Whose Are We?
our parents and partners
our siblings
our children
our pets
Whose Are We?
our neighbors
our friends
our co-workers
our congregations
Whose Are We?
the powerful and the powerless
those who suffer and
those who cause the suffering
Whose Are We?
the 6 generations that have passed
the 6 generations yet to come
the great cloud of witness
Whose Are We?
Whose Are We?
Whose Are We Not?
By Monica L. Cummings
Can’t Tell
When World War II was declared
on the morning radio,
we glued our ears, widened our eys,
Our bodies shivered.
A voice said
Japan was the enemy,
Pearl Harbor a shambles
and in our grocery store
in Berkeley, we were suspended
next to the meat market
where voices hummed,
valises, pots and pans packed,
no more hot dogs, baloney,
pork kidneys.
We children huddled on wooden planks
and my parents whispered:
We are Chinese, we are Chinese.
Safety pins anchored,
our loins ached.
Shortly our Japanese neighbors vanished
and my parents continued to whisper:
We are Chinese, we are Chinese.
We wore black arm bands,
put up a sign
in bold letter.
By Nellie Wong,
from Encounters: poems about race, ethnicity and identity
Poetry, April 2011
“This I Mourn: A Lamentation for Osama bin Laden” by Gregory Boyd.
One fewer soul on Spaceship Earth,
Our Father’s Mother feels the dearth.
We are wholly imperfect:
perfectly incomplete.
This, I mourn with each passing hour,
A violent end to brutal power.
Yet, I know what I believe—
We are wholly imperfect:
perfectly incomplete.
Who is my neighbor?
Did he ask?
Love your neighbor.
Not my task
Smote my neighbor.
Who now basks?
This, I mourn with each passing hour,
A violent end to brutal power.
Yet, I know what I believe—
We are wholly imperfect:
perfectly incomplete.
Did he hunger?
Does he feast?
Sought he victory?
Through defeat?
This, I mourn with each passing hour,
A violent end to brutal power.
Yet, I know what I believe—
We are wholly imperfect:
perfectly incomplete.
Buddha says, “Forsake desire.”
Would that I were as a spire,
Thrusting up toward Heaven above
Penetrating the God of love,
Sharp to pierce Holy Empire.
Where is my neighbor?
Who is your God?
Who is my neighbor?
Where is your God?
Bountiful blessings:
The prayers we sow.
Militant aggressing:
Onward we go.
This, I mourn with each passing hour,
A violent end to brutal power.
Yet, I know what I believe—
We are wholly imperfect:
perfectly incomplete.
To know peace,
To know relief,
To rest in peace,
Without grief;
Thus, to decease.
To know no more,
What you abhor;
Eternal sleep,
Sojourn complete:
Life is defeat.
This, I mourn with each passing hour,
A violent end to brutal power.
Yet, I know what I believe—
We are wholly imperfect:
perfectly incomplete;
Wantonly unpredictable,
We lamenting beasts.
By Gregory Boyd
Bi-lingual, Bi-cultural,
able to slip from “How’s life?”
to “Me’stan volviendo loca,”
able to sit in a paneled office
drafting memos in smooth English,
able to order in fluent Spanish
at a Mexican restaurant,
American but hyphenated,
viewed by Anglos as perhaps exotic,
perhaps inferior, definitely different,
viewed by Mexicans as alien,
(their eyes say, “You may speak
Spanish but you’re not like me”)
an American to Mexicans
a Mexican to Americans
a handy token
sliding back and forth
between the fringes of both worlds
by smiling
by masking the discomfort
of being pre-judged
Bi-laterally.
by Pat Mora
from the book, encounters: poems about race, ethnicity and identity
• If you like this poem or want to submit a poem for this section, please leave a comment.
soul lost
spirit found
all at the cost of my being
bound by presentation
ideas of equality
handed to me on a silver platter
tempting
soul lost
spirit found
all for the healing of my being
free to navigate the trails of my history
hope for justice
embedded in my heart
light the wick
searching
soul lost
spirit found
all for the truth of my being
silenced by performers
lifted by the crowd
take a bow
take a stand
clap
soul lost spirit found all for the love in my being
birds of a flock always stick together
survival of the fittest
let us fly
-Lehna Huie
The Rain
Spring rains are my favorite
they help the flowers grow
Winter rain makes good ice cream
because it’s really snow
Traveling seeds ride windy rains
Thirsty trees scrape windowpanes
Autumn rains make all leaves change
from green to burnished reds
Soft rains wash our tears away
and rainbows warm our beds.
