Wind,Rain,Winding Roads & Sunshine, The By-Ways of Life: Mother's Day

A Somewhat Other Mother's Day by Pat Garcia

Two Thousand One,

War on Planet Earth began,

Step by step,

Country by country,

From east to west,

And north to south,

Culture fighting culture,

Tradition struggling tradition,

Religion prodding religion,

Race killing race,

Nationality prevaricating nationality,

Men predating women,

Power strangling,

Dictators glorified,

Women pained,

Children borne,

Bombs blasted in the air,

People died.

Two Thousand Three

Victory proclaimed!

Yet,

Guns still heard,

Human bombs exploded,

Culture against culture,

Tradition against tradition,

Religion against religion,

Race against race

Nationality against nationality.

Supermen appeared,

No one understood them,

People died.

Two Thousand Eleven,

War continued to spread,

From east to west,

And north to south.

Talks began,

Discussions faltered,

Chemicals perfumed the air,

Children gasped and suffocated,

Women mourned,

Hands wrung in despair,

The helpless shut their eyes

As they entered eternity.

People died.

Two Thousand Fourteen,

Planet Earth restless,

Country by country,

From east to west,

And north to south.

Culture fighting culture,

Tradition struggling tradition,

Religion prodding religion,

Race killing race,

Nationality prevaricating nationality,

Dissension deepened,

Hatred increased,

Guns sounded out,

Human bombs exploded,

Bombs burst in the air,

People died.

Two Thousand Fifteen,

Human carcasses covered Planet Earth.

The ocean's mouth opened wide,

Welcoming the feed, it received from above.

Nature blossomed; bodies fertilized its soil.

People talked,

Negotiations stalled,

Guns shot,

Human bombs exploded,

Bombs from planes killed,

As dilapidated boats on the sea transported people to their graves,

People died.

What is this disease?

That prevents us from seeing,

From hearing,

From feeling.

Grace extinct?

Mercy obsolete?

Compassion passé?

Two Thousand Sixteen,

May eighth,

Women force into prostitution,

Babies fish out of the sea,

Bombs from planes kill,

Human bombs explode,

Refugees on the run,

Barbwire fences rise,

Soldiers protect borders,

Men talk,

Governments negotiate,

People die,

And well we…

We celebrate Mother's Day.

Shalom Aleichem,

Pat Garcia

Posted by Pat Garcia at 01:30 PM in Blog posts, Mother's Day, Poetry, Tribute, Viewpoint | Permalink | Comments (1)

Its, A Mother's Day Poem

Durable, flexible, intelligent,

Best workhorses ever created.

Eyes pained.

Backs flogged.

These its,

These puny its have no value.

Mouths starved.

Necks choked.

Shoulders bruised.

Torsos kicked.

These its,

These puny its have no voices.

Legs spread wide.

Ears boxed.

Faces slapped.

Hair unkempt.

These its,

These puny its have no value.

Who are these its?

Forgotten and unacknowledged,

Running, pleading, fearing for their lives.

These its,

These puny its have no voices.

The brunt of war carried in their flesh.

While men pat themselves on the back for heroism.

These its,

These puny its have no value.

Oh, women of the world,

I know today is Mother’s Day,

But your its are being attacked.

Bellies impregnated by rape,

Faces scarred by encrusted, scabrous hands,

Disfigured bodies with lost limbs,

These its,

These puny its have no voices.

Slaughtered,

Murdered,

Gassed,

Shot down,

Their psyches damaged.

These its,

These puny its have no value.

Hands grabbed,

Bound and cast to the ground,

Legs spread wide and raped,

Whore,

Bitch,

Slut,

Cunt,

Their Psyches branded.

These its,

These puny its have no voices.

Oh, women of the world,

Today is Mother’s Day,

But these its are our sisters,

Shouldn’t our voices become theirs?

This poem is dedicated to every woman trapped by war at this moment wherever they are, in whatever country.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

Posted by Pat Garcia at 06:00 PM in Blog posts, Mother's Day | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

Some Mother's Heart Is Crying

Global expansion is inching its way, step by step, across planet Earth––but some mother's heart is crying.

Lives are being laid down in the Ukraine, Sudan, North Korea, Egypt, Syria and Nigeria––some mother's child is dead.

Hate, spirited by greed and power, makes men do the detestable; violating the rights of other human beings––some mother's heart is bleeding.

Some mother's child in Nigeria is kidnapped from her school and thrown into a story that will mark her life forever––some mother's heart is broken.

Every second, a mother is crying on this planet as she:

Watches her child destroyed by a bomb in a war that she didn't start
Sees her child struggling against a disease for lack of proper medical care
Looks at her child starving from hunger in a world where plenty abounds
Observes her child drinking infested water that has enough bacteria to kill any animal.

Somewhere, some mothers' hearts are crying.

Flowers, gifts, travel, and good eating––highlights of frenetic busyness design to show the priceless value of women and the joy of motherhood on Mother's Day.

"What do you hear, Prophet? Tell me, what do you hear?"

