Posts Tagged 'Compassion'



All of Me

All of Me

 

I remember that night

when I was just eight

and Mom was passed out with

the glass still in her hand.

It plays in my head like a

scary movie

that never ends.

As I lay in my bed on

the edge of sleep,

a knife of dim light

washed over my pillow and disappeared.

I trembled as I listened to him

breathe in the dark.

*

He had never come into my room,

this man who lived with Mom.

He sat on my bed and the springs

shrieked in protest as

he placed his hand gently on my chest,

driving tears from my eyes,

the breath from my lungs,

and leaving a stain of fear

on my nightgown

where he touched me.

*

Still quiet,

he pulled my hands away from me to

a part of him that was

hot and swollen,

his pumping blood beating a

tempo against my hands

like tiny drums.

I cried out when he pushed his fingers

into a private part of me

and cut me into

small pieces.

I closed my eyes and hid what was left

in a hollow place

deep inside me.

*

He moved my hands on

himself, breathing more quickly until

he made a small sound and

there was wetness on my

hands and arms

that felt like glue.

Don’t tell your mom

what you did, he said,

and left as quietly as he came.

*

He has invaded my room often

since that night,

but using that angry, hateful part of him

instead of fingers and

each time taking away

a small part of me.

*

Three years and

I have nothing left.

He has taken away

all of me

that was me.

I can give no more.

As he comes through my door,

eager,

bare and ready,

and climbs on my bed,

I reach beneath my pillow,

place the blade against his chest,

and watch as it disappears.

Hal C Clark – February 2011

Each year, thousands of children are sexually abused, usually by someone they know well. The children are scarred for the rest of their lives, although many eventually learn to cope with the pain. They don’t understand why these things happen to them, often believing it is their fault or that they deserve such treatment. We are all familiar with the stories of priests molesting young boys because these stories make the headlines. So many of the cases we never hear about, but the victims are still all around us. This is a cancer of our society and MUST be stopped.

I do not believe killing is the answer to anything, so it surprised me when the line “I reached beneath my pillow” came to me and I let the victim have the last word. It says something about the desperation, humiliation, degradation, and futility of the experience. I decided to let it stand. It is time to do something about this problem, and public awareness is the first step.

Please leave a comment and let me know how you feel.

September 15, 1963

Who were they?

Four young girls

dressing in choir robes

within a church.

What was their crime?

They concealed within their cells

the wrong DNA,

too much pigment

in their skin.

What did they want?

They asked for respect,

their American rights,

to keep their dignity

and opportunity.

Their sentence:

Death by dynamite,

by men shrouded in

white robes

and hoods.

Executed this date,

no appeal.

Hal C Clark – April, 2011

We recently visited Birmingham, AL and explored the downtown area where we came upon the church where the bombing took place. I was saddened by the thought of the hatred that caused this tragic event. These four young girls never had a chance to grow up, have children of their own, or enjoy the progress in race relations to come. As William Stafford would say, it was a failure of compassion.

I have been away from this blog for a while, but I hope now to be posting new work each week.

Collateral Damage

Collateral Damage

 

They haunt me in my briefest sleep,

     They’re never far away,

Their shattered bodies stay with me

     In the night or light of day.


From somewhere came a storm of fire;

     We fired back at the place.

Women’s screams and children’s cries,

     Red-spattered on each face.


Mothers and their small children

     Lay in gory refrains,

And nowhere can the guns be found

     ‘Mid twisted, torn remains.


Shards of a loving family,

     A grimace shrouds each face,

Embrace in bloody agony, their

     Bodies like antique lace.


How can these be my enemies?

     No guns or arm held high,

There, children’s cherub faces

     Without a will to die.


I’m in a constant battle,

     And one I did not wage.

I’m here to do my duty,

     Then turn another page.


No stranger, then, to murder,

     But like a sin to me.

To take life from another,

     Not what I want to be.


