Moods, Minds & Multitudes

2011-08-31T20:49:00.000-04:00

Someone recently forwarded the following to me in an email - which I'm posting because it really resonates with me. We live in a time where we expect to get everything we want, quickly, with as little effort as possible at a huge cost to our environment. Past generations are mocked because of the ways they interacted with the world and each other. They feel very responsible for things owned, and valued each and every opportunity. This piece speaks to how older generations created life around them. It wasn't at all easy, in fact much of the work, was extremely exhausting, dangerous and just plain tedious and hard. However that work taught these generations amazing survival/life skills and what it means to be productive contributing citizens.
______________
" In the queue at the store, the cashier told an older woman that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment.

The woman apologized to him and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."

The clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment."

He was right -- our generation didn't have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled. But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks. But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry the clothes. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing. But that old lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana . In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used a wadded up old newspaper to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity. But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull. But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint.

But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?

Please forward this on to another selfish old person who needs a lesson in conservation from a smart ass young person.

Remember: Don't make old People mad. We don't like being old in the first place, so it doesn't take much to piss us off."

How Do You Pray?

2010-10-05T13:03:00.004-04:00

Do you dream of a

white bearded angry savior

do you have angels on your shoulders,

do you chant words you don’t understand

do you feel anything change?

Do you pray to the God of retribution

denier of sinners who’ve sinned

do you pray to the moral majority God?

Do you pray to the green grass God

who grows the many things

to the wind God who carries the ancestral message,

to the Earth Goddess who cradles and shakes us to our senses,

to whom do you pray – do you feel a change,

are you filled with fear or cloaked in delight?

How do you pray?

Do you see some kind of Pentecostal bright light,

do you dare the ones called Satan

not to cross your holy line,

do you prostrate or stand up and shout out

your praise and jubilation to the divine?

Do you hear a change

as voices harmonize at hallowed sights,

is there a revelation – will you testify?

Shh!!! Don’t try to think so much.

Just tell me – How Do you pray?

Linda Joy Burke

Summer 2010 so far = Lessons Learned

2010-07-18T21:37:00.004-04:00

Summer so far = lessons learned,
some days, the angle of the sun on dog and me is harsh - like punishment
dog is learning to drink from a defrosting bottle of water I carry.

when listening to the debate about those who prefer snow to heat,
heat to 6 feet i think emphasis on the extremes
is too extreme.

lesson learned always use a thumb drive when working on highly treasured docs. you never know when technology will betray you

lesson learned:
dog abhors flea treatments = daily ritual, me having to seek the occasional one or two roaming through the range of her coat.She's giving me the eye now, wondering when I'm going to brush her, growling at me under her breath.

lesson learned:
living in close proximity to a liquor store is not the best of all options. these days the chronically unemployed gather in small packs at ten - brown bags in hand,
manage to keep going all day. neighbors complain, few dig in to pick up the trash
-try to get the bottles before they become broken glass. Some days the unease is palatable.

Summer fruit - berries, melons, peaches, plums, mangoes = my new love affair.

lesson learned: things won't ever be the same

some days I see like everyone else
some days I see.

All rights reserved
Linda Joy Burke

Obomaphoria

2009-09-07T21:52:00.015-04:00

Now that Obamaphoria is over -
the natives are restless,
the distractions of one race over,
a new race against a clock
bound by a peculiar history
and untenable destiny -
governs the lay the land.
The natives are truly restless
the race for the green back -
gotten knocked so far off
the beaten track
that folks aren't sure
what it will take to bring things,
back from the brink of confusion -
can we teach the children
the lessons learned from all of this -
greed and unclear fear of
what may not actually occur,
the race is on - losing is
not an option.

Linda Joy Burke
All Rights Reserved By Author

Between Two Worlds – Some Jar Women I’ve known

2009-08-07T14:50:00.004-04:00

Poem One
(The grandmother’s Poem)
I

She said I’m stuck
in between two worlds
one where nothing bad ever happens
and one where there is blood,
beaded clots of wages paid
for sinful crimes committed
and not confessed or absolved.

In one world I smile as if
I want to belong in that land where
no one gives a damn about what it costs
to cross this great divide

but here where I live life is
raw and rude and though I look
for signs of forgiveness
all I hear in my mind
is the way the boys in the street
speak, their ghost voices swiftly rattling
off rhymes, with the staccato pace and heat
of those brief moments marking
too short lived lives

and I see childhood’s longed for
tallied up as just more lost innocence,
no longer some one else’s story,
but mine.

I am hollering here
in between these worlds
hollowing truth
previously unspoken
out of mouths screaming
from faces eternally
pointed towards home.

II

In one world people
who clearly couldn’t care less
blankly stare at the TV
filling the air with the same
bad news over and over again,

while in another world
rebels and martyrs live
disguised as everyday people
who chip away at
the shields that permit
secrets and lies to be.

Here I look through
another’s eyes
and hear the voices of
grandmothers who have
only known the starving place.

Inspired by a 1999 exhibit at the BMA in 1999,by the dynamic Artist Joyce Scott, called Kickin' It With the Masters. There were these "Jar Women" in the exhibit that carried on their hips and around their wastes symbols of various things that women and servants were responsible for in addition to raising their children, and living their lives. I was profoundly impacted by that exhibit, and even though I don't have my own children, could see myself in one of those images.

There were several poets including myself who were invited to write poems related to Scott's exhibit, and I chose what I resonated most with. I believe there are about 7 poems connected with that series.

Linda Joy Burke 2009
All Rights Reserved By Author

For Forte

2009-07-08T23:45:00.005-04:00

A long time friend and companion, faithful,
gentle, smart and beautiful
Forte the Chinook - my friend's
dog, transitioned at 9:30 this evening.
I held him through his last exhalation.

A week ago he came to me in dream,
the next day I went to see him
- dog of mine in tow. that Forte
was overjoyed to see me
we went for a long, last walk
the two dogs pausing at every marked
spot-inhaling the scent of every
last dog's pee.

we don't know when anyone will leave
no dogs, no cats, no birds, no fish
no turtles, no guinea pigs, no rabbits
no ferrets, no snakes,
no other companion being.

we don't know how deep our grief will
be until we are pushed into this
finite chasm of loss know less
of how long it will take
to still the shock that fills
the mind, to cool the searing
at the heart's core

- this night - i ahhhhhhh, i aaaaaaaahhhhhhh,
i aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh - i wail and rage
against that dying light, a life of
memories flashing across my inner sight

a primitive spirit within me taking flight.

Linda Joy Burke
All Rights Reserved by Author

before the tide changed

2009-06-10T14:46:00.000-04:00

2009-02-20T12:49:00.002-05:00

The past couple of days were precarious days to be on the road. Too many folks missing stop signs, rolling through red lights, just not paying attention to what's going on in the world around them. I don't want to blame it on the weather. You know sometimes gloomy weather makes folks feel a bit out of sorts. The real cause I think is folks have forgotten how to be careful. Full of Care. I'm remembering those commercials that told us we had to drive defensively. I'm thinking now I understand why there are so many Humvies in suburbia.

Remembering September 11, 2001

2008-09-10T23:27:00.000-04:00

----------------
Now playing: Bette Midler - From a Distance
via FoxyTunes

It is September 10th 2008. My historical memories are seperated by what came before 9/11/2001 and after. Like no other time, the memory of what I was doing on that morning is so deeply burned into my consciousness, it is burnished on me now like the the physical scars that mark my body.

Memories,

Responsibilities pressing:

First class of the semester sophomore poetry at Carver Center for Arts and Technology in Towson. We had started the class in my usual fashion, making a little music. We were just digging into the reading for the day, the first a piece by Ginsburg,talking about the poet's body being vulnerable to all manner of things.

We all were startled by the interruption of the PA the announcement of the first plane crashing, I watched the students some cried, some went to the office in a panic worried about parents who might have been near the crash, some were not really bothered, said that the monolithic America probably brought it upon herself, with all her shady deeds in the world. I remember feeling like the breath was knocked out of me as I looked into these kids faces, and knew that life as we knew it would be altered forever by those men that took so many lives.

