what happened to the blessed poor

the homeless man

the hungry child

the single mother of four

sleeping on sidewalks

under bridges

cold floors

the peacemakers are not here

those children of god

only rage

and hate

are glorified and cheered

it seems the light of the world

has been blown out

by christians of sorts

for only the rich

the very few

are blessed

the poor a dry sponge

squeezed so very dry

the middle class

merely a disguise

no hope

no love

no holy prayer

if you wait for heaven to be blessed

(as if life on earth should be hell)

then why are you so worried about the unborn child

we must take this garden

this planet we call home

we must hold its diversity

a quilt stitched by you and me

a loving embrace

even for the unluckiest of we

(homo sapiens)




all life if you must

we read a book

call it sacred

at best

and live as if the pages are empty

an inhumane test

for empty lives never live on a hill

never revere a sunrise

or understand the golden thread we tie

where are the blessed poor

the peacemakers

they are definitely not here

if you see them

do they remember the sermon

the mount

i do not see it here…

tread lightly on their dreams

if dreams are even

in their repertoire

of survive

we are lost

on a religious sea

no lifeboat

no island

no blessed anything


is silent in the wind

I pray this unraveling

is not the end


The Cloths of Heaven


Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light;

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. —

W. B. Yeats



If life steers you into a dead end road, and you are trying to find your way, skip the GPS, take the road with no traffic. Founder studiO, early morning poet.