In this keen internal strife,

     My mind cannot resolve.

The killer and compassion

     In acute torment revolve.


And so, I can’t get past the pain,

     The noise and solitude.

I see the masks of those I’ve slain,

     Feel guilt I can’t elude.


 

They visit me in briefest sleep.

     They do not go away.

Their anguished eyes stare back at me

     Through each tormented day.

Hal C Clark – November 11, 2010

Veterans Day

This is a tribute to the men and women who endanger their lives to fight in our wars. Some are killed, some have physical injuries, while others have psychological injuries not easily seen or evaluated. Trauma to the mind is just as debilitating as a physical injury, and to those brave men and women who suffer this kind of injury, I dedicate this poem.

Nutopia

Nutopia

 

I am an ambassador from Nutopia

And proudly fly our pure white flag

My heart often yearns to go home again

So in dreams I visit and dwell without fear.

But there are no roads to take me there,

There are no armies, no treasures anyone would want.

And we all get along and let all have a life.

Defenders collect aggressors who threaten their essence.

Why do so many hold in their hearts

Hatred and avarice, intemperance, greed?

My thanks to John* for inviting me there

To a homeland sans strife bringing peace to my soul.

So I dream of that day, of that glorious day

When I can go home.

Hal C Clark – Sept, 2010

*John Lennon

I don’t know how many John Lennon fans are in this group, but one thing he was dedicated to was peace. Nutopia was a mythical land of his imagination, and it is a place I would like to visit, if not live. I can never understand why people must hate each other but I feel it must be based on greed, selfishness, or insecurity. I feel sorry for people who do not have the capacity to love unconditionally, as God loves us. He loves us no matter what we do. In that, we can be truly thankful.

At the 9/11 Temporary Memorial

So many gods, so many creeds

So many paths that wind and wind

While just the art of being kind

Is all this sad world needs

                       Coexist

We recently visited the temporary 9/11 Memorial in New York City and were haunted by what we saw there. Across the street they are building the permanent memorial and you can sometimes hear the sounds of construction.

A few minutes earlier we had been in the small church a block away from the World Trade Center buildings that had acted as the first trauma center, helping victims find medical help. It had been partly covered in debris from the collapse of the buildings, debris that took almost a year to completely clean up.

Here in the memorial are twisted beams and recovered shoes and combs and other personal items (including cell phones). In the basement is a bulletin board where the staff posts the comments of visitors from many lands who visit the memorial. Among the comments I found the above poem and copied it down. I don’t know who wrote it but it carries a brief but powerful message that resonated with me. It is a poem I wish I had written.

We will long remember the event, but unless we stand in that place and feel what the victims must have experienced, we have missed the most important part. We don’t have to hate each other. We will never all agree on anything, but we can agree to respect each other’s lives and grant each other the choices that God grants to all of us. Until that happens, we will continue to hurt and be hurt.

Gettysburg

Gettysburg

 

Today I planted both my feet

On Gettysburg’s broad, grassy hills

Where Mister Lincoln once had stood

To speak of deeds both brave and bold,

To honor men now buried there

Who fought for what men dare to seek:

The freedom and the liberty

To chose a way in which to live.

What thoughts were there in Lincoln’s mind

As he looked out upon that field

At circles of the myriad graves,

And knowing what his hand had caused?

But in his heart he knew ’twas true,

The value of our nation’s light:

Our constitution’s guarantee

Of rights for each and every man.

Is this the cause to make a man

Resort to killing other men?

Is there not any other way

To solve our petty differences?

The sadness in the spoils of war

Surely lived in Mister Lincoln’s heart

As he looked upon thousands of graves

Of men whose lives exist no more.

Hal C Clark

July, 2010

On July 1st and 2nd, we were in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania touring part of the battlefield and some of the museums connected with the battle. This was the anniversary date of the battle (July 1-3, 1863) and lots of people were about. I especially wanted to see the National Cemetery that President Lincoln dedicated on that November afternoon (November 19, 1863).

