the balls) to stand up to the NRA.  


 (By the way, is it true that Putin & Co. illegally funneled money through the NRA to help the Trump campaign[1]in the last election?  We citizens would like Congress to research that fact ASAP to help save what is left of our democracy.)  
You NRA puppet politicians, thanks to the investigative work of Bess Kalb[2] and watchdog journalists and commentators at the L.A. Times[3]New York Times[4]Fortune[5]among others, the facts are out about where your first love lies.  It is not with children of America, nor with their parents and grandparents, siblings and relatives, who are in mourning and will grieve the rest of their lives for their young ones gunned down by American citizens armed with military weapons altogether legally (thanks to you and your political priorities).
Let us review the facts that Bess Kalb and these others have gathered--as opposed to the sick, sentimental, religious pieties--around gun control in America among our so-called political leaders who, being moral midgets and religious hypocrites, think we citizens are so stupid that we are impressed by your crocodile tears and pseudo-religious mutterings about “thoughts and prayers.”  
Hypocritical prayers are not prayers.  They are lies.
Fact # 1: Marco Rubio, senator from Florida, voted against banning assault weapons and has received $3,303,355 from the NRA and holds a A+ rating in backing NRA over the years.
Fact #2: President Trump received $21,000,000 from NRA for his presidential campaign.
Fact # 3: Senator Rob Portman of Ohio received $3,061,941 from NRA.
Fact # 4: The Republican Party headquarters received $17,385,437 from NRA in the 2015-1016 election cycle alone.
Fact # 5: Senator Joni Ernst of Iowa received $3,124,273 from NRA.
Fact # 6: Senator Thom Tillis of North Carolina received $4,418,012 from NRA.
Etc, etc, etc.  
These people and the many like them have blood of children on their hands.  But they do not stand alone by any means.  
Each Supreme Court judge who voted for Citizens United has the blood of these children massacred in Florida (and the eight other school shootings[6] since Jan 1, 2018 and those before) on their hands too for buttressing a system that reduces a so-called democracy to pay and play and gives corporations like the NRA the right of personhood and along with it so much more power over the choice of voting citizens.
The ONE WAY to stop the killings is not just to blow the whistle on the hypocrisy of these politicians and judges and their calling for “thoughts and prayers,” insulting as that is to people who actually pray and think.  The cause of this pathological culture is obviously the gluttony for money and the power it can buy in a so-called democracy that is no longer a democracy but an oligarchy of the rich (and those who are desperate to serve the power holders to save their political skins).  
The one solution to gun violence is a constitutional amendment that disavows money in elections.  We need public funding of our elections to send the NRA and all other corporations slinking back to doing what they consider their jobs. It’s time they quit making whores (not to insult sex workers, I apologize to them) of our politicians.  This means that Citizens United must be repealed—and Yes, we must call out the Supreme Court judges led by Chief Justice John Roberts for passing that abysmal legislation and see to it that the NRA does not choose our judges in the future by buying off the politicians who give them their positions.  
Common sense gun laws that render military weapons unavailable to non-military persons and that are favored by an overwhelming number of Americans cannot happen until the entire sick money-driven political system in America is dismantled in favor of public funding that thereby eliminates the capital that is swamping voting.  
According to the brilliant study by historian Nancy MacLean, Democracy In Chains: The Deep History of the Radical Right’s Stealth Plan for America, the goal of the radical right (read NRA and Koch brothers, et al) is “to save capitalism from democracy—permanently.”   Theirs is “a quest to ensure the supremacy of capital[7] and this comes about not just by changing our politicians or who rules and makes decisions but by changing the rules.  Which is of course where lawyers and courts and judges come in, abetted by legislators.  The sum total of this political movement and its “shrewd long game” -- which has been in progress for decades and is reaching a climax in today’s version of the Republican Party -- is “a return to oligarchy”[8] where power is concentrated in the hands of the few.  Not government of the people, by the people and for the people, but government of the few, by the few, for the few.  
But the few who are most financially powerful are not the only ones who can change the rules.  That is what a movement to add a constitutional amendment to get money out of elections can also do.  A movement of the many, those many who still believe in or yearn for a government of, by and for the people.  
One hopeful sign emerging from the carnage in Florida school shooting is the wisdom of the teenagers of the school who are calling on Congress to do something and quit insulting their intelligence with appeals to so-called “thoughts and prayers.”[9]Let the young lead this crusade to dismantle money on our politics!  Let them lead the march to congressional offices and to the social media—let the moral outrage of the young awaken the tired cynicism of our fat politicians and cynical Supreme Court judges who are willing to sell not only the young but whatever is left of our democracy down the drain for a pat on the head from NRA and Koch brothers and their ilk.  
The young were leaders in that moral revolution called the Civil Rights movement.  They filled the jails; they manifested both courage and generosity for a value that mattered.  Let them lead this new moral revolution as well.
The late monk Thomas Merton wrote over fifty years ago the following observation about guns in America.
    Man begins in zoology
    He is the saddest animal
    He drives a big red car
    Called anxiety….
    Whenever he goes to the phone
    To call joy
    He gets the wrong number
    Therefore he likes weapons
    He knows all guns
    By their right names
    He drives a big black Cadillac
    Called death….[10]
It is the lack of joy, the dominance of cynicism, the omnipresence of anxiety, the scarcity of love and of meaning that ultimately leads us to love affairs with guns and with death.  This too is work that needs doing.  Are there politicians and would-be politicians out there who want to put love first?  Like the hero teachers did at the Florida high school in taking bullets for their students?  
Who are willing to put biophilia before necrophilia?  Life before death?  Love before hate?  Joy before cynicism?  
We are waiting for you—not to lead but to follow the grass roots revolution that is coming.
[7] Nancy MacLean, Democracy In Chains: The Deep History of the Radical Right’s Stealth Plan for America (NY: Viking, 2917), xxxi.
[8] Ibid., xxviii, xxxii.
[9] https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/florida-high-school-students-stage-walkout-to-protest-gun-violence_us_5a87067be4b004fc3191a117
[10] 4 Thomas Merton, The Collected Poems of Thomas Merton (NY: New Directions, 1977), 624-626.  Cited in Matthew Fox, A Way To God: Thomas Merton’s Creation Spirituality Journey (Novato, Ca: New World Library, 2016), 178.

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