The drive home was endless, lines of cars filled with people who were going no where fast. I remember moving through that weird, extremely painful, disembodied sense of non reality, while being force fed a new vocabulary - I kept telling myself and anyone who would listen - it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Not after all we've been through as a country to gain and understand the value of independence and equality for all people and pursuing happiness. Granted we weren't quite where we needed to be yet,we'd made a lot of mistakes along the way, and there was still a lot to sort out as a culture but in the scheme of things - all this wasn't what I was thinking I'd grow old living with -

this celebrated new mediocrity
this President from the school of Running the Country for Dummies
this Dubya without a clue,
this thirst for war,
this new normal,
this hunt for Bin Ladin,
this extremist group Al Quiada,
this menacing jihad,
these roadside bombers
these suicidal sacrificial lambs,
this us and them,
this crew from Blackwater,
this innocent citizens targeted,
this acceptable civilian loss,
this grief bigger than most can bare,
this homeland security, this code orange -
this soldiers pulling down an effigy of Saddam Hussein in Baghdad,
this forgetting the first war for the glory of the second,
this wondering when Johnny will march home again,
this televising live the faces of their worst war dead,
this talk of insurgents, this talk of resolve,
this daily talk of resolve
this keeping war alive
this fighting terror,
this forgetting the needs of the nation's people
this loss of a truthful democracy,
this fabricating new things to fear.

Like I said I didn't think it would be like this, I was looking forward to the New Age of cultural and technological evolution, looking forward to learning some new ways to play out my role on this stage of American Dreams, but since September 11, 2001, vI've been feeling a sense atrophy. While looking for the best, I more often than I would like see the worst. I think people have become so much more self absorbed since the intensity of the threat of harm to nation and person has grown/groan...

I recently met a couple from New York who were visiting in my area. The guy said in absolute astonishment to me that "everyone around her speaks and they're so nice. Where we live no one wants to look at you. They just keep on going." I felt sad for him and hopeful - yes people in my neck of the woods are pretty outgoing and those closer to my age and older seem to have a bit of an awareness that transcends mediocrity so because of that, I'll still keep looking for the best in folks and praying.

There's so much sinking and swimming going on.
So much wishing and hoping - waiting to see -
holding breaths - picking up pieces -
trying to move forward- just holding on.

All Rights Reserved by Author

Tags: memories of september 11, 2001

Found

2008-08-17T18:07:00.000-04:00

Photo by L.Joy Burke

Found

One black leather cell-phone holder

1 blue grocery bag with a buck

fifty in change inside

2 bicycles - 1 by an elm tree in the woods

1 abandoned by the trash fort,

1 pair of pink prescription spectacles

left on the parking lot of the market,

1 owner of a pair of lost pink specs.

1 twenty dollar bill in a yard

of an unknown neighbor,

2 illegal green cardboard

turtle firework fountains,

1 palm sized red heart

connected by a white button

to a ragged rectangle of blue felt.

1 empty brown nylon backpack

I put it back, 1 Junior ROTC

female’s cover also returned,

1 two inch tall plastic red Elmo,

1 two inch long black saw toothed knife,

2 fist-sized white, stuffed bears -

the first on the sidewalk on the way

to a kin’s funeral – the second

shortly after a car ran over the first.

1 large black rubber flashlight.

1 ball peen hammer perched

on the carburetor of my teal Escort,

1 magnetic pointer resting on a

ledge under the hood of

my champagne Legacy,

1 live white Persian kitten

dangling from under the engine

of a white Cadillac Seville,

paused at a red light in the

midst of a rush filled intersection.

4 florescent green tennis balls,

2 smudged autographed baseballs,

1 clear round super ball, it

bounced back into oblivion,

1 catcher’s mitt - I left it

2 red practice jerseys, also left behind,

1 new black Under-Armour cap,

1000 pieces of broken glass.

1 blue suede pouch,

1 polished black stone

14 fried chicken bones,

1 soft macramé necklace

1 tattered white, blue and red

“Made in China” American flag,

1 grey and white pet cat –

Blithe.

1 fledgling blue jay

stayed for 4 days

ate from my hand

remembered how to preen

how to forage, how

to perch and how to

squak "set me free."

Time.

July 16, 2008

Revised August 17, 2008

Tags: Found Things

Waiting for the Dawn

2008-02-16T21:39:00.000-05:00

Photos by Linda Joy Burke

These days I wake just after dawn, my happy dog eager to get on with the new day, in pre bark mode, she paws my arm, licks my nose, growls her request that I finish with my rest. She takes no heed to my protesting that I was never a morning person. She doesn't care that I'm used to staying up til the wee hours with the best of the world weary. She doesn't care if I think I'm more profound writing alone in the middle of the night.

I have learned to love the clean slate of dawn as much as the deep stillness in the middle of the night. I love the smell of a new day's air, before the transports start to role and people with their mindless urgencies spill out into the world, love hearing the delighted songs of birds calling their mates, love the sights of a wild fox slipping in and out of the cover of the underbrush, or a hawk hunting prey, love how my dog finds pleasure in every scent that she encounters even the stuff I find gross, love how she requires play, her bursts of exuberant energy so fundamentally joyful that whatever weakness I feel towards rising so early is transformed.

Transformation isn't always what it's cracked up to be though, you never know when you'll walk past the neighborhood middle school to see the latest graffiti -

I've never seen such admiration for a common garden tool coming from a contemporary suburban kid, makes you wonder what they're learning in that school.

This is a photo taken in a drug free school zone. Actually this photo is from the grounds of the middle school, and the vodka and Jim Beam bottles have been in this same spot for months. I really do wonder what kids are learning these days about doing the right thing, instead of taking the easy way to the end result, just getting by on the least effort, or complaining that folks don't care anymore.

The impact of the trashing of their environment has to have some profound long term affect on how they perceive the earth's value. In the blocks around this drug free school zone there are broken Heineken bottles littering the sidewalks and bike paths on the way to the schools, empty forties strewn in the woods, hard liquor bottles left in the fenced in area around the school's heating system.

Tiny plastic bags dot the football field and cases of Budweiser and Coors cans pile up in the surrounding woods. One day while I was walking my dog, I saw a guy picking up cans. I went up to him to thank him for picking up litter in the neighborhood. He told me he wasn't picking up litter, just the cans, he could sell the aluminum for money. I told him that I often picked up trash and recycled the cans and bottles.

I guess I was proud of my service to the community and was bragging a bit. He wasn't impressed though, instead he told me to leave the cans on the ground, so that he could collect them. I don't. Then he told me how bad the neighborhood was, showed me a bowie knife that he had securely fastened to his belt, told me to read PS (a local free adzine) then I'd see how bad it was here where I lived, alluded to the fact that he'd been threatened, said I should watch my back.

2008-02-03T19:46:00.000-05:00

Tidal Wave

In the spring

I thought I knew everything

there was to know about

how earth loved sky.

I dreamed of living near an ocean beach

where I’d watch lapis waves caress

pristine shores.

My electronic reality

no longer a necessity,

my simple life spent dusting off

my pen, exercising my hand, finding my

way back to my heart’s work.

My life fluid with poems sprouting

like nature’s seedlings, destined

to love the sky.

Her verdant energy

tested beyond

comprehension.

Nature’s imbalance erased

dreams once come true.

Inside earth’s womb

seedlings destined to love the sky wait.

I learn the patience of winter.

Linda Joy Burke

Departure

2007-08-13T22:44:00.000-04:00

The day after I posted the last vulture poem,

this group appeared in front of my house. These were from a different group, and were easily frightened by my attempts to photograph them. The bird on the rail glared at me for an intense couple of seconds before flying off with the rest of the group, to temporarily roost in the trees.

Tags: Howard County, Vultures

2007-06-28T21:12:00.000-04:00

need a break today?

