It must begin with the children:
a slow and steady lesson,
delicately delivered,
that the page of a book
is lighter than dogma,
more faithful than the trigger of a gun.

It must begin with a degree of reverence,
instead of demanding
what we want —
no, what we NEED —
okay, fine:
even Chekhov said,
“I have no interest in what’s yours,
only securing what is mine.”

But still we wait,
from season to season,
where, in the parking lot of a cheap motel, 
an assassin peers through a scope
while snow gently falls
and, should you listen oh-so-carefully, 
an army of tides march through timeworn walls
made of sheetrock and autumns of circumstance:
still, we ponder the reason?
Moving from morning to mourning the darkness,
the night —
where is the light?
what is the season?
what is the sin?
where does it begin?

Again and again,
we must begin
after tragedy and horror
and painful attack;
starting over,
well-worn and nothing more…
(if only we were able to learn
from that which came before)
This is a war:
not of guns,
not of people,
but of “this-is-the-church-and-this-is-the-steeple”
and ideology and a notion
of someone’s sublime set in motion,
a religion of violence,
a terrible plot,
a terrible misgiving.

And we find ourselves again —
beginning another chapter
in the terror of living.



Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.