killing

Disgruntled: Found Poem in the News

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 2 Comments

The shooter was disgruntled. An employee.
The shooter died after a gunfight with police.
The gunman was a worker.

The day was most devastating.
The most devastating in history.

The people involved were our neighbors.
The shooter was confronted shortly after opening fire.
There was an exchange of gunfire.
The police officer’s vest stopped a bullet.
The police officer was injured.

People heard someone falling.
People went to investigate.
There was a woman.
There was blood all over.
Get out of the building!
The guy’s got a gun!

Unsure how to react.
In a way you want to stay.
In a way you don’t want to stay.

The shooting occurred when people were conducting business.
People were hiding under their desks.

Police found a pistol and a rifle.
The suspect is thought to have purchased the firearms legally.
People can take guns into public buildings.
The mass shooting took place.
The FBI is responding.
The president has been briefed.

Six people were hospitalized.
Deadliest mass shooting.
Since November.
Twelve people were killed.
Senator devastated by the news.
My heart is with everyone.
Praying for a swift recovery.
Praying for all involved as we learn more.
Praying for our city.
We are resilient.
We will get through this.
Stronger than before.
We always do.

Please Don’t Read This Poem If Your Heart Is Feeling Tender

/ Beth Weaver-Kreider / 6 Comments

Gratitide List:
(first, in case you want to stop before reading the poem)
1.  Breathing in compassion.  Breathing out compassion.
2.  The helpers.
3.  A compliment: I will be the opposite of Cynicism
4.  The red open mouths of the tulips
5.  Getting to decide who I want to be.

I need a labyrinth today for going into the darkness,
and remembering to come back out.2011 June 227

I do not want to write this poem.
I need to write this poem.
That boy who died in the blast,
that one with large wide eyes like my sons,
I killed him.  Well, not him, exactly.
But that other one, the one
who happened to be where a Taliban terrorist
happened–oops–to not be
that day when the apricots were blooming
on the hillsides of Pakistan.
He was watching for his father to finish a race,
for his father to come in from planting his fields,
for his father to return from the next village.

I am so tired of all my murdering.  So tired of killing.
I am tired of this poem already, and I am only beginning.
Some days I see the blood everywhere:
on my hands, on my pillow, in the fields
where the spring onions are growing.

I pay my taxes, don’t you see?
That’s the whole story.

I have murdered my own children.
Well, not my sons exactly.
But sons.  I have killed so many.
And mothers.  So many.

Just like Mr. Obama has murdered his daughters.
He sent bombs from the sky
to kill them, to maim.
Well, not his own daughters exactly.
But daughters.  So many daughters.
And fathers.

Please stop me.
I don’t want not to write this poem.
I am so weary of killing,
of writing this poem, I mean.

I keep doing it, keep killing.
Keep sending my finches and bluebirds,
my tender little toad,
keep sending my taxes.
To kill people, children,
in faraway places.  My children.
Eyes so large, they want to take in the whole world.
“No more hurting people,” they all say.

I pay my taxes, don’t you see?
I need to stop writing this poem.
I am so weary of it, so very weary.

Yes, I know it was I.
I was the one who plotted and schemed,
who planted those bombs
like I plant my tomatoes.
Well, not those bombs exactly,
not those very bombs.
But bombs.  The ones raining death
from the blue sky to the hills
where the apricots are blooming,
raining down killing on children.

My own children.
Not my own.  Not mine.
But my children.

Please.  I need to stop writing this poem.