Why?

There were several things that I had running through my mind today that I thought when I finally got to this page I might write about but along the way a read a blog post that I on occasion gravitate to.  Upon doing so, I was reminded that this was the anniversary of the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero 31 years ago. Thirty-one years? It seems like in many respects it was only yesterday.  This takes us back to what many like to think of as Morning in America a phrase coined by Ronald Reagan.  If you are one who thinks this was a simpler time, remember the turbulence in Central America. Remember Reagan Administration selling arms to Iran and the proceeds from covert arms sales to fund the Contras in Nicaragua in blatant violation of an act of Congress. Yes, and all you hear today is praise for Ronald Reagan, and Republicans push and shove each other out of the way in their quest to be the quintessential Reagan Republican. But I digress.

In her blog post Kristin Berkey-Abbott said she could think of "few other people who lived during the second half of the 20the century who more deserve sainthood" then Archbishop Romero. She argues that Romero, like Jesus must have known what wrath he was bringing down upon himself, but he did not back down. Until the end of his life, he called upon us to reform our earthly systems, systems that enrich a few on the backs of the many. Romero and Christ both show us that the forces of empire do not take kindly to being criticized.  The the death squads that roamed the country, the social-economic inequity, the human rights abuses by the government and the murder of a personal friend who dared to intercede on behalf of these issues for the people were too big a burden to shrug off and Archbishop Romero would not be the quiet complacent caretaker of the Church that the Vatican wanted him to be.  The result was essentially the same as his murdered friend. The Archbishop was gunned down as he celebrated Mass.

I think of President Obama's trip to South America and how many divides remain between the America's to this day. I think of the uprisings throughout the Middle East and the clamoring for democracy by those who know so little of it, yet do know the pain of repressive rule.  I think of people in this country who pray to God and find fault in everyone else. With all the problems in many countries, we who have so much seem to have a way of looking past the plank stuck in our own eyes and are so certain everyone else must see things as we do. 

If our theology is not a liberation theology, then why was Christ so given to the blind, the poor, the sick, the weary?  Why was he so angered by the money interests in the temple? Why did he love those who are often the least loved among us?  Why?  And why do we not?

Just wanted to point out...

I have a poem published in the new edition of RIGHT HAND POINTING Issue 40 "Harsh Mathmatics"


The Accountant

Confession Tuesday - The Tulips are up edition.

Dear Reader:


It’s been one perigee full moon, one King’s Speech, countless puppy potty training trips to the yard, too much news on the TV and much consternation over world affairs since my last confession.


I confess that I have not written well this past week. I’ve not had much success at focus which perhaps accounts for some of the problem. Then there is in yet another way too much focus. Confused yet? Let me help you.


First I’m speaking of the setting in general. Too much distraction from too many external forces tends to lead to the frustration level that hinders a writer’s effort. Distractions, interruptions, those kinds of things. Then come recognition that what you are doing sucks. So at that point you press yourself forward trying diligently to create something and this more singular focus approach is the overkill that dulls the creative process. A more relaxed approach is needed. Like a dieter who starts with some kind of cleansing phase before maintenance begins, the head needs to be clear of excessive linear thoughts. Open to more possibilities. I confess I wish I could bottle this condition and store it in the cellar like grandma did her canning to call upon later as needed.


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I’ve found myself looking backwards a lot lately. I confess I’m not sure what but in doing so I catch myself longing for those days. I think if I could choose to be a certain age again It would likely fall somewhere between twenty and thirty. This whole exercise in reflection is nonsense, still I wish for those times again – maybe a part of me wants a do-over but there is something about those years that I long for as well.


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Only 10 days till the Synesthesia –Art gallery showing. Yes, I confess I am still Oh so excited about it!


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I noticed the Tulips have broken ground in our front yard. I confess this makes me happy!


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Lately I’ve turned to twitter for breaking news stories often during the day. I confess I don’t know if this is a good thing or not.


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For some reason I’ve been thinking about gardening this week. I confess I’ve no explanation. I’ve not had the best success at it in the past. I’m actually thinking more of flowers and landscaping then vegetables. Though a strawberry patch would be cool. And I could go for some watermelon.  :)


That’s it for this week… Thanks for reading and have wonderful week!

O Moon that hangs above our home

Last night hanging over our roof line and framed by wispy leafless branches I observed the perigee full Moon.  I also saw The Kings Speech. The lunar experience came on one of 174 potty training attempts with a puppy. The movie came on one attempt by Cathy and I to escape the dog madness and be alone (with a crowd of other presumably humans). Writing was impossible- I managed a blog post that must have taken me nearly three hours to write and post. Things are relatively quiet at the moment. I have several "must do things" today so when I finish this post I must start tackling them while it's possible.

I especially enjoyed the movie. It was not so much about plot as it was the characters, and they were well played. Except the portrayal of Winston Churchill by Timothy Spall fell flat; my wife's opinion which I share. Geoffrey Rush, Colin Firth, and Helena Bonham Carter... all superb! Their Academy nominations and awards were much deserved.

Censoring for the Public / Poetry & Purity

"When the writer knows pretty well that only very few volumes of his edition will be bought... he obtains a great freedom in his creative work. The writer who has in view the certainty, or at least the possibility of selling all his edition, is sometimes influenced by their future sale... almost without meaning to, almost without realizing -- there will be moments when, knowing how the public thinks and what it likes and what it will buy, he will make some little sacrifices -- he will phrase this bit differently, and leave that out."

I found the above quote via the poet Nathalie Handal, who linked an article by Christopher Merrill, Director, International Writing Program, University of Iowa. The article titled The Invisible Procession  appeared in the Huffington Post and addresses of the use of poetry when the world shifts underfoot.  Merrill seems to be asking, are these times not picture perfect for the genuineness of poetry?

I've never considered this to be a positive attribute, but there is an irony in these words. Poets like Carolyn Forche', Pablo Neruda, Nathalie Handal, Charles Simic, and Mahmoud Darwish are a few poets that come to my mind who have have in fact very effectively written poetry of witness.  In each of these cases I think there is clear evidence that their work has been void of the kind of sacrifices of genuineness that panders to what a writer thinks people what to hear. Still each achieves a following because of their art. Maybe because of the purity of their words and not through capitulation. Amen!

Today's Wisdom

A word after a word after a word is power. ~ Margaret Atwood

Poem: Our Story

Our Story

I love the sea and fear it;
the way it crashes the shoreline.
I love life with all the misfortune
because hope is a buoy
I cling to and continue to believe
that a patch of fertile land
is just over the curved possibility
and I love you because the storm
that presses upon us will grow silent
as a blank page— and we will write
our story.

2111© Michael A. Wells - All Rights Reserved