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.

 

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 

All Rights Reserved by Author:

 

Why Write a BLOG?

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.

All Rights Reserved  By Author; Linda Joy Burke

 

 

 

 

 

 

Selecting Balance

 

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

All Rights Reserved by Author