“The Bones of a Community” by Trevor Witt – dedicated to Tia Chucha’s
The bones of a community,
These four walls and a ceiling,
Three surrounded by books, one made of glass,
So people can see inside, to encourage their curiosity,
So people can read — stories which reflect and heal,
So they can learn how to deal, with trauma and drama,
The little annoyances and the deep, cutting tragedies,
This space breaks down barriers,
Bringing together warriors for peace,
Creating joy and carrying love,
Finding room for music and poetry,
In a world filled with tragedy and pain,
These microphones let people speak,
Without feeling judged – sensitive or weak,
This stage lets us open our wounds,
Sing them lullabies and give them hugs.
Mama, this place is garden for my mind,
Where the neurons in my brain connect,
Like vines, crawling from book to book,
Reaching for the sunlit knowledge,
And the comforting breeze of fiction.
This place is a little treasure, a blessing for my soul,
Filled with silver words, and golden phrases,
Sparking imaginations, leaving them ablaze,
Like the burning bush in which G-d appeared,
On fire, but not burned,
And healing like the water which held Moses,
When he was given up to the river, yet returned.
Yes this piece of heaven contains the bones of a community,
And our souls wrapped in flesh gather to proclaim in unity,
“How splendid are you, Source of the Word!
For I have prayed to you with words I did not know how to speak.
Yet you have heard and I have now found what I seek!”
“Some Psalm” by Trevor Witt
If it’s meant to be,
It’s mint to be.
Don’t go soiling your future with thoughts of rotten fruit,
Let go of your broken branches and brown leaves,
Ground yourself in the present,
Reaching for the nutrients you need,
To grow, to feed your nature.
Remember,
We are rooting for you –
Knowing that you will sprout and flower,
Bringing new beginnings with each sunrise,
And bringing endings with each leaf lost.
We plant our faith in you,
Whose seeds span the future and the past,
With dreams that dwell in eternity,
You are ever-present in the Heart of the Creator.
“I don’t want to share that poem right now” by Trevor Witt
I don’t want to share that poem right now,
Not the one about me breaking down,
Not the one about me crying for months,
Not the one where I examine every old grievance.
I don’t want to share that poem where I fall to my knees,
Bawling, praying, wailing, and whining.
I don’t want to share those poems which my wounds with salt,
Rubbing alcohol into my emotional cuts,
But I don’t want to erupt like a volcano,
Or turn over the earth as I quake and shake.
I don’t want to destroy everything,
As I resist crumbling myself.
I have to express this,
To expel it.
“They said war would never come to the Shire” by Trevor Witt
They said war would never come to the Shire.
They said we were beyond Sauron’s reach,
Even if he had the one ring and an eye of fire.
And they said his special military operation would only be to take back what was his,
Taking over the lands of the hobbits is not what his mission is.
But who will stop his armies if not us?
Who will save the Elves from being crushed?
Putin’s minions have armed themselves,
And we are still contributing to his oil wealth.
The oligarchs and the West pretend they have cut their ties,
But somehow their mega-yachts escape the FBI’s eyes.
Now, slowly, the sounds of birds singing transform into bombs bursting,
From Donetsk and Luhansk to Kyiv and Odessa,
The blue skies have turned into deadly messes,
With drones dropping in to gather intelligence,
How can we ever convince
The puppet masters that they cannot win wars?
That they will end up destroying their cores?
The ring of power must be destroyed,
As no good will come of absolute power employed,
Humanity is meant to live in harmony,
We cannot bludgeon our way to a better destiny.
The Americans think they can secure the peace with guns,
But then the police shoot black men running away with no weapons.
The English and Europe think they can secure their wealth with bribes,
Meanwhile the world’s oligarchs play with poor people’s lives.
We are not cannon fodder for corporations,
We are not pawns at our work stations.
We are human beings, seeking freedom and opportunity,
From the Uyghurs in China to the Shia in Saudi,
To the Baloch in Pakistan and Rohingya in Myanmar,
We preach unity and nonviolent resistance,
We will demand our freedoms – from Palestinians to Jews, we insist!
So listen dear orcs, sabotage your catapults,
Unscrew the levers of war and hinder your faults,
Archers, break the tips of your arrows,
Turn your tanks into wheelbarrows,
Turn your swords into plowshares,
And show the other side you care.
This is the only way to defeat the devastation of war,
We need warriors for peace to show us another door.
We will not become murderers,
But we will not stand still,
We will forge ahead,
To be a beacon of kindness,
Upon a hill of love,
We will stand proud,
In front of God above.
“You text me” by Trevor Witt
You text me
As if nothing ever happened,
As if you never abandoned me,
While the world was shutting down,
While society was collapsing,
While my fears and insecurities were at their height,
You text me
As if a photo of coffee related stuff
Will make me happy – to hear from you,
To forget that you uprooted me from us,
To forgive you for turning my world upside down,
To let go of resentment and pain.
Well, you are right.
It is time to let go.
“Something is happening here” by Trevor Witt
Something is happening here,
I can feel it as I read your poetry.
I can see it as I survey the weeds,
And the native sage,
Breaking through the cracked asphalt,
Towering four feet high in a parking lot.
A former Fries has been fried;
Closed, like Circuit City, it shut down.
Something is happening here,
As the poets write, and the painters paint,
And the singers sing heartfelt songs,
As I feel the beating in my chest,
Scared to move forward, but walking anyway.
I feel it in the breeze, as it whooshes
Through the leaves of the bushes at the farm,
And causes the shade canopies to puff outward.
I can taste in the sorrel and the basil,
And the sweet, sweet, juicy tomatoes.
Something is happening here,
I can hear it in the way the old man plays the piano.
I can see it in the smile of the woman I buy flowers from.
I ache for it from the core of my being.
A dream is being born,
A community is being formed,
The voices of stagnation have gone silent.
And we are awake, ready to take the reins,
To direct the course towards each other,
To re-entangle our lives,
To weave tapestries and baskets of love,
From the reeds and the weeds and the grasses of the Valley.
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