April 18, 2013
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Lullaby; Washington @ Calling, “Justice.”
Mourning is about to break the silence in wails, in grief, so much grief that the loved ones of those lost in Boston are about to tremble. It is as if at these moments our legs are clay once more, and we are back at the dawn the making of man, and that child comes forth with the stain and scent of birth, and hearts are bursting for every soul lost in Boston. I need to morn with other parents whose children are just lost — the fear, the horror, all of the worlds sins packed in these absences, the crudeness of disappearance — Never the absence of love, but murderers on the loose. Our hours are here to do as we are asked, to let privacy be our watch word, to let the dead be buried, and to pray — Yes pray, even if you do not believe. Pray as believers, and pray the Masses with the people. Hold a rosary in your hand, and it will guide you through the prayers.
I have told another Xanga friend that a Mass, or other kind of funeral is the last lullaby which can be sung for the loved one, For the little boy of St.Patricks, — The lullaby of, “Coming Home,” Oh gracious and sweet home of Protestant parent or parents and friends. Sing with them, and let your voices be heard, for it allows those weeping to hear the comfort on the air. Yes, please sing dear people — For the non-believer, then sing their favorite songs, but lift your voices to lift souls, for again– We are mortified, and we do not know what to do, especially when we we’re not there to go to the souls groaning in horror and in pain from nails, bolts, steel, and pressure cookers which would blow like rockets, some fragments so small they are passing over us as space debris.
All the dead are sweet babies to someone, so they need their favorite things, the butterfly they netted, the picture they once drew, and a favorite Holy thing — Oh please give them their things, and if only we could — Then the clock would have stopped, and a voice would call, “Move no further.” I believe that some survivors will tell us, that something within was uneasy, but the grand race was on, and to be negative would have caused some humiliation; “Do not go on,” many will understand this was Angel speak, but it seemed irrational to be afraid, so a runner would run, and a family would band together as they did at all special events — These precious beings will remember and may not be able to bear the news that something, just something wanted them to fall before the race was done. Angels, miracles you are, for some just wanted to laugh and gather homeward. I know how some of these things happen, only when I feel too much terror, I make it known that I will do what my Holy Muse has hinted. Heaven sends the open arms, but the little one will fly on by for fear of the worst makes no sense when you are the willful wind. I understand.
Let us sing the stories of the, “Breaking of The Bread, and taste the sweet winem and the dead may have each; Just a crumb of bread for the journey, and a drop of wine for the mouth, Vat I Cum, food for the journey. And let us all feast the same for those whose names we do not know — But they will come to know us, for our table is spread, and the fruit is in the bowl, beautiful fruits — the oranges, the apples, the perfect bunch of grapes, for the scent fills the air, and your goodness to share spreads past death and wafts over time — We can be wonderful servants for the living and for the dead. A candle’s light will show the faces in the dark as the bless you for the wine and for the fruit and for their lives == Bitter were the demons who took them, but it is done. Just prepare the table and invite the spirits in, something which I believe, but you may not be ready yet to believe the same. I walk in bare feet over gravel and the stinging of fire ants and cried out so many times to get this far, so I understand disbelief, for I bled and felt fire to come to this place the secret abyss which I carry.
Oh Senators, “Shame;” you are so shamed when you ignored the dead, and let parents grieve before you knowing that you had heard their children’s names, and the clipping were in your desk that some comfort may have come from one vote, just your vote cast, because you are human and not a slave to the bearers of arms which fire and fire until so many are dead the pool of blood is still hot and has the consistency of just flowing from those who lived a moment ago What ignorant pawns you are! What sinners live in Washington and strut like cocky geese feeding on the excesses of money from others who found you to be the silly pawn who would make promises, an lie; How you would lie for them, the ultra rich who bought your place to keep their hands in politics. We are not ignorant; No, we know that it takes dollar bills to line your trail from whatever state allowed you to take your seat, but they did not understand that every one of you are bought like the cheapest garage sale book with the last pages torn out, so that you will not be able to know the story’s end or where it began of babies who keep dying from the loaded guns to which you aspire. I cannot help this, but to regard you as evil as any devil, as without conscious as any falling bolder who does not mind a few dead now and again. Shame that you would not make all accountable for the guns they own; Shame, that this day somewhere, a child will find a loaded gun and fire, and again the parents will wail, their grief around your neck. I pray that you know that we are on to you and the money trails, that we talk as friends, and no longer are we fully guided by what is reported, for we know how you are willing to lie. “Support The NRA,” you agreed that you would, and you have. Shame! Pure shame, and you will perish someday with little children’s fear and their blood dripping from your cyanotic hands, for the mortal you will die and pass away. The Senator you will be on our list, for we are Holy People, and to clean the house in Washington; the list of names who voted for no further gun controls are ones we are going to take out, not with a gun — But with a vote. I beg the parents of Sandy Hook to make the list, and to leave the names over the faces of their children — Yes, we are going to send you away from Washington, for it is now all of us, the people, and we are on to you.
Little Amish girls and boys and Columbine, shopping mall, theater and now where people were so joyful running in a race; How could you bastards fail us, and how do you think Washington will go on as usual. Are we not speaking more loudly each election? Where is thy sting on, “Death and Murder,” — “On more than 60 senator’s desk,” cried the dead children as they pass on by, and parents can barely pick up their feet, bemoan the loss of faith, but I tell them: “Only demons sanction the horror of disbelief, all of mortal’s pompous fools who would not give up the money road for other children to live. That is death, those who make the money trails and hide behind sanctimonious titles, the Washington aristocrats. The same who sent sons and daughters to die where they cannot win, and still leave just enough there to hear of an American child murdered again. I am not the arbiter of punishment for the rogues who untimely walk the Capital steps, but I will listen to the children and the parents who are passing by to take the roses which you send to cover up the scent of injustice which has lingered far to long. ”Justice,” I call it by name, and I beg to see the day when it waltzes in, for we Americans have fallen too many times when Justice was not in the room, for it cannot sit where such egos rule and the bombs continue to flare.
Let the mothers and fathers, the sisters, brothers and all friends and families sing the farewell lullabies, and know that our hearts are filled with prayers for each of you We are shamed, for we do not know what else to do for you. We are here from Columbine to Sandy Hook. We will march with you, so call your drummer to lead us.
Love and Prayers, Barbara Everett Heintz, Author, “Pinkhoneysuckle
Also Author of “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle and Create Space
