Raca has been my name: vacant fool nothing behind my eyes nor between my ears for when my opponent failed to see as I see to hear what I hear and I failed to see as he sees to hear what he hears I called him Raca Jesus said calling someone Raca subjects me to the fires of hell Gehenna Fire disintegrates A sheet of paper, for example begins curling smoke then bending crumpling graying thinning blackening flaking impossible to gather it disappears a heap of ash I find it easy to love the firefighter but hard to love the arsonist I love the thick-tongue taste of the word Raca love the rush as I aim my stab direct and sharp at the heart of the arsonist the greedy the ignorant the violent I stick it to him But when I stab him with Raca does he wake from his stupor? does he repent? No in his humiliation he darkens sinks heavy like a trapped animal his face flushes with rage which moves him to vote for the one who feeds his new hunger for victory and vengeance Then the fire turns back toward everything I love the bonds between us our freedom and peace our hiking trails even our songs our books and plays our warm sanctuaries even our blue sky smoke and ash So who is Raca? I am Raca.
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Deepest thanks!
Love it! Myself am hell, says Satan in Paradise Lost. We suffer from our sins, not for our sins. 'Judge Not' warns us that we injure ourselves first. Let me reread and reread... Thank you.
Sad, this poem, admitting defeat, ending in ash. We can almost see the two people. The fires out west devastated hundreds of people, but we feel more for the two you bring us close to ("hiking trails... songs..."). You don't trot out the easy answer: return good will for ill will. Easier to say than to do. Easier to say for people in the hundreds, far away, harder to say and do between these two. Isn't that a less-obvious failing of love, that we go where the saying is easier than the doing? A good poem does not make that mistake, and yours does not. Thank you for letting this be hard, letting it hurt. You don't reach for the easy empty victory he does. His vote makes the mistake your poem does not. With his vote he goes where the saying is easier than the doing.