My New Neighbors Have Moved On

2007-06-27T01:08:00.000-04:00

In The Spirit

2006-12-25T21:43:00.000-05:00

Christmas on This Side of the Shinig Sea

I sit on this side of the shining sea, watching the wretched path of the resolute vultures, now roosting within spitting distance of the front door. A cycle of seasons has changed so much in this part of the world. A ride in the country exposes how little has been left pristine. Immune to wistful threats of death by arrow, seduced by man made waste, left in haste by the unconcerned masses, future generations of wild birds gone soft now runt and roost.

In other neighborhoods, silent nights are set aglow in rainbow lights, the innocent young embark on toy driven fantasy journeys, grown-ups who know love, cuddle in serene slumbers, and the lonely mourn those who've left too soon.

Morning brings the afterglow of Christmas rapture, the stories we told each other with love and laughter, light the way for new memories to grow.

Linda Joy Burke

2006-09-05T16:56:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago some one stole the iron gate from the entrance to the Notre Dame School in Baltimore. The nuns are heart sick that a historic symbol was snatched away. Years of tradition were wiped out in a moment of desperation.

Yesterday someone stole a 400 pound clock from St. David's Catholic Church, also located in Baltimore. One of the priests from the church has declared that though this is a tragedy, that there are so many more awful things to attend to in the city.

I grew up in the Catholic Church with a kind of sheltered belief, that no harm could come to those "sacred places." We have gone so far away from those days of innocence, moved into the time of surveillance, survival of the fittest overshadows the world of the meek.

Bird Talks Blog Is Moving

2006-08-06T22:15:00.000-04:00

As of today, I've created a new blog on the E Blogger Websight. I found it distressing that folks couldn't easily find this blog by doing a search for me. I don't know if that is an AOL issue, or just how I named the Blog. I still love this platform for publishing photos, and will still use it for spur of the moment commentary, brainstorming, and visual expressions. I will be using the eblogger spot for in depth writings. Please view my new blog site at http://lindajoyburke.blogspot.com/

Unfortunately while I was working between these two blogs, I wiped out my links list, and counter information. I will repost links on this site, and include those links and new ones as I have time to post them on my new spot.This site is a lot more user friendly when it comes to doing things like that, which is something that I will miss. However I know that learning a little html, is probably useful if I want to grow this Blog up a bit.

2006-08-04T11:23:00.000-04:00

Things that have been boggling my mind.

1.Speed limits that no one pays attention to.
2.Evangelical Christians, whose faces always seem to be lined with frowns.
3.Small children who feel they have to have a cell phone.

4.
Oh yeah, there's also the one
about the fanatical Catholic
who made the movie
The Passion of the Christ
and millions and millions of dollars,
enough to own his own island,.
and build his own private church
on his multiple acres,
because he was so much better
than the common man,
who years after his righteous directorial fame,
gets arrested for driving while drunk,
and then spews anti semetic rhetoric into the air.

2006-06-13T23:02:00.000-04:00

America's soul is floundering,

I’ve seen the eyes of the misplaced

they are resigned to discomfort

their language is disfigured and

intolerant, they are the

dictators of all they survey.

America’s soul is floundering

the pockets of the fast talkers

are blocking out the light of the sun,

Strange how these days unfolded

a different kind of time we never fore saw

suicidal pilots – civilians flying like angels.

America’s soul is floundering

we don’t really know who we should

hate or love, possess or abhor.

How easily we drift into the

language of war – with its disfigured

visage, stinking of death.

Linda Joy Burke

2006-06-06T21:59:00.000-04:00

Why Write a BLOG?

2006-06-04T14:17:00.000-04:00

I started this blog in June two years ago because I wanted to redirect my creative energy. I named it Bird Talks at first, which really didn't make any sense. There was no explanation on the title, and clearly this blog wasn't about birds. I changed the title last year to The Bird Talks Blog, by Poet & Writer - Linda Joy Burke with hopes to improve my chances that people would find and read this work. I still didn't give an explanation as to why I chose the title though. Well the deal is that I have an affinity for hawks, ravens, eagles, falcons and other large high flying birds, and I have this uncanny ability to be able to see the minute as well as the big picture.

When I started writing I really didn't have a clear picture of where I wanted it to go. I vowed I would try to place an entry in once a month, and then conceded that since it was my project, I would do a minimum of 12 entries a year. I started including original photography as entries in the second half of the 2006 journal.

I remember when I wrote my first entry, I was in a mood, and probably like most, I just wanted to get the mood off my chest. The content of that entry (see archives) was a poem which had been inspired by hearing the horrifying news, that three Hispanic children had been brutally murdered in a quiet community in Pikesville. The details of the crime colored the news for weeks, as speculations as to who could have done the deed filled the air.

A couple of weeks later, another child, who was a bit older, was set on fire near the same neighborhood. I think both crimes triggered a kind of great sadness in me. It was the kind of sadness that I couldn't possibly articulate to friends and loved ones, and get some kind of relief. It didn't make sense that I should feel such a strong emotional connection to those lost children but I did. Of course we could commiserate, offer sympathy, a hug and a smile. I'm talking about a different kind of relief, that penning words to paper gave.

If you're a writer, then you already know about this phenomena, of only being able to understand or express a thing when you've written it down. If we are true to our craft, we are astute observers, and quiet listeners. Our sensory awareness is most often enhanced by silence, stillness, and moving in a slower than average pace. In short we feel the world quite differently than those who may not express themselves in the written word.

While writing this blog, I have begun to closely pay attention to the contradictory aspects of being human in the 21st century. As we have seen through out history, a lot of us humans are brilliant beyond measure, with capabilities to elevate or raze nations, while being no less fragile than a butterfly caught in a strong wind. What I marvel at, is that the more civilized we have become, it seems the less we pay attention to our fragility though.

Understanding the consequences of not paying attention, is relegated to philosophers, artists, poets, scientists, and holy people seeking nirvana it seems. This is no different than in any other time of great tribulation throughout civilization though. I find that this is the work that I'm most drawn to, which has helped to give this blog its unique identity.

I will continue to approach the hard questions in the coming year's issues of this Blog. I welcome comments, questions, suggestions, challenges. I thank those of you who continue to read, and offer encouragement.

2006-06-04T01:27:00.000-04:00

2006-05-01T22:29:00.000-04:00

Selecting Balance

2006-02-26T21:25:00.000-05:00

I was listening to the national news a couple of weeks ago, when I heard the newscaster end the nightly report by reading email from listeners who he relayed were, “Tired of the coverage on hurricane Katrina.” After reading a few of the emails, the

reporter admonished the letter writers, by reminding them that search and rescue teams were still trying to locate and identify the missing and dead in the affected areas. He ended by saying that the station and its affiliates felt it was important to keep reporting the story.

I'm sure that many of the folks who were miffed by the constant coverage of the Katrina catastrophe, had not followed closely the depth of this life altering devastation in America. Or if they had, then they may be suffering from what many of us have been suffering from in these recent years; a collective grief combined with a sense of how unnerving things have become.

It is unnerving to know that somewhere here in our America, that there are the unclaimed, decomposing aunts and uncles, grandparents, siblings, moms and dads, friends, cousins, babies, and pets. It is unnerving to know that there are so many people who have no closure. It is unnerving to hear five months after the storm about the garbage strewn acres of land that are still there. This land for generations belonged to individuals who were once whole.

When those families were whole and healthy with their land they were sure of their identity.They knew that they belonged to the fabric of something bigger than themselves as property owners in America. They fit because they had a past, which they could point to in the tangible things of their lives.They had a past where they could say they did what they were supposed to do as hard working citizens, to achieve their "piece of the rock" or their hold on the "American Dream".

It is unnerving to hear about the daily struggles of these regular folks who have little or no control over their present, no profitable ownership of their past, and absolute uncertainty about their future. It is unnerving and unsettling in the "land of the free, and home of the brave", to have to come face to face with the absolute fragility of our existence. I applaud the journalists who are willing to tell the people's story, and not allow them to slip off of our radar.

Selecting Balance

There was no security strong enough in the

homeland to prevent this mass destruction.

