Shriven

Shriven

We talked long into the night

about things I hold near and deep in my soul.

Sharing things that are painful

and hard to carry at times –

things sometimes best left unsaid and buried –

but needing to come out.

And even though the hour was insanely late –

a time that I have to confess,

I have not seen in very, very long time –

the words and stories continued to pour forth

from the rupture in my soul.

My confusion, biases, opinions and fears

tumbled from my lips in an unbidden cascade –

and instead of raining down empty to lay gasping

like dying fish, you picked them up and gave them value

and meaning and validating them without judgment.

As I lay in bed thinking about things afterwards,

I found the peace of an empty vessel,

And slept the sleep of the shriven.

© 2013 Michael Hunter

My Christmas Wish - an open letter to Santa

Dear Santa

All I want for Christmas is to see the twenty-fifth.

If I’m being really honest, it’s my biggest Christmas wish!

The Mayans and the Hopis all predict our end is near,

They have made my season, so far, quite devoid of Christmas cheer!

If I could have my heart’s wish, and have it truly come to pass,

The world would keep on turning through its celestial, star-filled path!

Mankind would end its fighting and its cruelness to our earth,

And find some way in daily life to put each other first!

We’d set aside our differences, and all our cults and creeds,

And focus on the surest way to relieve the world’s needs!

We’d make sure every baby, every child, and every man

Was honored and respected in every culture ‘cross the land!

But if it’s true, and life will end as ancient people said,

And all of this won’t come to pass because we’ll all be dead,

Then there’s no harm in starting NOW and doing what we can,

To help improve the earth and skies and love our fellow man!

For just one day, and then the next, and so forth, on and on,

If we can love our earth and kin, a whole new world will dawn!

So Santa, maybe I misspoke on what my wish would be.

I’d rather have a peace-filled world and have it start with me!

Peace on earth, good will to men.

© 2012 Michael Hunter

Snow on Frosted Maples

Snow on Frosted Maples

Snow on frosted maples

melts in drops like tears;

tears which fall in silent

weeping for our fallen children.

The cold and dying season

has seen the passing of more

than russet leaves and

southward-winging birds.

The children too, have flown

and left behind this frozen home

where so much pain and grief

are all that mark their passing.

Silence greets their homes on Christmas morn’;

where families with hollow eyes and broken hearts

unwrap the un-given gifts

and rasp out the unanswerable, “Why?”

Through the long dark nights of winter

a mother will stand watch over

an empty bed, an empty room,

while praying that this cold would one day end.

Frost on new-turned earth,

where lies a fallen child,

cradled in the good earth’s bosom

awaiting the thaw of snow on frosted maples.

©2012 Michael Hunter

Second Amendment Lament

Second Amendment Lament

Barren halls, devoid of children

echo with the ghostly staccato of gunfire

and the mockingly musical tinkling of spent brass.

Specters of children set free through violence

mutely stand vigil over stained tile and carpet,

shocked by their sudden transition.

Parents, siblings, grandparents and family reel

from the sudden void caused by the senseless

and cowardly actions of a 2^nd Amendment zealot’s son.

Christmas presents without recipients sit untouched

in secret places – never to light up the eyes

and faces of eager and happy children.

Flags fly in solemn respect at half-staff

signifying a nation in mourning, yet a nation

so reluctant to address the core of these issues

which have made these crimes so common-place.

Bumbling and incompetent politicians – securely

in the NRA’s and gun-lobby’s pocket are quick to vomit

the party lines: “Guns don’t kill people.” “My fork and knife made me fat.”

All the while the mentally tormented and dangerous

continue to take up arms and slaughter innocents –

as apparently their constitutional rights are more sacred

than the life of a first-grader.

How long America, will you dip your pens in the blood of children

and write the laws that take their lives?

How long America, will you wrap yourself in a blood-stained flag

and spew the toxic and hateful lie that guns don’t kill people?

How many more must bleed your ink and feed your mill

before we cry, “enough is enough!!”?

© 2012 Michael Hunter

New poetry for a winter morning

I've been trying to write something new every day, and place in the hands of the world. I've recently posted several new poems on www.poemhunter.com, and the ones I really like, I've posted here.

Here are two new poems for your winter morning!

Morning Peace and Self-reflection

Morning peace and self-reflection

– an apathetic joy –

not caring for gain or worldly wealth,

but feeling joyful in the single moment.

This peace is new,

and welcome.

Strange that I would find this peace

apart from God (as I have known him)

and apart from religion

(the staple fare of most of my life.)

Yet, set adrift from these restraints,

I have found a simple peace and an easy joy

in finding good and kindness in all men,

in all moments,

in this time,

here.

Now.

When I feel fear and anxiety and

find myself in unfruitful rumination,

I have scrambled for the fruitless

pabulum of prayer and self-justification,

when all the while the ease of simple acceptance

and acknowledgement were waiting patiently for my use.

"That they are what they are,"
will quickly easy my heart faster now
than any heartfelt cry for peace or justice
from a god who is removed from the world, and
who seems wholly disinterested and uncaring.    

They Are Looking at Me

Two wide-screen monitors look at me

with blank, black faces

awaiting some input from a dusty keyboard and unused mouse.

These portals for imagination and commerce –

the windows to my research,

my entertainment,

and my means of paying my way in life –

look at me blankly in un-hurried anticipation.

Do they see me as only an instrument of their operation?

Do they think of me as a means for their worldly interactions?

Do they wait in secret anticipation to see my choice of wardrobe each day?

Do they miss me over the long hours of the quiet weekend?

Am I nothing more that the tool – like a keyboard – who brings their adventures to life?

Or, are they simply inanimate objects and I am being too literal and literary?

Perhaps they are only monitors,

and have nothing to interact with me over.

But perhaps they are more…?

I prefer to think the latter.

© 2012 Michael Hunter