Heart of Whimsy !

At dawn I rise where shadows flee, The Sun unveils eternity. At dusk I bow as embers fade, The night descends in silent shade. I count no hours, I keep no creed, But follow where the heavens lead. Each rising flame, a whispered vow, Each setting glow, a sacred bow. O Light that crowns the waking sky, O Dark that folds the world nearby, Between your realms I keep my post— Watcher at the Threshold’s ghost. Day to night and night to day, The turning wheel will never stray. And I, who mark its endless flow, Am bound to all I see and know.

Voices in the Dark "Here we are, hands round each other’s throats." “You’re wrong.” —“No, I’m right.” "Right back at you" — "to death I’ll fight." “My God is true; yours is false and blue.” “I know the law.” — “No, you know how to hate.” "My guns. My rights. My children. My name." "My nation. My rights." — " God’s garden once bright." “God? You pagan beast.” —  “His children; even you.” Hate grows. The light dims. Shots ring out. Anguish screams, then whimpers. So dark.

The ancient Law was thundered from the mount , Command on stone, the covenant of flame. Then Mercy walked among us clothed in flesh, And Love fulfilled what Sinai thundered once. He spake the greatest word: Thou shalt adore The Lord thy God with all thy soul and heart, And love thy neighbor as thy very self. Thus Heaven’s gate was opened through the Son . But lo—perverted now by hands of clay, The holy Word is shackled to the proud. “Let only masters of one hue ascend, Let woman bow beneath her keeper’s yoke, Let wrath be praised as justice rightly done, Let seed be sown at mandate of the throne; And let the horde of men pronounce thy fate.” Behold the throne of hypocrites enthroned, Their kingdom built on Scripture overthrown; A scepter raised not Heaven’s, but their own. At Heaven’s gate they snarl: “ The Christ forgave Too much; His grace was weakness, not our law. Bow down, submit, or be cast out condemned.” Yet Truth proclaims with thunder at the door: How dare you claim ...

The season of darkness has expired; Now Nature wakes, no longer tired. Life emerges from the land— God’s greening grace is close at hand. Not only do the verdant hues Reveal such hopeful, splendid views, But amarillo and ruby cups Invite the bee and fill them up. Soon—yes, very, very soon— Exotic scents will sweeten May, As lilacs take my breath away. A child when first their bloom I met, So sweet, they must be Heaven-scent I’d steal a bloom with fingers gloved, A gift for the mother I dearly loved. But fleeting is their purple breath, A fragile gift that flirts with death. The winds may steal what springtime grows, And raindrops bruise each tender rose. So while they bloom, I pause and see— This lilac grace is lent, not free.

They crossed the border, yes— Illegally, some say, As if desperation had time To fill out forms. “They have no right to be here,” You declare, As if the land had always been yours, As if your ancestors asked permission. Anchor babies, You spit— Little brown children Born breathing freedom You want to deny them. “They live on our charity,” You claim, While fields are picked, Homes are cleaned, And taxes paid in silence. But it’s not about borders. White immigrants pass through the gate With smiles and handshakes. No one asks for papers When they blend in. This is our country, You shout. But whose country? Yours by skin? By fear? By the comfort of sameness? The shame is not theirs. It is ours. And it has no accent— Only a mirror.

We don’t all pray in the same church, but we all wait in the same checkout lines, glancing at gum racks and tabloid lies, half-watching the kid with the runny nose and the old man counting nickels. We don’t all vote the same, but we all curse at traffic lights, get cut off by the same kind of jerk in the same kind of hurry. Then we go home and try not to lose our temper at someone we love. We don’t all eat the same food, but we all sit in waiting rooms, staring at worn-out magazines, pretending not to worry as our name creeps closer to the nurse’s clipboard. We raise flags for different reasons, but we all stand quiet when someone folds one and hands it to a widow. We teach our kids different songs, but they all cry the first time they see something die and ask if it hurts. We build our fences, paint our houses, make what peace we can between the news and the night. And when it’s done— when the breath leaves and the hands fall still— we don’t ask ...

I’ve walked through decades, felt the world evolve, Seen borders shift and towers rise and fall. Though time keeps posing riddles I can’t solve, I still can hear the conscience of it all. They say I’m dated—out of step, behind— But I have read the past and seen it burn. The world’s not kind, but I have trained my mind To judge the tides and know which winds to turn. I love this land, though leaders make me ache, Their bluster staining all we claim to be. Still, in the youth, I feel the earth awake— Their future’s flame might finally set us free. I’m not yet done; I’ve still a voice to lend. God willing, I will fight until the end.