They who taught the children how to envision and sing,

they who breathed life into all things worth savoring,

were grandmothers once saved then drowned on roofs,

and grandfathers shut-up and smothered in attics,

Their hearts may have been opened or slammed shut

their eyes may have perceived light, then vision deceived,

their houses not solid like mine or out of harms way,

first slammed, then battered and washed away like toys,

their sweet heart babes shaken and swept up

in the smothering arms of an unleashed lake,

unsettling revelations of America’s modern day

refugees, mar the facade of the oval office’s swagger,

who knew that one nation under God

would fall so deeply into disarray.

Bulldozed into a cemetery of dreams deferred

memories fester in gaping, rancid ice boxes,

the timbre of shock and awe, haunts the air.

Linda Joy Burke

2006-02-10T18:30:00.000-05:00

If there were no good teachers

left, to keep the fires lit

in the eyes of the young,

who yearn to be filled

with the richest textures

a life can provide

worlds would collide

even more disastrously

than they do now

in these tumultuous times.

Without teachers living

on not enough sleep,

without teachers living

on needing more time,

without teachers living

on owed as much green

as the really fat cats

so full of greed,

the children would sprout

like prickly weeds -

the kind no one grows

to love and no one cleaves to.

Linda Joy Burke

in the news

2005-10-25T21:57:00.000-04:00

black fly lands on white

oval office wall, listens

to hubris crumble.

A New Way to Say I love You

2005-09-11T10:21:00.000-04:00

Black

At the entrance

to the

black hole

of the world’s colossus

fear and rage

has slammed the door

to the way

I call my own name

ask

do not misjudge

this dark

hued

skin

stop

we can’t go back

to basic black

or white anymore

now that these nights

are so vast – amassed

with the rattle and hum

of revenge not

appeased and

warnings repeated

that our dark dreams

have been interrupted

by the laughter

of the unforgiven.

red

eyed

rise stubborn with this pain –

that kindles hunger for an

eternal flame to light the

way through this ashen mourning

where streams of I love yous

never having been said enough,

force their way through the troubled

mist of horizons dawning

perfect in their shameless light.

white

breath

crushed

disappeared by

engineers of fear and

galvanized

hate –

induced

judgements

leveled on monolithic nations

make them learn to wait like the

oppressed who

process

questions

raisedby the suspicious and

touch the

unwieldy visage of

willful

x – tinction of

yesterday’s

zenith.

blue

prayers

spin like dervishes

into shields which

wrap around children

too young to know

about being wounded

by an desperate enemy

and then left behind.

black

night still comes quick

with autumn’s preparing

winter’s deep resting

place – quiet in the long

descending flight

of light

white breath

feeds red

love the

blue flame

of tikkun olam burns.

Linda Joy Burke

October 5, 2001

*tikkun olam repair the world

This poem originally appeared in the anthology,

9/11 project - September Eleven Maryland Voices – 2002 Baltimore Writers’ Alliance www.the911project.org

"Children, everybody, here's what to do during war: In a time of destruction, create something. A poem. A parade. A community. A school. A vow. A moral principle. One peaceful moment. "
- Maxine Hong Kingston

Other Arts Based Resources to Help in the Aftermath of Katrina

2005-09-08T15:41:00.000-04:00

Sent by: Poets & Writers Inc. Reply to the sender

Hurricane Katrina-- How Writers Can Help

Dear Friends,

In addition to the important work being done by the American Red Cross and other relief agencies, there are a number of special efforts we thought writers might be particularly interested in:

The Katrina Literary Collective has been created to collect and distribute books to victims of the hurricane. For more information, contact the Amber Communications Group at amberbk@aol.com.
A Louisiana Disaster Relief Fund has been established to receive monetary donations to assist libraries in Southeastern Louisiana. For more info, visit the American Library Association at http://www.ala.org/
The American Booksellers Association has created a Bookseller Relief Fund to assist independent booksellers affected by Hurricane Katrina. For info, visit http://www.bookweb.org/
The Southern Arts Federation has set up an Emergency Relief Fund to assist arts organizations and artists in those Gulf Communities most devastated by Katrina. For more info, go to http://www.southarts.org/

Thank you for whatever help you're able to provide.

Up Rooted

2005-09-06T21:21:00.000-04:00

Where to begin? I took the photo at the top of this essay at 2:00 in the morning one day last summer. I just developed the roll, after a wonderful though long drive up 95 to visit a friend in Martha’s Vineyard in July. Fortunately, I went before the tremendous spike in gas prices. The picture is of a flower that blooms only once every 7 years, or something crazy like that. This particular plant bloomed twice in a week, and totally surprised and delighted me. It's called a night blooming Cereus, and is indigenous to the desert. I don't live in the desert, though the dirt in the pot is quite desert like, I'm not responsible for that. I inherited the plant from a friend who had give up her home here because she couldn't get social security benefits to cover her chronic rheumatoid arthritis condition, which had crippled her. She moved to her sister's house in Vancouver Washington (evidently the system is more compassionate there)and I and other friends took in her plant collection. This particular plant isn't really that attractive, with its long, flat, spindly leaves. It’s a succulent and relatively hardy though, so it like many of my other plants thrives here. I've been told I have a green thumb. I just trust that everything that lives will grow as long as there is enough light and water and the roots are kept strong.

This column is not about flowers though, it is about being uprooted.

All of us thinkers, and writers, and compassionate healers, and rescuers and spiritual souls and artists and regular folks and politicians are being forced to look at our fragile humanity once again in the wake of a mighty storm, this time "in the land of the free and home of the brave ". We have to come to terms with the cold hard truth that man's might is no match for nature's fury. We have to come to terms with the cold hard truth that something could have been done to make this disaster less terrible and it will take a whole lot more than money to make things right after all the damage that has been done.

Bob Herbert: A Failure of Leadership
http://www.truthout.org/docs_2005/090505X.shtml
Bob Herbert writes: Neither the death of the chief justice nor the frantic efforts of panicked White House political advisers can conceal the magnitude of the president's failure of leadership last week. The catastrophe in City New Orleans billowed up like the howling winds of hell and was carried live and in color on television screens across the country and around the world.

Across the world, international communities wonder how America with all her riches and power could be so slow to come to the aid of so many. In America the sense of incredulous realization that there is indeed a portion of the country that is terribly marginalized and invisible is startling, and frightening to those who would rather "the problem would go away".

To the rest of us, that is those who do not choose to close a blind eye to the reality of poverty in America we feel anger. Many have equated the treatment of those evacuated to the Superdome in as similar to the slave experience on the Middle Passage. What a sad and horribly accurate analogy. Too many people, confined to a dark structure, with no food, water, air, sanitation, in stifling heat, with people dying in the dark around them. Historical memory in this Southern environment is easily awakened.

So many had their physical, mental and emotional foundations shredded. Some show resilience and the capacity to change their lives and move on bravely into a strange new world. Others lack the physical or psychological capacity and life skills to make the transition from the way things were to some place and something new. It is so hard to fathom having to leave somewhere that has been home for generations. It's also hard to fathom clinging to the only home you've known, with your animals, and loved ones to try to ride a storm out, only to loose one or two of those loved ones their bodies lingering, the guilt must be overwhelming.

American's have been doing everything they can think of to bring aid. The world should know that we Americans are more brilliant, compassionate, responsive, pragmatic, and altruistic then the slow fumbling leadership that portends to represent us. Americans wonder how all those displaced will be able to grow again after such devastation and have mobilized in every community both religious and secular to rush to aid of the distressed. Now we are hearing the stories about how the valiant tried to defend the rights of the weak and vulnerable and how heroes of all colors, shapes and sizes are doing whatever they can to keep others alive, even while they watch helplessly as people die.

With each new catastrophic disaster in the world community, we as humans are being called to a singular awareness of the fragility of our existence. We are told we must prepare ourselves in case of emergency, have our battery-operated radio, water, flashlight, cash and spare clothes packed just in case. We need to have a meeting plan for family and friends. We need to make sure to look out for the elderly and those without means.

With each new disaster, we are also called to understand that there is a fundamental need for building and sustaining neighborhoods and communities where people feel a sense of interconnectedness, no matter the economic status of the community.