"I hear the wailing of girls who have been kidnapped, sold into slavery, and sexually abused; I hear the voices of the Amintas', Shjahwanas', Aishas', Asmas', Deborahs', Ruths', Esthers', Kwantas', Kummanis', Larabes', Jummanis', Fatimas', Palmantas', Aistatus', Kabus', Yayis', of this world." And The Prophet began to cry.

"Prophet?"

"Shh, Shh." The Prophet whispered.

A dark cloud appeared, and covering his ears, The Prophet said, "Oh, No!" And he shook his head as uncontrollable tears streamed down his face.

"What is it, Prophet? Tell me, what do you hear?"

"Some mothers' hearts are crying."

Yet, we celebrate Mother's Day.

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

Posted by Pat Garcia at 01:14 PM in Blog posts, Mother's Day | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

But It's Mother's Day

What do you hear,” the child asked the Prophet, curious to know what was happening below the heavenly atmosphere they lived in, "What do you hear?"

"I hear mothers mourning over the lost of their young."

“But it’s Mother’s Day,” the child replied.

“Oh, how well I know that," answered the Prophet.

"So tell me what do you hear, Prophet? What do you hear?" The child in its naivety thought the earth had gotten better.

"Silence, child, I hear a faint rumbling coming up from a far."

"All right, I won't let out one peeps, but promise me you'll tell me what you hear?" And the child dance around the Prophet with joyous expectations.

"You have my promise. I will only tell you what I hear." Suddenly, the Prophet covered his ears. "Oh the rumble, it’s terrible,” shouted the Prophet. “It gets louder and louder."

"Surely, it is the sound of the people on earth celebrating and cheering as they honor their mothers," the Child said.

"Shh, now, I hear it clearly," The Prophet commanded.

"What is it?" The Child asked.

"It sounds like gunfire going off in schools, at homes, on streets––children killing children."

"But it's Mother's Day."

“Oh, How well I know that." The Prophet mumbled.

"So tell me something good. Tell me of the songs you hear, or the flowers you see, or children honoring their mothers with surprises on this beautiful Mother's Day."

"Wait!" Said the Prophet. "Be still. I hear another cry"

"Oh, goodie. It's about time you heard a beautiful cry."

The Prophet began to cry before the child, and he began to beat his hands against his breast.

What wrong, Prophet, what's wrong? Tell me, what did you hear?”

"Like Rachel crying for her young ones over two thousand years ago, I hear mothers wailing; painful moans, no man can ever imagine, coming up out of the heart of women: mothers wailing for the lost of their young.”

"But it's Mother's Day, Prophet.”

“Oh, how well I know that,” the Prophet answered.

“So, what do you see on this beautiful day for mothers everywhere,” the child asked, hoping the Prophet would report about the presents that made mommies happy on their special day. Maybe, just maybe, the child thought, the Prophet will let me look down and see the celebrations.

“Shall I tell you what I hear? Maybe then you’ll understand what I’m saying,” the Prophet said.

“All right. Tell me, what do you hear, Prophet? What do you hear?”

“I hear mothers wailing for the lost of their young;

Children, whose lives have been cut off by drunken drivers;

Children, whose lives are stopped short by guns in the hands of distorted minds;

Children, whose lives are prematurely ended by the scalpel;

Children, whose lives are snuffed out by bombs as they sleep;

Children, whose lives have been contaminated––destroyed by chemicals dropped from the air as man fights against man.

I see little people, like you, child, who have no voice

To speak out,

To protest,

To vote;

Their lives have been taken away without their consent.”

“But it’s Mother’s Day, Prophet. It’s Mother’s Day.

“Oh, how well I know that!” The Prophet answered.

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

Posted by Pat Garcia at 09:12 PM in Blog posts, Mother's Day, Spiritual | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

A Special Mother's Day Tribute and the Introduction to the Article, But It's Mother's Day

This year's Mother's Day article, But It's Mother's Day, is a tribute to all those mothers who have lived through the agony of having a child precede them in death. No mother expects to see her child leave this earth before she does: it is the mother's heart that dreams of life–long life– for her children even before they are born.

I would also like to salute two women whom I have come to love, respect, and admire.

Micki Peluso, author of And The Whippoorwill Sang,[1] whose daughter's life was cut off by a drunken driver. Micki tells Noelle's story, and therefore her own story with heart. Full of humor and wit, And The Whippoorwill Sang draws you into the Peluso family: it also takes you through a gamut of emotions from anger to hatred, to laughter, to tears that will force you to support a zero tolerance for people who drink and drive.

Linda Halpin is the author of an upcoming book about her son, Louie, who was shot down in New York City. As a mother, she was suddenly thrown into the woes of lost. Louie was a child with a promise, a future boxer whose future stopped on a fatal afternoon as he innocently visited his friends. Linda's book is expected to be release sometime this year.

Each of these women has gone through the dark night of their souls, and they have come through it with renewed strength to step up to the plate and speak out against violence that has been done, not only against their children, but against children all over the world.

Happy Mother's Day!