You are currently browsing the daily archive for May 11, 2008.

Maybe Americans are ready for a change. Maybe hope is alive. Maybe the election will precede our nation’s coming of age. So many questions fill my mind.

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“With Mr Obama already turning the focus of his campaign on Mr McCain, Republicans are facing up to the highest disapproval ratings for a president, George W Bush, in living memory and a recent poll in which 80 per cent said the country was heading in the wrong direction.”

from an article entitled, “Republicans fear john McCain defeat against Barack Obama

Maybe McCain will be seen for what he is: more of the same.

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And what’s more America is starting to realize Republican’s don’t have a corner on faith. A number of Americans are both Christians (or practicing members of another faith) and Democrats. Many of us see how we treat others as a part of our faith, not something divorced from it.

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Lifting the Cup by Henri Nouwen

“When we hold firm our cups of life, fully acknowledging their sorrows and joys, we will also be able to lift our cups in human solidarity. Lifting our cups means that we are not ashamed of what we are living, and this gesture encourages others to befriend their truths as we are trying to befriend ours. By lifting up our cups and saying to each other, “To life” or “To your health,” we proclaim that we are willing to look truthfully at our lives together. Thus, we can become a community of people encouraging one another to fully drink the cups that have been given to us in the conviction that they will lead us to true fulfillment.”

Emphasis mine

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I’m telling it like it is.  America needs a change.

The Powder Box

for Elsie R. Jones

As a child, I loved cleaning day, my mother
taking her special things from the top of her dresser
and placing them gently on the bed. She let Pam,
Michael, and me look at them, touch them.
We promised to be careful, while she worked her
soft dust cloth, and usually were. Among the items
was the Powder Box that’s in the bathroom now—

the one at the back of the house near the kitchen,
near the drawer where Grover Pinky slept,
when it was too cold to keep him in the hatch,
near the place where the low table held Jergins lotion
to keep our mother’s soft hands soft. The box is not gold,
though it seems so to me. Perhaps, it’s ivory—or stone.
I saw a match book inside, when last I lifted its lid.

Shortly after our parents married in Swindon,
Mummy’s home town in green and southern England,
Daddy, who was then a soldier, was sent to Belgium,
then shipped back home to Joplin. Mum followed,
taking the Queen Mary and a train ride from New York.
I digress here into the drama of an oral history,
(for I was not yet born). It seems

another American soldier, who was going home
before Daddy, offered him the box, which Daddy took,
thinking his young wife would like it. The box had
had a lid, but the soldier dropped it, when
full arms would hold no more. And still, he had
presence of mind to describe his walking route,

in the off-chance that his comrade might find
the lost piece like Daddy did, and pluck it—

retrieve it, from a foreign storm-gutter.

first published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature

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