Surely, that idea sounds outdated, and impossible to the cynics that have thrown up their hands in despair at the loss of America 's heart, or suspect to those who are “just trying to survive”. This latest disaster and each preceding one asks for not only kindness and sacrifices from strangers, but also awareness of social conditions outside of our microcosmic worlds. It is true that one action can effect many. I wonder how many will heed these calls.

**********************

CD Baby has invited artists to donate all profits from any sales through
their site directly to the Red Cross. go to www.CDBaby.com and choose "for
charity" on the homepage. this will take you to a list of CD Baby artists
who have donated all monies from sales of CDs/DVDs directly to the red
cross relief fund. you can also just go directly to an individual artist's
page by searching their name.

****************************

Americans for the Arts staff are working hard to connect with our members in the affected regions and to offer help in any way possible.

We can report that the damage Katrina inflicted on our members in Florida when it was a much less powerful storm, was relatively minor. Our members there are moving forward with an assessment to determine the damage to other arts organizations in their region. Greater concern is for those in the gulf states Louisiana, Mississippi,Alabama. We are attempting to reach our members there, and we will keep you updated on any information we receive from our state and local partners.

WHAT YOU CAN DO:
Members we have talked to in the affected regions have expressed a desperate need for information. In response, Americans for the Arts has set up a bulletin board on our website to gather and disseminate information. If you have heard news about how arts organizations, cultural facilities, and artists are faring in the aftermath of the hurricane, please don't hesitate to submit it for inclusion on the bulletin board. If you know of any initiatives to assist the arts, please feel free to share them as well. Eventually, we hope also to share news and ideas about how arts agencies, organizations, and artists are themselves helping to ease the human suffering that has literally engulfed the region.

If you would like to make a contribution, our regional partner, The Southern Arts Federation, has established an EmergencyRelief Fund to assist arts organizations and artists residing in those communities most devastated by Hurricane Katrina. A donation form can be found on our website at http://ww3.artsusa.org/pdf/get_involved/membership/emergency_relief_fund.pdf

We also recommend that our members consider making a contribution to the Craft Emergency Relief Fund (CERF). CERF's Disaster Relief Fund, interest-free loan programs and staff, are prepared to respond to professional craft artists who have suffered significant losses. To make a contribution to CERF, please visit their website at www.craftemergency.org.

Lastly, we have been in touch with our colleagues at the National Endowment for the Arts and they are preparing a formal statement, which we will post on our website upon its release.

Americans for the Arts is committed to helping those affected by this devastating disaster. We will keep you informed about additional ways in which you can help. If you have any questions regarding our efforts, please contact Mara Walker, chief planning officer, at 202.371.2830 or mwalker@artsusa.org.

***********

My prayers go out to all those who have been affected by Hurricane Katrina, which is all of us.

One Joy 4 You

2005-07-24T20:45:00.000-04:00

In dream, I was having lunch with Potential,

she was offering me a life that I'd only imagined.

I was stirred by what I perceived

in those brief blurred images.

My well bloomed with a sweetness

that I swelled to hold.

My curious mind seeks beyond longing, to

allow Potential to embrace me, this waking day.

Linda Joy Burke

2005-06-27T21:12:00.000-04:00

If you are reading this for the first time welcome and if you are a regular welcome back. This is the first year anniversary of The Bird Talks Blog(which I recently renamed) and I’m looking forward to seeing what will come forth in the coming year.

Generally I will post a column at least once a month, or bi-monthly. For new readers, what you will find here is both poetry and prose. You will not find minutia about my personal life, though if there is a good story to tell about something that I’ve experienced I will share it. Some of the poetry that you’ll read is original work that I might have published in an anthology, book or lit magazine (and credited), or work in progress and under consideration for submission and publication. I have historically written op-ed columns, feature articles dealing with art and culture, and profiles. I will continue to do that kind of work here, and invite you the reader to post comments or ask questions. This year I will include my picks for interesting links on the WWW. Stay tuned for updates to the links section. Permission for use of any material presented here should be directed to me through this Blog .

Enjoy-

Contemplating Issues of Tolerance In Modern Day Society

Part I

I’m an information junkie. I read everything, pamphlets in the grocery store, brochures in the acupuncturist’s office, obscure local newspapers, neighborhood newsletters, lit zines from foreign countries and memoirs, novels by people who might not be the next big thing, and some who are. I also have the privilege of reading the books of poetry, stories, and essays by friends, local poets and writers, and listening to the young spoken word scribes speak their truth into the world.

People often ask me when “do you have the time to do all that reading?” I tell them that reading feels as natural as breathing to me, and feeds my desire to find out as much as I can about what people are thinking, doing and trying to express. As I read I wonder about folks who live in neighborhoods, just like mine, give or take a few trees and blades of grass.

Do they take in the information that comes their way or are they just tuned into the nine to five grind, the children to feed, the spouse to love, the bills to pay... Do they see beyond their four wheel drives, beyond their immediate circles, beyond just the eleven o’clock news world, to q larger synthesis.

As I read about the myriad of perspectives on the planet, I question whether or not tolerance is a value one inherits or learns. For example, I know I have learned to be intolerant of people who throw trash on the ground. I say I learned because I used to litter when I believed that there was always going to be some one to pick up my debris.

Of course when I was that callous I was a kid, living in a world where other people did the work of cleaning up my mess. I do remember a nun demanding that I eat the trash around my desk one morning at the beginning of a school day though.

I don’t think it was this cruel admonition for my littering or the anti-littering commercials of the time that changed my mind though. For a while, when I was older I became one of those people who cleaned up others’ stuff. I learned that littering was part of the oblivious bliss of childhood. Now when I look around I see that there are so many people letting their inner child litter, and I really wish they’ grow up.

There are harder questions about tolerance though, especially now in these quickly changing times. In the news the headlines work into the psyche of the nation. Keeping books and marginalized boys in inner city schools is not the top story, but what the boys do wrong around the world is. I’ve been told, by some teachers, that bad behavior and casual sex is rampant. I’ve been told, by some kids, that they are used to not be listened to, that yelling to get their point across is normal. This, explains why they find it unnecessary to appear as if they are paying attention.

In a world where morality and “the culture wars” are part of an every day discussion on talk radio and talk tv from TV One to Fox, NPR to the stations of the Christian heartland, perhaps daily practice in curbing impatience, rage, fear and anxiety should become part of the public education discourse.

Every day I wonder how we tolerate so much tension. Then I realize that If one uses reality tv and the daily news as a gage, we aren't doing to0 well.

To be continued....

2005-04-27T12:46:00.000-04:00

Celebrating Veriditas

(for Hildegard von Bingen)

Spring Fever’s got me watching the

wind direct microcosms

Pollen blows from here to there,

leaves scatter from late-shedding trees,

to mingle with man made debris.

Flies and bees awaken

to the sound of the greening,

in the calling, in the echo of the

departing night,

Chronus springs forward.

The white light winter nights

are melting away

and there seems to be

little time for sleeping

with so much to give breath to.

The season is changing,

is greening,

is turning over new leaves

and fresh blossoms of pink,

yellow and white,

and sending out its message

through the sound

of day long rainfalls,

through the scent of freshly – mown perfume,

and royal green blades upright glow.

Linda Joy Burke

This Poem originally appeared in Quintessence, a publication of the Traditional Acupuncture Institute. It also appears along with 4 other nature poems in the book Healing Design: Practical Feng Shui for Healthy and Gracious Living by Hope Karan Gerecht. 1999 Charles E. Tuttle Co. Inc.

2005-04-09T22:43:00.000-04:00

Why do some boy’s minds gotta die young?

They want to show you,

show you, show you,

that life has never been

so crazy, crazy, crazy,

don’t you know they

just want to

give you, give you,

give you a piece of

their prescious minds,

let you stare into

the echo of their worlds

they are

tugging text messages

through to your

wandering ears

and leaving them

littering the path to the

door of your thoughts

they have sought your attention.

Open

They want to show you,

show you, show you that their

blind faith in immortality

keeps them from flying into

the sun,

see their wings have

already been singed by the starry

eyed stares of evil,

tinged with the bravado of no regret,

their fragile egos wasted,

cause they thought all they had to do

was dream

the bigger the better,

don?t you know

they want to show you, show you,

show you that dreaming isn?t

all it?s cracked up to be.

