My Native Tongue

Anyone who has ever traveled to a foreign country where theirs is not the prevalent language, has probably noticed that they can hear their mother tongue spoken even across a crowded and noisy room. My ears are keener still, for I can hear my native tongue spoken from 4 blocks away! My native tongue is Bullshit. When, in the same foreign country, a native of that land tries to converse with you in your own language, you appreciate the effort, regardless of how clumsy their attempt may be. After a while, however, even the most polite traveler, may note that prolonged exposure to the butchering of their mother tongue tends to grate on one's ear. In this, I am no different. While I appreciate those of you who try to speak proper Bullshit to me, after successive clumsy attempts, it does offend my ear. For this reason, I shall try to confine my musings to English, but, should I occasionally lapse into my Native Tongue, please, bear with me and do not feel obliged to join me on a similar linguistic tangent. If this note offends you, you should probably leave now, before my thoughts on Religion and Politics cause you serious distress.

Tears and Rage

When I was a child I was taught of America. It was a Fabled Land where the milk and honey of Freedom ran in the streets, conceived by an idealistic people who, having felt themselves oppressed for so long, rose up and threw out their oppressors. It was born of a miracle of courage and determination that led landed gentry and peasant farmers, merchants and tradesmen, Protestants and Catholics to see beyond their personal differences, band together, and rise up as one, declaring to the world, "We will bear the yoke of tyranny no more!" And I believed. From the spacious skies to the amber waves of grain, I believed. I was fortunate enough to be able to travel this land from sea to shining sea, and I believed. Then I saw poverty and hunger. I saw ignorance and bigotry. I saw hatred. I asked how these could exist in such a glorious and just land, and, much like the boy who could not see the Emperor's New Clothes, I was shushed. So I did as I was told, and I was quiet. I did as I has been taught, and I believed. I still do. The words that will follow in this place do not evince any change in that belief. Rather, it is as a result of that belief that I feel compelled to write them now. If you have known something precious when it was bright and new, and then you see it tarnished and worn, even cast down in the mud and trampled upon, do you not weep to see its abuse and do everything in your power to lift it up and repair it as best you can? If you know that abuse to be deliberate, do you not feel rage? I see this Fabled Land, once a shining beacon in the night to the oppressed throughout the world, now tarnished and soiled. Her noble flag, woven of hope in the face of despair, and defended with the blood of her Heroes, that blessed Star Spangled Banner, I see now tattered and worn. I weep to see these abuses, and I would repair them. I see the sacred parchments of "We the People" and the precious ideals they espouse cast down in the mud and wantonly trampled. I see the very precepts upon which this nation was founded twisted and betrayed for personal gain, and I rage! This does not mean that my belief has been lessened. My Faith in this nation and that for which it once stood is stronger than ever. It is those things for which it has been made to stand that give me pause. It is the flagrant usurpation of individual freedoms, once held so dear, that move me to tears. It is the brazen betrayal of the public trust for political and financial gain which leads me to rage! I am not moved to such strong emotions by any weakening of my belief, but rather by its strength. I still believe. But I also still see, and, unlike that child who questioned so long ago, I will no longer be shushed. The Emperor has NO new clothes! In fact, he's stealing yours! These are my tears. This is my rage. Where, in the name of all that is right, and just, and decent, are yours?

Friday, January 18, 2008

I Hear Music





When you walk into the room

I hear Music,

A melody

like the first sweet breath of Spring.

I hear my name upon your lips,

and it’s like Magic,

And from my Heart to my Soul

I want to sing.

But my heart’s been racing

from the moment I first saw you.

In such a state

it’s hard to find the proper tune,

And mortal words

would ill compare

to a melody so fair.

I hear Music

when you walk into the room.




I never knew

there was a sound just like a sunrise.

I never knew

that even rainbows had a tune,

But that’s the music that I hear

when I see your eyes.

Is it any wonder that I fell

for you so soon?

So please forgive me

if I tend to wax romantic,

But keeping silent’s

something I could never do,

Not when I know

my worst nightmare

is any night without you there.

I hear Music

when you walk into the room.




The effect you have on me

is quite astounding.

I can’t think

of anything but you.

And when I do

I can feel my heart pounding,

To find all my fondest dreams

at last come true.

A symphony of violins

in the moonlight

Would be as nothing

to the Angel Song of you.

I no longer

wonder why,

I merely know until I die

I’ll hear Music

when you walk into the room.

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2 comments:

MartinWainwright said...

Hi there from England! Just to let you know I've mentioned your blog on mine for reasons which will be clear if you click on http://martinsmoths.blogspot.com/ and read today's entry (28th August 08)
All best - I enjoy your poetry and your thoughts.
Martin Wainwright
PS We all (well nearly all) like Obama over here but I wouldn't presume to advise you on your own country's politics

August 28, 2008 at 1:57:00 AM EST
loudflower said...

This is such a wonderful poem! JL is a lucky lady! We miss you guys. Hope to see you this April.
Linda

October 16, 2008 at 12:03:00 PM EST

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