I ache for all the suffering and death
for it is my suffering and death.
It is as if my being is being chipped
away. How long before the last
clod of my body goes down to the earth
from which it came?
I am diminished.
I ache.
A man is attacked by a shark and dies
just as he retires from work.
I hear his wife scream. I shudder.
I ache.
Men and women die on a chaotic,
crowded Mt. Everest in pursuit of
a personal challenge and others walk
over their bodies to get to safety.
I shake my head.
I ache.
Men, women and children are maimed
and die at the hands of child soldiers
wielding machetes while vicious adults
tell them what to do.
I shed a tear.
I ache.
Men, women and children die in third
world countries from bombs from
first world countries.
I repent.
I ache.
U.S. soldiers (boys and girls) die in
U.S. protracted, unnecessary, foolish
wars endorsed by old, mostly white,
men and women in Washington
who never served in the military.
I am ashamed.
I ache.
Children die in custody at the southern
border of the United States.
I am angry.
I ache.
Men, women and children die in
small “Mayberry” towns from
opioid overdoses.
I ache.
People die in urban areas from
gun violence.
I ache.
People of color lost their lives
at the hands and guns of frightened
police.
I ask for forgiveness.
I ache.
I think of the people whose lives
homes and property have been
destroyed by relentless flooding.
I ache.
I think of a friend, a college buddy
who died leaving a family to go
on and on without him.
I ache.
People died in traffic accidents
over the long, celebratory weekend.
I’m horrified at the senseless carnage.
I ache.
A young woman is rescued after two
weeks wandering, lost in the
dense forests of Maui. She will live.
I rejoice and give thanks.
I am rejuvenated.
And that was just over a long weekend.
There is more, so much more, endless more,
but I am glad just to be able
to put one small clod back in place.

The Commander in Chief of the military
is playing golf and joking with a sumo
wrestler in Japan this Memorial Day
weekend instead of standing at attention
and saluting as the military guard places
a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown
Soldier, walking reverently among the
graves at Arlington Cemetery and saying
a few appropriate words as Commander,
about what an honor it is and a humbling
experience to memorialize the veterans
who put their lives on the line to defend
this country. Perhaps WWll veterans should
be asked about the visual and the timing
which appear to be on a par with seeing
the Donald in his golf shorts bending over
to pick up his golf ball from out-of-bounds,
a place he claims he has never been even
though we all know differently. Wasn’t the
Commander in Cheeks missing in action
last Veteran’s Day, too?

Robert Dale Maxwell, raised a Quaker, refused Conscientious Objector classification when drafted for service in WWII. He eventually was classified as a non-combatant. He threw himself on an enemy grenade to save the members of his platoon. He survived and received the Congressional Medal of Honor two months before I was born. After the war, he went home to Oregon, graduated from high school and started a technical auto repair program at the community college level. Robert Maxwell died this month at the age of 98. He was known for his humility. He is the face of Memorial Day today for me. The link is to the Maxwell Veteran Center at Lane Community College where Mr. Maxwell taught for many years: https://www.lanecc.edu/va. When at the site, scroll down for a short bio of Mr. Maxwell.

As a white, male watching
Sabrina Fair on TCM and
loving the loving competition
between the characters —
handsome Humphrey Bogart,
William Holden and beautiful
Audrey Hepburn as they pranced
their way through upper class
financial, white privileged lives,
I never would have thought of
the white privilege part before
and then I wondered what people
of color thought of this film of
white privilege as they watched
these white, privileged people
prance their way through white
privileged society to a white
privileged conclusion and then
I watched the original Pink Panther
with music that sounded just like
a Henry Mancini soundtrack and
is and wondered about that, too.

Memorial Day — parade day on
Main Street — bands marching to
Sousa, flags waving, guys squeezing

into mothballed dress uniforms, the
remaining vets of World War II hobbl-
ing down the street, lifting canes in

appreciation, being pushed in wheel-
chairs, riding in Corvette Stingrays
while people along the curbs cheer

and wave small American flags — and
then everyone goes to a picnic — the
Memorial Day observance — a secular

ceremony of thanks for those who died
defending the country and then there
is the parade in one of our nation’s

most ethnically homogeneous, hyper-
religious communities where at the end
of the parade, the town’s people gather

in front of all the white crosses to hear
a speech invoking God’s will and bow in
prayer participating in an act of “civil

religion” when perhaps there should be
acts of civil disobedience for linking
war with God’s blessing.

the president is shouting,
having one of his snits;
he’s screaming bloody murder;
driving his wife to fits.

she covers her ears
while there he stands — hands on hips
making nasty faces
and thinking up schoolyard quips.

he shouts insult after insult;
she is experiencing fear;
she says, “calm down, donald;
you’re just looking in a mirror.”

There’s no sorry to your sorry —
just a barb, a hook, a snit
placed concisely at the end,
“I’m really not sorry one bit.”

So, you think the newly anti-abortion Donald wouldn’t (hasn’t)
insist(ed) on an abortion for one of his girlfriends if she got
pregnant by him? So, you think any one of these anti-abortion
white, male legislators of Southern states wouldn’t insist on an
abortion for one of his girlfriends if she got pregnant by him?
So, do you think the hypocrisy stinks to high heaven for the
president and all those white, male legislators? They won’t stop
their philandering and hypocrisy so maybe we should ask those
Southern states to pass legislation to ban cojones for all white
citizens of their states and, as an example and a good faith gesture,
separate the cojones from all the white, male legislators so they
can stop being hypocrites and eliminate their temptation to break
the law they have sworn to uphold and stop abortion in its tracks.
And regarding the president’s cojones? One person might vote for
that, but she doesn’t have a vote — at least not in any legislature.

An ethnic religious denomination
believes it has the answer for this nation.
The descendants of separatist Christians
say just leave to us the important decisions.

That they are inbreeders is a particular problem
resulting in a crazy desire to condemn.
So they look down their collective, parnoid nose
on everyone else as a danger to pose.

Their average churchgoer just isn’t in the know
while, ironically, their scholars write scholarly prose.
They live in a cult-like world all their own
believing they are the chosen for a heavenly home.

They see themselves as better than others
but their culture is one that just smothers.
As a result, they are dying on the vine
while thinking that they are better than fine.

On a tour of heaven, visitors are warned of a door to steer clear.
Those separatists think they are the only ones there.

Their cottage, pond, waterfall and pine
grove vibrate serenity and peace for
the fish, birds, deer, the fox with her
kits and the nocturnal visitors who
leave their paw prints in the winter’s
snow. For however much longer the
couple is blessed to call this home,
they will bask in the sights and gentle
sounds of Trinity’s (Infinite, Immanent,
Intimate) quiet dance.