They gotta show, show, show,

see this sun isn?t all

it?s cracked up to be

we be craving the

burn, burn, burn.

Don?t you know, know, know?

Linda Joy Burke

For a Teacher Friend, Working with boys in The Juvenile Justice System

In an Instant

2005-03-18T01:49:00.000-05:00

Everything Can Change

Today is St. Patrick's Day and my parent's anniversary, a day for celebration. I got a little distracted on the way to celebrating though. There was a major fire this afternoon, right around 3 o'clock, in the building next door to the one I live in . The ground floor apartment where the fire started is a total loss. The two above will be unlivable for months. The fire melted the wiring, scorched the front of the building, and sent smoke billowing up to the rafters and across to both my next-door neighbor''s and my home.

Before the fire engines arrived, people were asking if anyone was in the building. Someone asked if the fire alarm had been pulled. Even though I was dressed for taking my folks out for an anniversary dinner, I ran into the building and banged on what doors I could, smashed the glass for the fire extinguisher grabbed that, and on my way out the door I pulled the fire alarm. When I got outside the flames were burning the crisp bushes in front of the building. I quickly figured out how to work the fire extinguisher and sprayed the bushes praying that this was enough to keep them from catching fire all the way across. If they had, the big tree between the two buildings would have carried the flames to the roof.

I never knew time could move so fast and so slow at the same time. It seemed like it took an eternity for the fire department to get there, while the flames burned so quickly. The extinguisher was only good for the bushes but it did the trick, and the fire was contained to just that building.

This was the second fire in a little over a year's time in the same building. The first one was not nearly as bad damage wise, but still brutal because it was on a dreadfully cold night. Then, stunned neighbors, many awoken from sleep, stood on the sidewalk watching the firefighters work. Some of them stood in bare feet, pajamas, no coats. Some of us brought blankets and spare coats, while others took barefooted ones into their homes. Then the firefighters were kind, solicitous, asking who lived where, and verbally reassuring us that we would be okay.

Today's fire, happened when most of the people were still at work. The firefighters brought the fire under control right when folks were arriving home. I noticed that this time, they avoided talking to any of the neighbors; they did not ask if we knew who lived where. I was anxious about a dog that I knew was trapped in an apartment on the second floor and Its owner wasn't home. When I mentioned my feeling to one of the people who takes care of the development, he said almost simultaneous to my observation, ?They didn?t talk to us?. He told me he thought this was strange too, and that they were not really very nice, almost surly with him when he asked them a question. He said BGE was great, respectful, and able to tell us what to expect next. I had noticed the same thing.The dog was happily rescued and reunited with his anxious owners.

I did see one firefighter working with some of the displaced neighbors. He seemed kind enough, and perhaps they just leave it up to him to handle the folks. After all people can get in the way. But, these people really needed someone to make sense out of what they were coming home to. Some arrived to doors having been broken in, windows smashed or melted, and uninhabitable homes. All of us had to endure the invasion of men who needed to come in our houses to shut off the gas, replace valves, and then come back hours later to turn the gas back on and light the pilots. I had to leave so that I could take my parents to dinner, so I depended on the kindness of neighbors to look out for my stuff while these strangers were in my house. I hoped my cat wouldn't start climbing the walls; she really does not do drama well.

When I got back home, I arrived to find eight police cars in the parking lot, in addition to all the vehicles belonging to the various people who were dealing with the aftermath of the fire. I was in sensory overload. I stopped one of my neighbors and asked what's up now? She threw her arms up in the air in frustration and told me she had just gotten here too and didn?t know. Her condominium was inhabitable. I asked another couple who was getting ready to move out of their condominium for three or more months what happened. They told me that the bevy of police was there to arrest a couple who lived in their building, for domestic violence. They told me these two fought all the time.

Men were still going in and out of the buildings. One a large fellow with a big beard and lots of tattoos declared, "I could never live in a place like this. My house is going to be miles away from the neighbors." He said he did not want to have to worry about someone making the mistake of setting his home on fire or having roaches or paying fees. Then he started to talk about how dirty one of the condominiums was, so bad that his partner had to use gloves...It's a strange feeling hearing strangers evaluating lifestyles in the middle of a crisis.

We on this side are blessed with having just a momentary disruption of our lives. We have exchanged phone numbers and the pet owners are going to post notices on their front doors listing furred, finned, feathered, and scaled ones inside that should be rescued in case of fire or other calamities. All of us neighbors are reminded once again of the value of watching out for each other during a disaster. None of us wants to think about how much we could loose.

Linda Joy Burke

All Rights Reservered,ByAuthor

"Take Your Time"

2005-03-08T23:33:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I drove to Hagerstown.The last time I took a trip to this part of Maryland was nearly 25 years ago. I had to go to a little town just east of there called Boonesboro, because I'd found a screen-printer for tee-shirts, who used Soy Based Ink. I was young and harried and not very experienced in traveling out of the safety on my "hometown". I was so stressed, I don't remember the car I was in. I do remembering trying to get there in a hurry. Back then that stretch of the road was pretty lightly traveled, and a trap for unsuspecting speeders. I got a speeding ticket. I'm sorry to say I didn't enjoy driving then as much as I do now.

I was working on this recent trip too, however I guess with age and experience, things like timing and levels of urgency get worked out. I decided to leave a half hour earlier than I had originally scheduled. My car was covered with snow, however I was driving west, and Doppler said the snow was going to be more in the South East. I get a charge out of being out in drivable snow and I don't believe all the hype about every snow storm being so much of a bother. I miss snow when it's not around in these parts. Snow feels healthy to me, winter as it should be.

I really was going to try to stick to the main drag, on my little trip west, but as soon as I got to the commercial strip mall part of the drive, I veared off on the first Senic By-Way I saw. I live an a "new" community with just a handful of historic properties preserved amongst all the other 35 year old brick/siding and mortar constructions. Large Box buildings and shopping compounds are plentiful here. I've heard some folks here talk about how old things are at 30+. I guess if a thing is made to be disposable than it is old. There's not a lot of color here though. The whole idea was to blend into the environment. However, at some point in the midst of development, the environment started getting in the way. Us "oldtimers" are still grieving the loss of forests we counted as familiar.

I have a friend who says that folks used to gather on the front porch and visit with each other years ago, and we don't do that so much anymore. We have our back yards and email, and private lives now. This is espcially true where I live, which is not a community of people with front porches. I've passed a lot of amazing beautiful porches on this drive. The historic detail and colors of each set them in whimsical contrast to to the modern grey pavement. With the added snow, houses here are works of art to my mind's eye. I regret not having brought my camera.

I've noticed, that every time I slow down the drive, and get off the beaten path I discover the color and imagination in what is old in Americana. This trip was no exception. Here I saw architecture that was so beautiful and intricate and removed from the smooth cold lines of what shows up as new. Each house I saw was more destracting and delightful than the last. This was the kind of stuff that makes me wonder about the hands that crafted, and what was happening in the world during the time that was invested to make these places, and the lives that benefited from those creations. I see this old Americana as "a take your time" kind of culture, a time of back breaking hard work, which reflects character, genius, mystery and longevity.

For more reflections on Americana, through poetic intrepretations, visit www.washingtonart.com/whitman/walt.html .

DC Celebrates Whitman: 150 Years of Leaves of Grass

How The Eyes See

2005-02-02T21:34:00.000-05:00

A documentary about life in a

City far enough away to be like

A foreign planet, shows a boy’s

Sweet innocent face.

Speaking with defiant confidence he spits,

I want to be a martyr,

To go smiling, like the brothers

I’ve seen go before me,

Strapped up to his neck with enough

Mass destruction to get him where he’d

Been told he’d go,

He searched for infidels,

Saw children instead.

No words admonished - but

Looking through his own orphaned

Eyes, seeing children

Stopped him…

Soldiers and video -taping pedestrians

Watched him fall to his knees

Pleading to surrender.