– Nikki Giovanni
SACRED, BUT NOT LEGAL
By Rev. Susan Manker-Seale, Spring, 2010
To the People of the State of Arizona (and Beyond):
My daughter is getting married
In a ceremony sacred, but not legal,
And instead of the minister, I’ll be the proud mother
Holding the hand of my husband of thirty years
As we welcome a new daughter, not in-law,
But in-love.
They will have to be brave,
Joining the ranks of the oppressed,
Where they’ve already been
In so many ways,
But their love is strong, and beautiful,
And perhaps, in time,
the people of our state will finally see that,
And grant them rights as parents and partners,
In spite of the spite that’s still spewed from the silver-tongued.
Oh! You pastors who blaspheme by preaching bigotry!
Who take advantage of people’s desire for a privileged place!
Must there always be a scapegoat?
Can’t you see the history of oppression,
The slow uncovering of our eyes
and unstopping of our ears?
People, don’t sit like sheep in the pews, unquestioning!
It is shameful when the oppressed become the oppressors,
And you have all been there in one way or another,
One end or the other.
This morning I woke up, and realized one part,
At least, that I have played, and now,
After twenty-two years of performing weddings
Here in our beloved state,
I refuse to be the hand of one more injustice,
And will no longer sign marriage licenses,
In protest.
Arizona is turning one hundred,
And those years have left a trail of emancipation,
People turning over and rising up,
Demanding to be seen and respected
Through race, gender, culture, ability.
But still, the fight goes on for those whose love
Is not confined to social norms
and ancient, misguided religious precepts.
There is a lot more love in the Bible, in holy texts,
Than many have been led to believe.
Let’s all open our eyes and ears,
But especially, let us open our hearts,
For love truly is the most important thing!
And no matter that some will still preach to the contrary,
I know when I’m in the presence of a sacred love.
My two daughters’ marriage will be blessed!
And, believe me, as we take one more step out of bigotry,
One day, it will be legal!
– By Rev. Susan Manker-Seale
Minister, Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Northwest Tucson
www.standingonthesideoflove.org
Spring, 2010
• If you like this poem or want to submit a poem for this section, please leave a comment.
Yule Poem
‘birthwatch night of sun
from darkness light
west becomes the east
freezing becomes fire
Goddess Mother Moon
she births the sun
she births the earth
she labors for
the sea and sky
death is granted life
so mote it be
circle closes
circle opens
and the oak fire strikes
bright the earth and sun
bright the newborn sea
bright the infant stars
her glowing earth
winter set aside
with new year naming
“everything she touches changes”
as above us so below.’
– From the book, Casting the Circle by Diane Stein
Poetry, October 2009
Poetry
For many of us the fall of the year is a time of sadness and the long memory. All around us there are the evidences of fading, of withdrawal, of things coming to an end. What was alive and growing only a few short days or weeks ago seems now to have fulfilled itself and fallen back into the shadows. Vegetation withers but there is no agony of departure; there seems to be only death and stillness in the fall.
Those who have been ill all summer seem to get a deepening sense of foreboding in the fall. It is the time of the changing of the guard. It is the season of the retreat of energy. It is a time of letting go. It is a period of the first exhaustion. It is the period of the storms, as if the wind itself becomes the Avenging Angel too impatient to wait for the coming of death and the quiet fading of bud and flower and leaf. The rain is not gentle in the fall, it is feverish, truculent, and vicious. All the fury of wind and rain are under toned by a vast lull in tempo and the running down of all things. There is a chill in the air in the fall. It is not cold; it is chilly, as if the temperature cannot quite make up its mind. The chill is ominous, the forerunner of the vital coldness of winter.
But the fall of the year is more than all this; much, much more. It marks an important change in the cycle of the year. This change means that summer is passed. One season ends by blending into another. Here is a change of pace accenting a rhythm in the passing of time. How important this is! The particular mood inspires recollection and reflection. There is something very steadying and secure in the awareness that there is an underlying dependability in life–that change is part of the experience of living. It is a reminder of the meaning of pause and plateau.
But the fall provides something more. There is harvest, a time of ingathering, of storing up in nature; there is harvest, a time of ingathering, of storing up in the heart. There is the time when there must be a separation of that which has said its say and passes–that which repens and finds its meaning in sustaining life in other forms. Nothing is lost, nothing disappears; all things belong, each in its way, to a harmony and an order which envelops all, which infuses all.
Fall accentuates the goodness of life and finds its truest meaning in the strength of winter and the breath of spring. Thank God for the fall.
by Howard Thurman
Living Mosaic
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