
by Thomas A Kempis

Like Belfast and Burundi
Rwanda, Palestine
The only decorations here
Had been awarded for their crimes
And in gardens where the children played
Now soldiers only trod
And stranger still, he heard some say
That they were killing for their god
Now the angel heard god speak many times
And he had always paid attention
But this killing of ones neighbor
Was something the Lord had never mentioned
But as he neared the earth
Of a recent battleground
From among the ruins
He once more heard the sound
It was a single cello playing
A forgotten Christmas song
And even on that battlefield
The song somehow belonged
And as he flew away
The angel did take note
That where he found this music played
One always could find hope

A prayer against depression


...Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change...
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