How hard it must be

To live in the skin

Of a boy born into a world

Where the temptation of

Immortal grace’s promise

Is more seductive than a

Mind altering chemical;

Stopped him…

How easy it must be

To love the seduction

On the other side of reason,

To not think about

Loving another human body,

Or the soul sold.

Stopped him?

Seeing more lost children

Through his own orphaned eyes

Reminded him of what it was like

To be left alone and afraid

One too many times,

Stopped him?

Now hidden way

Behind the fences where

The enemy sleeps,

The boy no longer

Dreams of dying

But of living as a man,

Praying,

Allah is still smiling on him.

1/30/05

Linda Joy Burke

First Stage Denial

2004-11-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

First stage - denial.

Friday a week ago, a “local woman“, lost her twenty-year-old son to the war in Iraq. His story was on the daily news, for everyone to see. He was a hometown kid who'd gone to Boy's Latin and after the war, had plans to be on his way to Towson University. His former principal and teachers spoke well of his presence in life, said he was a really positive kid, with a great sense of humor, a leader. His father said that he’d always wanted to be a soldier, he had learned responsibility at an early age.

I know the boy's mother, so the first time I saw the report, and recognized her face, I watched with such sadness her gentle speaking and public grief. She talked about how you support your kids in what they want to do. How even though she was a pacifist, she knew he always wanted to be a sniper in the marines and she didn’t stop him. She understood the pride he had in what he was doing. I saw the pain on her face through the eyes of the network news, and all I could do was yell out no that didn't happen and curse.

Denial has never magically reversed death. Everyone who knew and loved this boy, for his promise yet to be fulfilled, will wish through out these days of family gatherings and celebrations for the nightmare of mortalities fragile truth to end. We will continue to hold vigil for those not yet returned, and those others destined to live their days entrenched in the jaws of war.

This son of America will be buried on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, in Arlington National Cemetery.

Linda Joy Burke

Lady of Baltimore

2004-10-03T20:34:00.000-04:00

The Lady of Baltimore doesn't know

how to erase the line between those who are

oblivious to the notion of a having better life

and those who are oblivious to the notion

of having a worse one.

The Lady of Baltimore clicks her red shoes

survey's the conveyances of Lexington Market,

drifts off on a temporal cloud

in search of the exit from never never land.

The Lady of Baltimore

loves her red shoes,

but has no energy for dancing

for the living, makes no claim on the future,

strains against gravity.

Linda Joy Burke

Locks

2004-08-30T14:27:00.000-04:00

Last week I locked myself out of my car, (so I thought). Was at the DMV on Dobbin road, which is near a bridal shop. I went in the bridal shop and asked the nice lady there if they had any wire hangers. She said yes and went to the back room to find them. She came back with two kinds of hangers, saying they were extra big which was better. I thanked her and proceeded to spend the next fifeteen minutes of that exceedingly hot day, unlocking the car door. Mind you I hadn't actually closed the door all the way. So there was easy access to the lock.

Greatful that I could get the door open, I took care of my business then went the Wildhides Florest just a couple of doors away. I bought two intensly beautiful yellow lily's for $1.50(single flowers half price all day until September). Actually, I told the store owner I wanted to give the woman in the Bridal shop a flower because she had given me the hanger to get in my car. When I told the florist that, she threw in the extra flower telling me, "oh yeah she's such a nice woman".

Then she told me about how the woman who worked in the bridal shop had gotten stuck in some accident traffic near the tunnel, which made her late getting to the shop. She said there was a man waiting for her to open up, and he was extremely angry with her for being late. The florist said that the bridal shop lady, "doesn't take any guff though", and had to put the guy in his place. She then showed me the small red topped parrot who was busily sounding off in the back of the store.

She told me she had 30 birds, so I asked her if she knew of the Bird Rescue organization that my neighbor belongs to. She said no, but belongs to two of her own. I got her name and e-mail address to share with my neighbor. Then, saying something about having to come back and treat myself to flowers, I took the small bouquet and went back to the bridal shop. I walked in the door and not seeing the woman at one of the desks, I yelled out "hello" silly and familiar like. There was no answer, but then I noticed she was sitting at a second desk, to my right, talking on the phone to a client. I laid the flowers on her desk, said thanks, smiled and turned to leave. She looked up and said, "aw that's so sweet of you maam".

A couple of days later, I discover that my door doesn't actually lock when I don't close it all the way. All I have to do is bump it with my hip, which disengages the lock. Had I done that, there'd be no sweating in the sun, no talking about Wildhides history and buying half price flowers, no exchanging of bird information, no paying it forward, and hopefully making someone's day.

Some people would say that I wasted all that time, but from where I'm typing I think I might have gained some.

2004-07-21T14:22:00.000-04:00

July 21, 2004

I have decided to turn the outside world off,
silencing the desire to ferret out other people's
opinions about things I can not touch,

I pick up trash in front of my house,
am gifted with finding a book of postage,

and lost instruments that had rolled out of

my car unseen in the middle of the night,

like errant meatballs.

I pick up what trash I can touch,

continue to go out of my way
to exercise my tired bones,

In this quiet, I rattle my mass

of imagination free

listen to the tumble.

Can you
hear the air?

It is the only thing

that costs nothing.

Linda Joy Burke

2004-06-13T22:09:00.000-04:00

June 13, 2004

Ray Charles and Ronald Reagan

Ray Charles died this week on June 10, 2004 the day before the official day of Mourning for the 40th president of the United States. I remember being a kid in D.C. growing up listening to Ray Charles and Nancy Wilson, Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra all the crooners. My folks, especially my mother loved listening to the smooth dusky music of these legends. In fact even now they prefer the music of that era to contemporary jazz, and R&B.

Sunday nights in our house, were dedicated to watching Wild Kingdom, Walt Disney, and the Ed Sullivan Show. The Sullivan show was great cause you got to see everyone that you’d heard of on the radio, but would probably never see in person. His mix included all kinds of musical sounds, unlike today where everyone is off in their own segregated song worlds. I saw Johnny Cash, James Taylor, Carol King, The Beach Boys, Willie Nelson, Bob Dylan, Glen Campbell, the Carpenters, The Momma’s and the Papa’s, and of course the Beatles, along with The Who, Jose’ Feliciano, The Jackson 5, Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis, Nancy Wilson, “little” Stevie Wonder and many others. I found all the music to be interesting, though the blind musicians especially Ray taught me something that I wouldn’t really get until I was much older. Blind folks were smart, not victims, and had productive intensely creative lives too.

Ray Charles was so amazing to me then, rocking back and forth on his piano bench, singing his memorable “Georgia, Georgia - the whole day through”. I was always afraid that he’d rock himself off to the floor one time, but he never did. He was the first blind person that I’d ever seen and contrary to what we knew about blind folks back then, he seemed absolutely radiant. He always had that huge smile on his face when he sang. He’d tilt his head back and off to the side a little, as if he was feeling the rays of heaven showering down on him and send his songs directly to the audience and what I imagined were his angels.

I was ten when I saw him sing live at the Carter Barren Amphitheatre in D.C. Of course to a little kid going to a place like the Carter Barren was like something out of a fairy tale. In order to get to the amphitheatre you had to go down this long paved path that went into the middle of the woods in Rock Creek Park. The path was lit by artificial light, but was more dark then bright. It wasn’t scary though, just wondrous and naturally beautiful. The trees towered like regal sentinels along the way and flowering azaleas and honeysuckle and other plants hunkered down forming a labyrinth into the park for squirrels, chipmunks, deer, raccoon and other wild things. When it was humid, the air was full of the honeysuckle scent. Hundreds of other families and couples walked along with us, and the atmosphere always seemed to feel like a big old Sunday picnic.

I learned early that I loved live music, and going to these concerts made me feel something that I never felt at school or at most other gatherings even mass. I didn’t know then, that this was part of what happened when you grew up in a country and learned the country’s rituals. Going to those concerts in the Carter Barren made feel like I was part of the free America. All I knew as a kid was that there in that crowd of folks, I saw folks like me, and I watched Ray Charles and the Rayletts, I felt like I belonged.

