Some will smirk and ask with a wry grin:
“Why should you be special?”
So easily do they fail to recall…
I did not feel special when they called me a faggot.
I did not feel special when they called me queer.
nor when they threw rocks at me,
and laughed in my ear.
Not when they told me to repent,
nor when they told me I’d burn.
Not when they strapped that boy to a Wyoming fence
and left him to die…
the blood on his face only broken by the trails of his tears.
I… no we… have all been knocked down.
But then we stand back up.
Pride is a celebration, you see?
Not about how special we are,
but how we all deserve to be loved.
All. of. us.
It reminds us to cherish the differences,
and honor the bonds.
For what person does not, deep down,
yearn to be loved? Accepted?
Let our legacy be to usher in a new era,
where guns and shackles are thrown aside,
and bullies and tyrants are made a distant memory!
Let our legacy be,
one of love and acceptance for all.
That is Pride.
It is for everyone.
Perhaps it is a sign of the times in which we live,
that people boast and toast
that they love themselves the most.
Smiling and posing in front of the mirror
they stand alone, with proud demeanor.
And what of this?
I agree, it is true:
“Before you can love others, you must love you.”
But some love themselves, and therein dwell.
They claim paradise within their personal hell.
“I am free” they say,
“I am me” they exclaim,
“I need no one” they tweet,
“I am an island” they repeat,
and with pride they stand alone,
in a crowd of human understanding.
What vanity I say,
to view love in this way!
Self-love is the beginning, not the end.
Love thyself, so you can love your friend.
To the superficial,
self-love is about you.
But to those who are awakened,
self-love is the glue.
So much misinformation, so much hate,
so many people loud and irate.
Familial bonds get torn and broken,
by deeds done and words spoken.
Like cruel zealots at the pyre,
we lay our loved ones on the fire.
And we watch them burn,
into nothing but ash.
But there may be a better day,
when we do not turn our friends away.
A day when we build bridges,
to span between ridges.
When we do not fight,
but delight – in our bonds.
For two people may not love the same things.
But they can always love each other.
So join me in thanks on this important day!
Be thankful for your loved ones,
and see the way.
Forward we go, hand in hand,
Divided we fall,
United we stand.
My escape pod crashed,
Into a world of abusers,
Takers and users.
But I see, some superheroes like me:
Lovers and healers.
Givers and feelers.
People with arms opened wide,
who don’t keep their hearts hidden inside.
My fellow heroes with hearts on their sleeves:
Don’t believe them when they say,
“Your heart must be locked away.”
For the abusers,
the takers and users,
Are fearful fools, and tools,
who live in a realm of shadows.
Stand proud, with a puffed chest,
and use your superpowers for the rest.
The courage to face pain with tenderness,
To face fear with love,
is what we do best.
So let your cape flutter as you alight and soar,
above the lost souls of Gotham.
I’m not dead.
Not by a long shot.
With wry smile you call me “old man”,
and I smile right back at you.
For the light is mine,
and with rainbows,
Like the leaves on the trees,
we each have our seasons,
First, a bud so green and bright,
we reach to harvest the light.
And what a harvest is mine!
My granaries overflow,
with bounteous harvest.
So as my summer radiance unwinds,
I do shine!
With all the colors of the rainbow
I leave the green behind.
I am not dead.
Not by a long shot.
You may call me “old man”,
and I don’t mind,
My cup of wine does overflow.
And I become a rainbow,
Forever embalmed in the corner of my mind
is a red poppy flower,
bending with the breeze.
It was your favorite flower.
I remember how happy you were
when they were in your garden,
and you would point them out to me often.
But the poppies began to disappear
year after year,
until they weren’t in your garden anymore.
I remember how sad you were
and how you asked me to plant more,
in the fallow soil that remained.
But the years crept slowly by
and the garden did lie,
Until one day the men came
and ripped the garden out of the earth,
and covered it with sidewalk concrete.
I remember the poppies
so red and soft in the summer sun,
they lie embalmed in my minds eye.
But the garden is a memory
the poppies have died,
and no height of my desire
shall ever give a chance
to plant those poppies again.
This gazebo is one of my favorite places.
By the lakeside, so quiet and peaceful – like a quiet song to match the calm within me.
I watch the steam dance from my mug,
and the dew borne mists swirl and rise from the grass under the morning sun.
Out on the water a small boat drifts quietly by,
a father and son cast their shimmering fishing lines into the still waters.
I wonder at this. The invisible lines that tie the two…
Do they even know they cast lines into each other’s hearts?
The water bugs skip across the watery mirror,
and every so often there is a little ripple where the fish feast.
I long for more moments such as these,
where stillness prevails, and the nature of things is revealed,
to those who have the eyes to see.