The markers were arranged in semicircles and as many were marked as they could identify, either by name or by the area they came from. It is a quiet place with lots of space and trees for shade. I sat there for a while, trying to imagine that day.

History records 51,000 casualties there in those three days: 8,000 killed on the battlefield, 6,000 more died soon after from their wounds, others taken prisoner, some unaccounted for.

Later I went to a house in town where President Lincoln spent the night and prepared the final draft of his address. The featured speaker was Edward Everett, a noted speaker of that time who spoke for about two hours. When he was finished, the President stepped up. He had been invited as an afterthought, to give a “few appropriate remarks.”

I have included a copy to the address in this post. As you may notice, President Lincoln had a very concise and complete way of speaking, saying more with these few words than Edward Everett had with all of his (By his own admission).

As always, I would appreciate your visit and your comments.

Executive Mansion,

Washington, , 186 .

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that “all men are created equal”

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of it, as a final resting place for those who died here, that the nation might live. This we may, in all propriety do. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow, this ground– The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have hallowed it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; while it can never forget what they did here.

It is rather for us, the living, to stand here, we here be dedica-ted to the great task remaining before us — that, from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here, gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve these dead shall not have died in vain; that the nation, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people by the people for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln, Draft of the Gettysburg Address: Nicolay Copy. Transcribed and annotated by the Lincoln Studies Center, Knox College, Galesburg, Illinois. Available at Abraham Lincoln Papers at the Library of Congress, Manuscript Division (Washington, D.C.: American Memory Project, [2000-02]),

Squirrel

Squirrel

 

Furry grayish red-brown streak,

Please try not to look so sweet

As you dash into the street,

Should’ve moved with faster feet!

Why’d you run out in the street?

Just to get a bite to eat?

Lying mangled in defeat,

Lying broken in the street.

Such a tragedy to meet,

With an end that’s not so neat,

Must you be so indiscreet

As lying shattered in the street?

Hal C Clark

‘May 2010

In the spring and early summer, we see a number of young squirrels who never learned to cross the street (they didn’t look both ways and wait for traffic). One day as I was driving, a squirrel ran out into the street ahead of me, then changed his mind and came back across. I guess I didn’t hit him, because I didn’t see him in my mirror. A couple of weeks later I was driving to the supermarket when all these lines started forming in my mind and I struggled to remember them until I could pull into the parking lot and write them down. After some editing and rearranging, this is the result.

For me, the rhyming pattern and length of lines give a sense of urgency and frustration to the poem. This matches the frantic activity of these small animals. By the way, the ones that live to be experienced learn about the high road: the cable wires that go from pole to pole over the street. They cross these non-electric lines with the skill and grace of a tight rope walker and don’t have to contend with traffic – unless they slip.

Brown Dominion

Brown Dominion

 A sonant seashore in Gulf waters

Peaceful, restful, welcoming
No More.

Tiny tar balls wash on

Pristine shores.

A sheen of long brown streamers lies

Across a liquid bed.

Fightless birds with flightless wings

And lifeless eggs

Shrouded in the heavy brown of greed.

A delicate estuary, draped in toxic goo.

A nursery of shrimp and crabs

Destroyed.

Unknowing creatures, unwilling victims

Of a need for higher dividends

We live on a tiny blue ball,

A speck in the universe

With only a thin candy shell

For air, a drop of fresh water.

The only home where we can live.

What is this force that comes

To take without remorse?

He is a tyrant that comes in the night,

Seduces our young daughter

And takes from her

That fragile bloom

That is only hers to give

And give but once.

He says only “It was what I wanted.”

As if that justifies the act.

And when it is gone and cannot be returned,

What can we do?

Hal C Clark

June 2010

The spill in the Gulf is very frustrating for many people; people who live in the middle of the affected area, make their living from it either harvesting seafood or in tourism. The oligarchy at BP doesn’t seem too concerned. They took risks, cut corners, and now are more concerned about stockholders.

