the dead children in gaza

Russ Mills

The instructions were to write a poem about the sunrise. 

I go to the window to look. 

I can see the angels tearing open the dark edges of night itself, 

with iron pry bars and gusto. 

Rivers of pure daylight, as fresh as virgins, 

pour in through the raw, jagged openings. 

As this light grows and spreads, the trees and the grass 

and all manner of living things scream aloud 

for the delight of being alive. 

Behind me, in my home, 

I can hear that my wife is awake and moving about, 

singing a pleasant song that I don't know, 

and she pleases me, as she so often does. 

I look at my reflection in the window pane. 

Who am I now? Am I a decent man? 

Am I as kind as a person should be? 

Am I living a life worth living? 

Am I even helping anyone at all? 

What on earth can I say about the sunrise?

james lee jobe 

All is possible when emptiness is possible. Nothing is possible when emptiness is impossible. 

Nagarjuna

I watched the parents on television as they wailed over the bodies of the dead children in Gaza. Some of the bodies were in bits and pieces, like the bodies of soldiers in war after a battle. Something is being fed by this slaughter that should never be fed. The fur of the beast is petted and soothed while it eats the flesh of the children. There is no way to justify this blood. The screams of pain fill the air like a hellish song. The devil is singing along. The parents are blanketed with a darkness that will never again see light. And through the darkness, the killers of children are dancing to this song. 

james lee jobe

A flower falls, even though we love it; and a weed grows, even though we do not love it.

Dōgen Zenji

I am resting the muscles of the night. 

Let me sleep. My soul is curled 

into the fetal position. Under the rays 

of the sun, I am dreaming those things 

that few of us ever remember. 

I am deep inside the blog of the mind, 

resting the muscles of night, as the day 

passes overhead, unseen by me. 

I rise each evening in the pregnant dusk. 

I am waiting for the rain to return; 

my world has been so very dry 

through the years. This house 

is the womb of my living and breathing. 

During the long, still hours I am healing 

old wounds, wounds that are known 

only to my animal mind. This is what I do, 

this is how I rest the muscles of night. 

Let me wake on my own, without calling me. 

In my own good time I will return 

to your world or not. Just be patient and wait. 

james lee jobe

Russ Mills

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jlj