Bless me ...

Bless me  ....

As a little one I yearned for  a gentle hand to cup my head,

brush my cheek with parchment fingertips - to turn when I,
on small feet, did hurry toward -  to smile at my back when
I left -  Free then to cross the threshold 

to nibble at delights from the plate of the day -
sighing deep - safe under the count-

less protection of the bless that set
my unfolding fledgling soul to soar ....

The Sunday Whirl 

Omran est notre enfant

Raf Sanchez

Omran est notre enfant
(Omran is our child) 

Oh Omran -I wipe the dusty

blood from your face with a

clean,cool, white cloth- gently 

rock you in my arms and soak

you in tears of guilt admission

When I saw you sitting there -

bewildered touching blood -

tousled hair - dusted with the ash
of adult hell unleashed in the name

of some cause or another - When I

saw you, my eyes scurried across
the page piteously scanning to see

if "we' or "they" were to blame - oh

Aleppo angel staring soul into soul -

stopping me with the searing shame

of all innocents. In your implacable

stare I knew as surely as if you had

pointed your bloodied fingers at me -

there is no we or they - All of us have

your blood on our hands as we scroll

screens and wipe newsprint - and sit, sit, sit -

within walls of our collective failed protectorate

We must stand - each and all of us - speak your

silence -until all children look to the sky expecting

only sunshine, raindrops,snowflakes-until all children

sleep secure- their unexploded world softly breathing -

I kiss your eyes with my bleeding heart and surrender

to the dust of all souls-including my own that contribute

to the reigns of terror - collapsing the sky your blood un-

washable from my hands-my heart -Oh Omran, abandoned

son of us all -We see you -See our shame writ in the tousled

bewildered innocence of blood that limns our legacy in the

dust of our collective immorality... "We? ... or "They?" there

is no difference in the emptiness of your disappointed stare.

It is on us all

the shame....

and solution

- peace. -

Baby Boy

In Fertility First, Baby 

Baby Boy

I loved you as they rubbed the slip-slime from your

body freshly slid from your travel from my womb

to world – sacred charge – I would stand before

a bullet for you – so powerful steel would bounce

softly against my milk filled breasts – Invincible – 

our bond inviolable – a brand set to burn burnished

into the epi-center of my soul, ignited by the sound 

of your first cry – Nothing could ever chip the solid

soul-bond birthed fresh in that tropic dawn –I felt it-

that inexplicable, actual, aching stretch of my heart -

as you tiny soul-mate set sail apart and part of me – 

forever in the brightest crook of my being. Or so

I led myself to deliciously trust in totality 

erroneously – apparently – undeniably -

now, that you are grown, flown and gone

as baby boys shall always come to be..

The Sunday Whirl