Hope
fuzzy envelopes sealed shut
promise of spring contained therein
bare branches stretch toward sky
arms intertwined in cold embrace
promise of spring contained
therein
seeds of hope rest unseen
arms intertwined in cold embrace
can we trust the promise?
seeds of hope rest unseen
like hopes for peace, unspoken
can we trust the promise?
does the magnolia bud believe?
like hopes for peace,
unspoken
bare branches stretch toward sky
does the magnolia bud believe?
fuzzy envelopes sealed shut
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan USA
January 9, 2003
........................................................
Driving To A Washington,
DC Anti-War Demo
Liquid tears frozen on ledges,
rocky ledges cut by the highway's
rusty blade. Do tears drip like
icicles from our eyes or have we lost
the ability to cry?
Do we stare dry-eyed into
the
face of war and say it can't be
stopped, it is inevitable?
Have we lost the capacity for
horror, to feel in our cells the
tragic cost of war?
Do we sit before our TV
screens
numbed to what is being said,
what is being planned? Is it
too late to wake up our sleeping
sensibilities and cry tears,
hot and heavy tears that can
never freeze?
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
in the mountains of West Virgina
January 17, 2003
.......................................................
The Day the Museum Fell
Only poetry will serve
today. Words that fit together
in some semblance of order, because
order is gone. Antiquities from the cradle
of civilization lie smashed on the
floors of a museum left to
defend itself from angry
mobs let loose by war.
Is this what they mean
by "spoils
of war?" That everything in the
vanquished land is spoiled?
Death, blood, gore. All
this and more have been daily
companions of people under attack
for what? For having the misfortune to
live in an oil-rich nation with a dictator who
refused to bow to the unelected emperor
to the west. And now their (our)
history is gone, torn to shreds
by a force that says it is
liberating the country.
Liberation? This looks
more like
destruction to me. The millennia-old
fabric of an ancient land and its people
is being torn from their bloody bodies, many
of them barely alive. Is this the face of democracy
or is it simply another in a long line of empire-
building excuses, another moment in
history when the strong beats up the
weak and takes their treasures?
Yet, this time, the treasures
taken
are not antiquities but a stinking, black
viscous fluid that can power machines that
destroy the air we breathe and will eventually
make our home uninhabitable. Yes, a
treasure so precious it will destroy
us all. Welcome to democracy.
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan, USA
April 14, 2003
--written after reading Robert Fisk's article
"A Civilization Torn to Pieces"
.....................................................................
Doing Homage To a Woman of Courage
For twenty-two years Conchita
has lived
in a small plastic-covered tent on a city
sidewalk. Inside this tent is a wooden
platform on which she sleeps. She sleeps
sitting up because she's been told it is
against the law to sleep lying down in this
federal park that is her home.
For twenty-two years Conchita
has spoken
her truth to tourists more interested in being
photographed in front of the halls of power than
in examining and thinking about what happens
there.
For twenty-two years Conchita
has carefully
read the Washington Post every day to see
what they are doing in the house across the
street. Every bit of information she takes in
is seen in the context of what has gone before.
She is a living textbook of American history.
For twenty-two years Conchita
has been less
concerned about snow, sleet, hail and thunder-
storms than about the military men who beat her,
who maced her and threatened her life. The helmet
she wears under a scarf-covered wig makes her look
odd but helps her feel safe, especially when she
sleeps.
For twenty-two years Conchita
has been ridiculed,
ignored, laughed at, cursed, pitied and occasionally
listened to by those to whom she devotes her life.
For twenty-two years Conchita's
closest neighbor has
been the President of the United States but they
have never met.
For twenty-two years she
has stood as a presence of
peace, truth and justice in a place where these things
are often just words.
For twenty-two years Conchita has transformed our planet.
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan, USA
May 2, 2003
.............................................................................
Memorial Day
2003
It is Memorial Day 2003.
The roar of
war planes passing overhead thunders in
my ears, reminding me less of American
soldiers who died for their country than of
Iraqi children torn to bits by bombs dropped
perhaps by these very planes.
It is Memorial Day 2003.
I remember
Rachel Corrie who was bulldozed to death
while trying to protect the house of a
Palestinian family on the West Bank.
It is Memorial Day 2003.
I remember
Phil Berrigan who lost his fight with
cancer but never lost his willingness to
put his life on the line for peace.
It is Memorial Day 2003.
I remember
the British student Tom Hurndall who
lies brain-dead from bullets fired into
his head by Israeli soldiers. His "crime"
was to place his body between the soldiers
and two Palestinian children playing
in the street.
