Silent Songbird

In a forest, deeply sighing, sits a songbird, silently~

All around him, creatures crying, not this songbird, in his tree.

In a moment, in an hour, won’t the songbird, ever sing?

Not for glory, not for power, will that songbird, ever sing.

Songbird sang, at the dawning of the morning~

Songbird sings, at the laying down of warring~

Songbird sings, for the unity of all men~

But will Songbird, ever sing again?

Was about this time, last winter, that the songbird, came to me~

Like an angel, from a picture, with a warning, in my sleep.

I would tell you, if he let me, what he told me, while I slept~

The truths, that songbird told me, are all things, for which I’ve wept.

Songbird sang, at the dawning of the morning~

Songbird sings, at the laying down of warring~

Songbird sings, for the unity of all men~

But will Songbird, ever sing again?

There’s a fault line, running through us, right through every human heart~

With a power, to consume us, or a love, for a fresh start.

There’s a songbird, in the forest, and he waits there patiently~

Will he sing again, there for us, or will he sit there, silently?

Songbird sang, at the dawning of the morning~

Songbird sings, at the laying down of warring~

Songbird sings, for the unity of all men~

But will Songbird, ever sing again?

But will Songbird, ever sing again?

But will Songbird, ever sing again?

Will Songbird, ever sing again?

~FS

It’s Time for a New Flag

Years ago I met a man who described himself to me as being an albino-negro. We struck up an interesting and memorable conversation. I don’t know all the details about his being albino-negro, although he did look it, and that is how he described himself, so I took him at his word, and I respected his self-designation. We enjoyed our conversation together and became acquaintances or friends. One thing that we bonded around was our shared human experience: our particular difficulties of living in this world.  We developed a camaraderie based on our shared pain in the human experience. I mentioned to him that various times I had been made fun of for being too skinny, or having a long nose, or being weird, (this was prior to the time in my life when deeper sorrows began to enter my experience, things like deaths and diseases), and we laughed together about these things, and I admitted to him that while those were painful for me, it was likely more difficult for him, being albino. Nevertheless, no life is without its traumas. 

I bring up this story, including the details I chose to share, because it came into my mind today when I saw a sign that read: ‘trans rights are human rights’ and I thought about this albino-negro friend of mine from so many years ago. He was also in a relatively super-minority, similar to trans-people, and I could imagine him telling me that ‘albino-negro rights are human rights’ and I would have agreed with him and said of course they are. If I would have told my friend that people with long noses have a right too, just like anyone else, I think he would have agreed with me. In fact, can any of us honestly think of a human group, large or very small, that we would say don’t have human rights? I hope not. But conversely, why must we single out one very small, particular group for special status to the exclusion of everyone else? Or worse, in place of everyone else’s rights? This is what has happened and everyone knows it, everyone in the majority, and everyone in other minorities (girls come to mind) who have now been forced to compete against the trans-minority.

Later in the day I passed a restaurant that had a progress-pride flag in the window, the kind with a triangle of white, pink, blue, brown and black near the pole and the rainbow running across the banner, and it struck me what a contradiction that flag has become, between what it was intended to symbolize and what it actually has come to stand for. In word it is supposed to stand for inclusion and diversity however, sadly, in practice it has come to represent very nearly the opposite. Under that flag we’ve seen small businesses ruined, families impoverished, girls and boys abused, mutilated and even in some cases killed, people have lost their jobs for citing simple biological facts, and the list can go on and on, but we all know the truth, we don’t need more examples, we likely know some of them personally.  

The methods which the progress-pride flag stands for now aren’t accomplishing what the people that the flag represents supposedly intend. They aren’t fostering inclusion by their actions. Like the saying goes: believe what they do, not what they say. The acts taken under that banner have become meanness, aggressiveness and destruction for anyone not represented by those colors, and even for many included in the rainbow. DEI doesn’t produce the fruits that it says it does, but rather it is divisive, exclusionary and intimidating. Everyone knows this, except possibly the few that it is enriching. Yet, even they know it, but they also know who butters their bread.

This isn’t to say we couldn’t defend these minorities, the actual people who need defending, in a good and kind way, in a way that really does produce the good fruit that we all want, that of unity and inclusion. But it requires a different strategy. The old flag needs to be retired. Even as one who is sympathetic with the people for whom the colors of the flag represent, I can’t sympathize with the methods employed by those who wave that flag. It has come to be a symbol of aggression, selfish disregard of others, and even cruelty.