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On the evening before the 40th president’s burial and the “National Day of Mourning” I was channel surfing to see what news of the day was. Live coverage of folks moving through the viewing line of the Rotunda droned on non-stop on Cspan. The BBC broadcasters spoke about the thousands of American’s who were coming to pay tribute to Reagan at the Capital. Interviews from folks who had come from cross country to stand in the line for hours to walk passed the draped casket oozed affection and gratitude for the life of this one departed American. A so-called scare sent viewers scrambling out of the Rotunda on policemen’s orders of “run get out of here now”. I watched one woman scurry about in absolute panic like Chicken Little, while newscasters said everything went very well. I wondered why they didn’t just tell the people that it was only a drill.

One of the big three networks showed a montage of concerts featuring Ray Charles singing America. It was truly moving to see Ray, in each venue singing with that fervor of his, "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies”…It wasn’t really all about remembering Ray’s life though. Footage of Ronald Reagan whispering something in his ear at one concert, and the 41st and Reagan glad handing him were in another clip.

Later on that evening I watched another montage supposedly dedicated to Charles. They played him singing the anthem in the background, juxtaposed with scenes from above Reagan’s casket in the Rotunda of the Capital, a stealth bomber in a clouded sky and eventually concerts of Ray‘ with both 40th and 41st president in the background. There were, no compelling retrospectives of Ray‘s life, interviews with close friends, talks of memorial plans or weeklong dedications to his life though. Two days later, when I went to search the news of the mainstream media’s front pages and sadly even in the entertainment sections, Ray Charles was old news.

********

On July 11, 2004 I watched the televised funeral services for the 40th president of the United States. The video from the Capital to the National Cathedral to Andrews Air Force Base was stunning. The control and precision of the military color guards, poll bearers, and bands was reminiscent of a more controlled and orderly time. One newscaster said that it was good that other countries could see this part of America; it would give them the impression that we could put on a good ritual.

Indeed I marveled at the fact that those men and women could stand motionless in the rain, or extreme heat for what seemed to be endless hours and not falter. Yes, the majesty of this state funeral planned before “elevated” terror levels was astounding. With so many important people all in the same place, there was the constant nagging fear that something awful could happen.

Three thousand people filled the National cathedral, all dressed in black. Clergy from different denominations were represented, though the Imam who was present only walked in the procession. In that sea of funeral black, the absence of people of color was glaring and remarkable for someone - we are told as American’s was so loved. The later west coast funeral on the hillside in Simi Valley was no less spectacular or troubling. The sunset backlight created a heavenly golden hue over the mourners. More relaxed then the formal dignitary filled Cathedral service, I finally saw some genuine affection and comfort passed between Nancy and her children.

As I watched I kept wondering how much this state funeral cost, and who was paying for it. I wondered if the people who attended either ceremony felt a little peculiar, did they wonder were the people of color were?

Current 20 or even 30 something’s have no real idea about the Iran Contra scandal, and Reagan's disinterest in the anti apartheid struggle in South Africa. Sadly, they also don’t know of Reagan’s inability to really deal with the integrated society that America was becoming. Watching both funerals and noticing that the majority of the people of color present were worker bees, or diplomats, doesn’t bode well for the furthering the idea that the 40th president was the “peoples” president or a “great communicator” .

The old boy network has buried their "Great American Hero" though, and the bells from coast to coast have tolled. In the back of my mind I can hear Ray's melodic imploring " America - America, God shed his grace on Thee..." and I see him there swaying and singing on that bench in front a baby grand in the bye and bye.

I wonder if he's invited Reagan to his afterlife party?

June 7,2004

2004-06-07T22:58:00.000-04:00

Whose Hero Are You?

Today there is the feeling of mourning, en masse as American Newscasters reveal in dazzling testimonials the story of the life and death of Ronald Reagan the 40th President of the United States. Thousands of Americans will file past his coffin, and what is Heroic in Americana will be celebrated. Today, all other potential news of human interest disappears in the wasteland of not a priority. Now the headlines read Reagan Reagan Reagan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Israel, and Gaza Strip. Gas Prices, west coast fires, corperate scandals.

America needs to remember her heroes, though I know that some would question whose hero R was. Clearly because he was able to live so long, looking as good as he did, to his "mommy" Nancy his beloved, Ronnie was her Hero.

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I'm wondering about those who can't claim him though, the one's who've become the under class, marginalized without a clue as to how they got there. Will they care about what he might have done right, in spite of what they don't say about what he did wrong?

Yeah, America needs a hero in the 21st century but instead, we keep getting idols.

I remember when we were so afraid of what would happen when the "new" millennium came to be. So many envisioned the end of the world especially "True Believers" I was friends with some of those folks, who believed that all you had to do was charge up your credit card and kiss your future good bye.

They were right when you think about it. The first year of the "new millennium" was the end of the world, as we had previously known it and we were so unprepared to deal with the fact that so much was truly out of our control.

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What's sad is that no one took the warning signs seriously about that huge mind altering disaster in September of 2001. I saw Bin Laden's interview on 60 minutes (I think- it was one of the network TV magazines) months before the buildings were toppled, where he said that America had better watch out. He warned us then, and as I watched this sound byte on my TV screen I said out loud is anyone listening to this, someone's gotta be paying attention to this. I'm just a dumb civilian and I knew that this brazen threat was no joke.

*******************************************************************

Yeah, America needs a hero or two, but truly we need a hero who's alive.

For some reason I've been thinking a lot about that movie Road Warrior and Tina Turner's "We don't need anotherHero, we don't need to find a way home." The movie was quite a symbol for what happens when folks become resigned to accepting the worst of human behaviors as normal. In this end of "civilized life as we know it" there was corruption involving fuel, reckless boys driving extreme vehicles, subjugation of the marginalized and Thunderdome the futuristic down and dirty version of current underground "fight clubs" and the WWW's Smack Down. These days don't seem all that far removed from Thunderdome. We've gone from simulated war games for entertainment and a moment of downsizing military spending, to "Shock and Awe."

WMD's more lethal than the last generation's threat are not necessarily relegated to the dominion of War though. Star Wars may not even stop them. Nature will make sure of that.

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Now the makers of mass media images of life imitating art are blurring the fine line between rational and irrational behaviors amongst everyday people. Reality TV would have you believe that no one has substance here and Stepford is the true Soul of America.

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Yeah America needs a hero or two.

A nation that has unleashed what is savage from within, must not detach from its Soul. Heroes help with that keeping connecting, like Oprah, if you aren't prejudiced against the whole "talk show" circuit thing. Even though she's living large, she still embodies the message that individual and collective responsibility creates change in the body personal and the body politic. The choice is in our hands regarding whether the change is positive or not. Creative responsibility keeps us connected to our SOUL.

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Yeah America needs a hero or two and they don't really have to be millionaires, though in some cases money can change everything. The truth is that the Heroes are out there, we just take them for granted. We are so myopic sometimes that we truly miss the little things that make one heroic.

One of my heroes is a lady who lives down the street.Once a month she picks up all the garbage in the neighborhood. She walks up and down the five blocks in front of her house with her recycled grocery bags picking up refuse and there isn't a sign up saying that she's adopted the street. She's not a youngster either; she's someone's grandmamma.

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Yeah America needs a hero, someone we can reach out and trust/touch/trust/touch.

Linda Joy Burke

2004-06-06T11:33:00.000-04:00

Waking in the morning after a night of sadness, grief and weeping/ wondering where the lights of the world are when/ what I hear in the daily news is / about those who would steal away what is good/ there are the sound bytes of woman weeping and wailing/ their children's flesh torn from their hearts/ So I am here in sterile suburbia waiting/ for the sweetness in the world to return/I am waiting to breathe in relief/ a rebirth of innocence no bad news/ no tales of children, mutilation and death/ no tales of greed, power over reason/ no rushing to get on numbly to the next thing / I am waiting for the wasting away of the precious things to end/ I am waiting for the poems of Rumi to be a daily prayer/ no more righteousness to change the mind of the non believers/ only a pure love easily streaming/ worn clear and through to the brain and the heart's bed/ Beloveds all in a country knowing - more about creating than breaking down.