Inspired by “ … and the river spoke in a language without words,” from The Dead of Night, a Measure of Rest after Karaoke by Mike Bayles
A River Sighs in Silence
Once the sky emptied itself, moved on to another town, and the swollen river below it stopped chugging trees and gorging children, and the once-bawling waters waned,
the river’s shame released a sigh too soft too late for children’s ears to hear.
this not a trickle but a wide-open firehose that is not meant to douse flames but to disorient the American people leaving us reeling feeling discounted disregarded overlooked overwhelmed overpowered and overthrown (overthrown?) unquestionably and categorically overthrown and now so unrecognizable my country looks far more distorted than even what I see through my wrinkled retina and make no mistake this firehose is intentional gish gallop in its inundation and devastation and
How can one stall a strategic tsunami with a spoon and a sponge?
Her light, once shining full and bright, now dim from weeks-long dark of night. Her eyes glimpse loss of prized allies. Tear-flooded eyes say their goodbyes to those once-welcomed, now in throes of deportation, unopposed.
“Rise up!” She pleads, “to stop this man who’s changed our core in six-weeks’ span.” Maternal strength with nurturing spirit, sing your welcome! Let us hear it! Shine bright your lamp and wail your plea, “Send poor and tempest-tossed to me!”
Too many are in a state in which to appease this would-be king is a thing. Too many in power cower to the flurry of EOs. And I worry: are we in the throes of war? The doors of our neighbors slam and lock as they balk at what we have become … in one month’s time. A crime. America, loosed from friends who have deduced we are behind this unraveling, is disjointed. We’ve appointed a king, know it or not. Formerly brothers, we are now others in the sight of those who once had our back. They see what we don’t. Or won’t. Their eyes are open to the dulling of the shining city on the hill, while our king is culling our allies at his will.
Your falling isn’t from the attacks of others, my country, ‘tis of thee.
Lamenting. Praying for His intervention. Seeking Him through tears that feel like they could flood my floor. I contemplate how my Jesus, co-Creator and sovereign over all of it, describes Himself as “gentle and lowly of heart.” It’s not part of who He is, it is who He is. Gentle and lowly is His driving force. It is the force behind His strength. It is His very being. I pray this for my country. I beg this for my country. May our heartbeat become gentle. Lowly. May this be our strength, who we are, and how we are known.
One man. One moment. Hearts ruptured. Lives imperiled. One swipe of a pen.
pictured words 