I’m not the first person to point these things out, but when anyone does, they are almost always met with anger, attack and some sort of violence, either by word or action. Doesn’t this simply confirm the point we are making? Of course it does.


So why would any of us support that? Why would anyone hang that flag in their window? If we support people, all people, then we should support something other than that, we should hang something else, something that truly is inclusive and respectful and symbolizes all of us. Find a new symbol, or an old one, that defends the rights of minorities, and doesn’t trample on the right of majorities, nor trample on the rights of other minorities. A good cause is a just cause if it is has integrity woven into its ends and its means, so that it treats everyone with equal love and respect. Not favoring some colors, or people, to the exclusion of others.

~FS

Molly O’Shea

Molly O’Shea was a bonny lass,

And the pride of the Emerald Isle.

With long flowing locks which fell ‘pon her breasts,

And a face that made every man smile.

Molly was wild from the time she was a child,

Untamed as the wind running free.

But it were my foolish heart, right from the start,

That were captured when Molly smiled at me.

For a lifetime I’d chased her, and caught her, and lost her,

Once I’d hold her then I’m left all alone.

Well, that’s what I get from Molly’s body made of flesh,

But her heart which is surely made of stone.

Oh hey, Molly O’Shea.

Hey ho, please don’t go!

Oh hey, Molly O’Shea.

Hey hey, why won’t you stay?

Molly; she’s granite to me now, boys,

She’s just like granite to me now.

When Molly reached the marrying age,

I asked her to be my bride.

We drove into the country, she leaned over to kiss me,

Swiped my wallet and most of my pride.

Years later we finally met at the altar,

Her Pa said she must settle down.

We exchanged our vows, moved into town,

Then she left me and my head spinning round.

Oh hey, Molly O’Shea.

Hey ho, why did you go?

Oh hey, Molly O’Shea.

Hey hey, why won’t you stay?

Molly; she’s granite to me now, boys,

She’s just like granite to me now.

After raising three kids, can you believe it, we had ’em,

Molly told me that she loved me a lot.

Her words brightened my day and lightened my heart,

Then she left me again right on the spot.

Time passed, it were very late in the day,

While Molly sat by my side.

She said it was time she’d be going away,

She smiled at me, then went and died.

Oh hey, Molly O’Shea.

Hey ho, please don’t go!

Oh hey, Molly O’Shea.

Hey hey, I wish you could stay!

Molly; she’s granite to me now, boys,

She’s just like granite to me now.

Then they came and they carried away,

My sweet lovely Molly O’Shea.

They buried her, and placed a stone on her head,

Always leaving me when she’s alive or she’s dead.

Molly; she’s granite to me now, boys,

She’s just like granite to me now.

~FS

The Tea Song

Some days seem rough before they start, my father used to say~

Son drag your bum up off that couch, before it gets away.

This world can be right cruel it’s true, the rest is up to you~

Lace up your boots, put on a smile, it’s time to see it through.

Stand strong my son,

God’s will be done,

It’s only for a day.

The evils of this present age~

Shall soon be swept away.

So when this world appears too much,

Too much to carry on~

Step back, stop and breathe,

And chat a while~

And have a cup of tea.

Sit and have a cup of tea.

Ah, sit and have a cup of tea…

Just have a cup of tea.

