From my experience with the Cloud Quakers, they have quite a creative streak! One of our members has written some beautiful and thought-provoking poetry. Please take a look at two poems below!
Felled Infodemic
The infodemic has been spotted
sleeping fetal position in ditches
by the roadside now.
Even curious bobcats, packs
of feral dogs turn away.
When awoken, this gigolo,
so used to cleaving to wrath and untruths,
re-arranges himself in elbow and knee
threadbare thrift store garments, that reek
like the well-trodden, popcorn grey rug beneath,
not steam-cleaned for years.
There are few oases for the honest worker,
laborer, in excluding corporate deserts-
the sweating letter carrier donning an oyster-white sun helmet,
her hat turning bisque from exposure, use-
the guys who rinse the ceiling of the Holland Tunnel
out of trucks with long hoses at 3:30 AM,
invisible as NYC's early morning garbage men.
Those pre-positioned by culture, birth,
or just lucky enough to drink,
think they've outsmarted the awoken
bespoken to justice, struggle, peace
on their hoarder chessboards.
They dip their heads
like roomy and hollow-chinned pelicans
sucking up, storing tax cuts welfare,
and I dare opine,
if the poor are the ones
destined for heaven,
as still promised over two millennia,
why are most obsessed
with restoring the middle class?
You can work full-time
and still be poor-
this is not what we were created for.
1/23/2021
F.T.
The Baby Jesus Is A Joy Bomb
Everybody loves that itty-bitty baby Jesus. There he is in a barn, supine, flailing his arms in a makeshift feeding trough lined with straw, wailing those kinds of infant cries that sometimes piss off middle-aged men on airplanes, shooting looks at mothers in consternation, then resentful resignation. The first to see the Cosmic Christ were some cows, warming him up with their breath too, I hope; curious donkeys, sheep, goats, mice. Maybe a puppy, a kitten were there- that would've been nice. If St. Joseph was up a dirt way talking logistics while his 14 year old spouse was giving birth as I imagine was the custom those days, then "lowly beasts" were placed to illumine their worth too, just like that holy peanut was for homo sapien you. Last Christmas eve, 10 minutes before midnight, I excused myself from a repass to attend to a nagging task. A neighbor left a shattered bedroom dressing mirror on the corner sidewalk for days. Thousands of chunks and shards of glass in a sheet, waiting to impale the paws of urban wildlife traveling through the night. No one on the block moved to remove it. People up, feast-sated, still celebrating, the streets fallow, a quiescent-of-sound kind of vibe in the air. I went to my shed and grabbed a bin and broom, cleaned up that 15 pound mess, checked the late night street lamp light at different angles to find straggler shards that could puncture, harm, hidden in grey crannies, then triple bagged and tossed them. Happy Birthday, baby Jesus. This is for you, because you love all of your friends, not just bleaters, brayers, and moo-ers presented in seasonal, sentimental manger illustrations, but living among us. Then a hidden joy bomb exploded in my chest. No one saw it, or ever will. But I think my new community cat rescue Kamala, a calico, has come to feel its pull.
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