Heart of Whimsy !

We don’t all pray in the same church, but we all wait in the same checkout lines, glancing at gum racks and tabloid lies, half-watching the kid with the runny nose and the old man counting nickels. We don’t all vote the same, but we all curse at traffic lights, get cut off by the same kind of jerk in the same kind of hurry. Then we go home and try not to lose our temper at someone we love. We don’t all eat the same food, but we all sit in waiting rooms, staring at worn-out magazines, pretending not to worry as our name creeps closer to the nurse’s clipboard. We raise flags for different reasons, but we all stand quiet when someone folds one and hands it to a widow. We teach our kids different songs, but they all cry the first time they see something die and ask if it hurts. We build our fences, paint our houses, make what peace we can between the news and the night. And when it’s done— when the breath leaves and the hands fall still— we don’t ask ...

I’ve walked through decades, felt the world evolve, Seen borders shift and towers rise and fall. Though time keeps posing riddles I can’t solve, I still can hear the conscience of it all. They say I’m dated—out of step, behind— But I have read the past and seen it burn. The world’s not kind, but I have trained my mind To judge the tides and know which winds to turn. I love this land, though leaders make me ache, Their bluster staining all we claim to be. Still, in the youth, I feel the earth awake— Their future’s flame might finally set us free. I’m not yet done; I’ve still a voice to lend. God willing, I will fight until the end.

  Camp Tom Welch We met at the Boys Club, luggage in hand, city boys bound for that promised land. Ten years of summers, seven weeks long— each one beginning with a bus ride and song. The ride was a racket of chatter and kicks, til the city gave way to trees and sticks. Then roll call barked out through the warm, dusty air, as counselors herded us here and there. Steel bunks awaited with spring nets wide, thin mattresses curling just slightly on the sides. We claimed our spots, made beds in a heap, and learned which guys talked loud in their sleep. The pool was blue and the water cold— first swim in June never got old. Lunch meant hot dogs, always with beans, on plastic plates that stayed mostly clean. Rest hour meant comics, quiet and still— though some cracked jokes and never could chill. Canteen followed, a rush to the stand— sweet treats and sodas in sweaty hands. We raised the flag as the bugle blew, then lowered it later in twilight’s hue. Swim le...

Today I’m a cowboy, sitting tall on my mount, or maybe I’ll gaze at the endless night sky ’neath a blanket of stars— too many to count. Tomorrow, a spaceman, ready to climb, or perhaps a wild man who swings on a vine. I’m often a hero with a cape who can fly, or a soldier who battles for truth with a cry, or a policeman who rides with lights flashing bright. So many jobs that had to be done— when I was a boy, just having fun.

I  walk in the garden I know not why I simply awoke here beneath the sky The flowers are silent yet vivid with hue A bee hums through blossoms Leaves shimmer with dew Birdsong in chorus heralds stilled joy and, for one fleeting moment, I relive a boy

The Blessed and the Burdened (A Manifesto for the Well Born) It is truly a blessing to be well born. To enter the world through no doing of your own — cradled in safety, fed without fear, taught to speak the right words, walk the right paths, dream the right dreams. You did not choose your fortune, but it chose you. And for others? It chose differently. They are born into the bottom tiers, where the floor is hard, and the ceilings low, where the labor is endless, and the rewards are few. Their backs bear the weight of a world that calls them “unskilled,” “expendable,” “lazy,” though it cannot function without them. Society is not a ladder. It is a machine. And machines require gears — some large, some small, some shining, some worn down to rust. The economy does not ask, “Who deserves to rise?” It asks, “Who will serve where we need them?” This is not a flaw. It is design. If all were equal, who would pick the fruit? Who would sweep the floors? Who would clean the wounds, staff the mid...