July 7th was first and foremost supposed to be my son's 9th birthday. We awoke at 5:45 AM so that we could run out to IHOP for breakfast before I had to hit the freeway to make the long commute to work. Starting the car that morning, the radio station that plays many British bands was broadcasting news about the explosions. I turned the radio off so that "M" wouldn't hear the news. Let him have his day. Let him find out about the tragedy tomorrow or the next day when the speculation and the reactionary comments get replaced with solid findings and grounded evaluation and insight.
What another tragic day for the world! In heart, I was spirit broken. I was a Londoner thousands of miles, raising hopes that the death toll would be minimal, praying that the victims families find peace somehow, have the comfort of angels with them.
The prolific poet, Pris Campbell, who writes over at Songs to a Midnight Sky, penned some thoughts about the explosions that spoke to me, summed up my sentiments and anger. Pris, if you read this, I hope you do not mind that I've posted your poem here.
He thinks he can bring down
all giants with his slingshot,
so he tamps powder tight
into bombs nightly, recites
a litany of hate as his evening
prayer, tells himself all who
are not him or like him
are evil, laughs while
the rest of the world mourns.
This terrorist...this hero
of Dante's Ninth Circle.
His feet are already ablaze.
11:24:25 PM  | |
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