~FS

Howl, Again

Or whimper into the dead of night, late, when everyone is sound asleep, or should be sleeping, when I should be sleeping, but how, when visions of destruction dance like shrapnel in my head, images of little girls, their fathers reaching up under their skirts, traumas too sad to hear, to see, like young men forced to fight in wars that have no end, that should never have begun, blown to pieces, holding pieces of themselves together with duct tape and baling wire, hoping to see their mothers once again, hoping they won’t come apart before it’s too late, before they can make it home again, when home is taken by somebody else, when home is under a bridge, too much money for anyone to afford, to stagger, to gasp, to scream and run away, into the mountains if we’re lucky, where the wind blows savagely and wild animals hunt us, but better to be hunted by the wolves than by other men, giving and taking blows, never ending, demanding, lying and taking, taking, taking all that might have been sacred, breaking through the doors of  our churches with fabulous tales, promises of safety, secular fantasies that replace ancient orthodoxies, progressive delusions that supplant traditions beloved for millennia, a farewell to trust and faith, capitulating to a fear that hides within masks, pretenses of love and harmony, parading like neighbor’s, like Christians, betraying, Christians, each other, themselves, betraying, betrayal, the seeds of terror, of night-sweats, of nowhere to turn, nowhere to trust, nowhere to believe, our sacred institutions prostituted, prostituting, despicable and filthy, beauty corrupted by betrayal, this is the stuff of nightmares, dead-ends, sorrows and loneliness. I remember the beautiful places where we gathered together, apart from the world, where we worshipped and made our home, home away from home, sojourning in hope of a more perfect future, before confusion, coercion, good intentions and hell disguised within cloaks of light bastardized our communion, how can we not wail now, even years later, after so many years of deceit, lying to ourselves and each other, believing the lies, telling the lies and consuming them like an unholy Eucharist, peeling our masks down to taste the sacred through deceptive teeth, tongues that lap up treachery and deception, breathing the holy air through N-95s, self-satisfied, primitive, raising the banner of our tribe, proving our allegiance, our loyalty to the world, trampling on the still small voice that whispers truth into our ears. Howl at the loss of everything we loved, the betrayal of whole societies, peoples, families, congregations turning their backs on one other and on what once was, which is no more, and cannot be regained, never found, lost forever, until death do us part, and we are restored in darkness, into a different world.

~FS

Jesus

His tender eyes spoke,

To man, as to a little child,

In the dawning of the morning,

So fair and clear and bright.

Bathed in sunlight,

Walking on new-born earth,

With chubby feet washed clean,

With eyes gazing straight and true.

Not turning away~

Either from the glare,

Or from the shadow,

But seeing it all,

While He watched over.

Yet as the sun climbed higher,

Men gave their eyes to others,

Gazing as through clouded eyes.

With trust in trust misplaced,

And with love of love erased~

With words of blooming sweetness,

Loyal to their dim heart’s weakness.

Until Spirit intervened,

Interceding our salvation,

Mediating revelation,

Through a nativity reborn.

A mother of clear vision,

He raised our eyes to His,

And lit the heart on fire,

And spoke again the Word,

That freed us from each other.

~FS

Kara

Tender shoot, run, run away,

Make your tracks soft, tender bunny,

Run, run away, by the light of the moon,

Into the deep of night you must go,

Escape far, far from home—

Run from your home, frightened bunny,

Come into my arms, I’ll hold you,

I’ll keep you safe from harm,

Lean into me and I’ll hold you,

I’ll kiss your furrowed brow—

A morning mist enshrouds you,

Like laughter falls from the sky,

Erases the tears that bound you,

Our hands interlaced,

Yours and mine—

Insomnia

Here we are in the middle of the night awake,

A walk to the bathroom in the dark,

Feeling our way through doorways,

Trying not to fall, trying not to hurt,

Like an eternity is our brief passage,

Starting so slowly and ending too quickly,

Eons we slept unbothered in shadow,

In the middle of this night we are awakened,

Yawning and startled we stand,

Playing our part, while yearning for sleep,

We can’t seem to sleep, why can’t we sleep?

Now is our time to shine—reluctantly—

Unwilling to lay down this script,

We stride the stage to the applause,

Or is it only the toilet running?

Is that the world clapping for us,

Or is it simply the water flowing?

Pause and reflect upon this sweet moment,

While you are awake and cannot sleep.

Rub your eyes and do not yearn too much,

Sleep will come again to close them.

An Old Wood Bridge

Under the trees,

Spanning a small creek,

Rests an old wood bridge.

About as long as two men—

Lying end to end.

As wide as one man’s arms, outstretched—

Fingertip to fingertip.

It’s a reliable footbridge,

Although it leans a little to the left,

As I head out across it every morning;

And it leans a bit to the right,

On my return home in the evening.

But for all of that, it has no politics of its own,

And cares not a bit about mine.

It simply does its job—

Carrying me to the other side.

It’s built for adventures—

Its aged planks groan and creak underfoot,

With views, through its heartwood,

Rotted away by time, neglect and weather,

Of the water that flows beneath.

Its surface made slick from years of life,

Portends a slip and fall off its tattered edge,

For any impatient traveler who crosses too fast.

It invites one to take it slow,

Enjoy the passage and watch their steps—

Wild salmon swim within its shadow,

A possum or two scurries by,

Scattering the fallen leaves with a rustle,

A moist fragrant smell of earth fills the air,

And time—suspended briefly—

Between what has been, and what will be,

Exhales; and this woodland world holds its breath,

When I cross over the old wood bridge.