This poem is more edgy than my usual, but I needed something that expressed my feelings. I tried a rhyming poem, but it didn’t carry the impact I was after. Poetry is the most expressive type of writing I know of to express feelings.

Also, this is not about politics. It is about humanity and caring about someone besides oneself. I would appreciate your comments, up or down. I love the supportive environment I find on WordPress.

Triolet on Love’s Blessing

Triolet on Love’s Blessing

 

The more I give away, the more I gain,

Like bread loaves in a basket, without end,

Love flows to me and cannot be contained.

The more I give away, the more I gain.

My heart so fills with peace from love’s refrain

That souls around me can but comprehend.

The more I give away, the more I gain,

Like bread loaves in a basket, without end.

Hal C Clark

May 2010

A triolet is an eight line poem in which the first line repeats as the fourth and seventh lines and the second line repeats as the eighth. The rhyming pattern is abaaabab. It looked like an interesting form and I had an idea for a short poem, so I tried it.

The “bread loaves” of course refers to the feeding of the 5000. I find in my life I find myself so filled with God’s love that I overflow to others. If you are filled with love, you can’t contain it all and it will find a way out.

Enough preaching, I suppose. I do enjoy exploring new ideas and would appreciate your comments any time. I appreciate those who read my poems and comments.

One final note: We went to see “Letters to Juliet” today and it was refreshing to see, in our world of violent and senseless movies, a warm fuzzy movie. I really liked it.

Compassion

Compassion

 

Her ling’ring smile calls out to say

“My hope is running wan and thin.”

His eyes show pain in pleading tears

For someone’s arms to shelter in.


Their houses sit as rubble piles,

Their water in roadside pools,

But what can I, one person, do

With resources minuscule?


So, what if life would now be changed,

If I should be there, not here?

What tiny act of humankind

Would help calm my daily fear?


If I can manage one small part,

To do whatever I can,

I’ll build a bridge from me to them.

For all of us, hope is God’s plan.


I’ll save some pennies, cull my clothes,

Serve meals to those without homes,

Read books to those who cannot see,

Tend aged with brush and comb.


Oh, I am known by many names

In my harried, hurried day,

But my real name is compassion,

And I cannot turn away!

Hal C Clark – March, 2010

This poem started as an exercise from the book “Poemcrazy” by Susan G. Wooldridge, and I decided to develop the idea. If you are not familiar with this book, I highly recommend you check it out. It tells the story of how she developed as a poet.

Anyway, I wrote this because I believe each of us should do his or her part in helping others. It doesn’t have to be expensive, and it benefits both the receiver and the giver.

My wife and I sponsor (through World Vision) three 10-11 year old girls, all from areas where HIV/AIDS is a major problem. One is from Mauritania, Africa; one is from Rwanda, Africa; and one is from the Dominican Republic, near the area of the earthquake. The money each month helps improve conditions for the girl and her family, and makes it more likely that she can continue her education. The other part I like is writing letters to the girls, encouraging them and asking questions about their families, country, etc. It’s great to get their replies and watch their progress.

Greg Mortensen started a program years ago of building schools for the children in Afghanistan and he gets money for his foundation partially from the “Pennies for Peace” program in which school kids in the US bring spare change from home and drop it in a container. This program has raised a lot of money and helped to build 31 schools in the sparsely populated areas of Afghanistan. The people of these communities supplied the labor and the good will, and Greg has done more to bring peace to these people that all the politicians in Washington.

In our own United States, many children get only one or two meals a day during the summer (School programs help during the school year) a problem improved by local food banks. The purchase of one or two extra canned items on each trip to the grocery, and donated to the local food bank could make a big difference over a year.

We have all kinds of government programs to solve all kinds of problems, but I believe what really makes the world work is the compassionate acts of individual citizens working quietly behind the scenes. God bless all the givers!


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