It is Memorial Day 2003
and flags
are flying in lilac-scented air. I see
the blood of innocents pour down each
red stripe onto porches, flagpoles, SUVs
and front doors of Americans who equate
patriotism with unthinking support of
preemptive invasions abroad and the
loss of civil liberties at home.
It is Memorial Day 2003
and I join
my hands, heart, mind and voice with
sisters and brothers around the world
as we plant seeds of justice that we trust
will flower in peace.
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan, USA
May 26, 2003
.....................................................................
The Shadow of Wings
Across the late afternoon
sky they come,
an arrow of wings and chorus of honks
coming home, home to a world green with
promise, a region awash in rebirth.
I look up from my computer
and see the
shadow of wings momentarily eclipse the sun.
Where have they been? Where are they going?
How long have they been on this journey? How
many were lost along the way, or chose to
lag behind and try new lands?
Three colonies pass overhead
within five
minutes. Will I see them again in October?
And where will our world be then? How I wish
the future did not fill me with such foreboding.
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan, USA
June 2, 2003
......................................................................................
And the People
Cheered
Bloody heads circle
the imperial borders,
mouths stretched open
in grimaces of pain.
And the people cheer.
Newspapers circle
our imperial borders
with photos of heads
dripping blood.
And the people cheer.
Heads or headlines,
Spears or missiles,
Strangers or sons,
The "evil ones" are dead.
And the people cheer.
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan, USA
July 24, 2003
--written upon seeing newspaper photos of Saddam Hussein's assassinated
sons
................................................................................................................
A Line of Poetry
for Every Headline
I have been too absorbed
in self
Self-absorbed
My vision blurred
My ankle unable to bear my weight
The weight of a world
the size of a
laptop screen
Cries contained within commas
Anger blazing out of words backlit in a
darkened room
A world so small my footprint
shades it all
The world is larger than
this
It spins and dips on an axis defined by
forces we think we understand but
do not
It contains the uncontainable
the silken path of an ant
the song of a hummingbird's wings
the kick of a baby dancing to her mother's heartbeat
the crash of buildings hit by bombs
the tender moans of elderly lovers
the rush of hurricane-swelled rivers
the whisper of a butterfly breaking free of its cocoon
The world is so large
that we can never know it
But we must try
We must keep our eyes
the eyes of our heart and our bodies
open
We must allow silence to teach us as much as
words
We must entertain the mysteries as honored
guests
We must read a line of poetry for every
headline
We must stop every so
often and just
be
Be like an old oak on
the hillside
Be like the stone buried in a riverbank
Be like the clouds shapeshifting on the winds
Be like the frog with its unblinking eyes
Absorbed in the simple act of existence
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan, USA
September 22, 2003
................................................................
Global Warming
Yellow petals sprout from
forsythia
branches. Funkia shoots push up through
soggy leaves. Grass is spring green.
But it is December. Too soon. Too soon.
Rain-slicked roads, misty mornings...
Why not snow? Why so warm?
Our president says more
study is needed,
scientists don't know for sure that
global warming even exists. He says go ahead
buy more SUVs, don't penalize polluters,
relieve industry of its responsibility
to clean up its act.
Our economy's the thing--
got to increase production,
get folks buying.
But scientists say the
polar ice cap
is melting, cracking in two,
floods are coming,
species dying,
tidal waves crashing over villages,
weather patterns screwed up.
Forsythia is blooming
in December.
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan
December 10, 2003
.......................................................................
Anger for Justice
Dedicated to Emily
Craddock, Greenpeace activist,
who went missing on Brazil's Amazon River
on Friday, December 12, 2003
My anger must be elastic,
capable of being
pulled in two directions at once, from its source to
its solution, from its passion to its capacity for thought,
from myself to others. If my anger is so tightly-bound
that it coils in on itself, how can it lead to action?
So I hold my anger in
hands open to others,
to their truth, to our connection as community,
to the power we have together, not as individuals.
When I stand as one, spewing my own personal anger,
I create not change but a climate of fear. But when I
stand with sisters and brothers, our shared anger
can transform the world.
We need anger to fuel
our work for justice.
Let us join our angers, one with another, and
step out together into the shining light of love.
For anger without love is toxic to all living things.
Anger and love, working together, will change the world.
Let us begin now, today.
Patricia Lay-Dorsey
Detroit, Michigan, USA
December 15, 2003
© 2003 Patricia Lay-Dorsey. Please use with attribution.