They Say

They say my time's a time of change,
A new beginning, a fresh start.
Why, then, does it seem our range
Of change does not reach to the heart?

They say that all my people will sing
Of the god of Jacob, god of Zion.
Why, then, will so few bring
A word of comfort, a shoulder to cry on?

They say that we have all the power
To right the wrongs of time before.
Why, then, does this force all sour
Behind the comfort of closed door?

They say our feet will take us places
To relieve the world's great groans of pain.
Why, then, at home among the races
Are there still groups so cut in twain?

They say our hands will touch the lost
Who struggle in the dark of night.
Why, then, do these tempest-tossed
Still grasp, helpless, for the light?

We are not changed by what they say
Or by what their hopes and dreams spell--
No, it is our work, our destiny, our way
To save this cruel world from cruel Hell.

Plato Meets Clinton

Dramatis Personae: PLATO

CLINTON

CHIEFTAIN

WIFE

CHIEFTAIN and WIFE assume position of statue, motionless. Enter CLINTON and PLATO, arguing about the role of women in government. PLATO stops at statue.

CLINTON: I’m so glad you could make it today; it is an honor to have a man of your stature into my house. That’s an interesting uniform; it looks somewhat familiar.

PLATO: Yes, in my tour of your country, I met an interesting group of young people who represented my ideal of conformist education—they are called the Pathfinders, and they are indoctrinated from their early years in the way of their religion, everything from physical skills like marching to advanced physics. If they stay for many years, they become leaders—just as they would in my republic. So, I wear the uniform of these children, in the spirit of my republic.

CLINTON: I thought the uniform looked familiar. Normally, it is children who come in and see my art collection, for I find it an excellent education for them in the arts.

PLATO: How could show such a thing to children? This statue displays a gruesome, terrible death. As I’ve said in my writings, If a child believes that the place of the dead exists, and that it is terrible, do you think he will be unafraid of death, and choose death in battle before defeat and slavery? What you show here is nothing but defeat and slavery!

CLINTON: Well, I need to boost my performance in the polls, and education is a hot-button issue. By showing the children this art, I am educating them, and also improving in the polls.

PLATO: As a strong female leader, why do you keep something around that so poignantly reminds one of woman’s submission to man?

WIFE: Willing submission- look at the way that I kneel by my husband, even in death. Also, look at the way that he holds on so delicately—while he himself dies.

CLINTON, startled glances at statue.

CLINTON: I keep it because of its aesthetic value. I mean, look at it—it almost seems as though it were alive, as though it could spring to life and tell its own story.

PLATO: You speak of ridiculous things! You imagine it to speak to you, but imagination is a waste, for it is false. . . Doesn’t it bother you at all, how submissively the woman bends in death as the man stands over?

CHIEFTAIN: I was not killing her to show my superiority, but to save her from slavery. I could not stand to see my dear wife made submissive.

PLATO: In my republic, women would be equal with men in society and in politics; women and children would be in common, all equal.

CLINTON: Do you think I don’t know about that? Do you think I don’t know of woman’s ability to rule? Plato, times are changing. I am well on my way to becoming America’s first philosopher queen.

PLATO: angrily You are no philosopher! Look at this sculpture! No true philosopher queen would possess this. For one thing, it shuns the necessary poverty of true leadership and its excessive expression of emotion too easily captures the mind and inflames the senses. It will corrupt you, and I fear for your nation even more upon seeing this than when I heard it was a democracy, that endless pandering to the masses.

CHIEFTAIN: Did you hear that, dear? We corrupt leaders!

WIFE: Yeah, what did we ever do to deserve this badgering?

CLINTON: This statue will not corrupt me, but open my eyes to history. Look at it again, Plato, for it was made after your time. True lovers of art have much to say of it. It was made in the Hellenistic period in the Pergamene style—

PLATO: You mean Greeks fashioned such trash?

WIFE: In more ways than one; we were defeated, and according to YOU, WE, as a product of the imagination, are trash!

CLINTON: So Plato might say... ::turns to Plato: Anyway, several centuries after you wrote, Gallic invaders came from the north—

CHIEFTAIN: That’s us!

CLINTON: But they lost.

WIFE sighs audibly.

PLATO: How is such defeat a noble theme for art, then? In my republic, there would be no defeat—that alone displays how these conquerors are not Greeks of my government.

CHIEFTAIN: Your republic relies on perfect people, and there are none—no truly gold people, only those of false people, fool’s gold.

WIFE: How can there be any people of true gold? They can only strive to be so.

WIFE: Behold, we were made of bronze. . .

CHIEFTAIN: Until the Romans made a copy of us in marble and lost us in the sands of time. Still, Epigonos, or whoever it was that sculpted us, managed to catch our very last breaths. Plato wouldn’t approve of our portrayal; the artist followed the latest style, expressionism, to make us seem alive.

CLINTON: chuckles The Greek empire fell long ago to the Romans, who later fell to another empire. Defeat, it seems, comes to all. Sighs. That is what I fear of my country, for we are at war.

PLATO: Fear? You should not fear death. Do you believe anyone having in himself this fear could ever become courageous?

CLINTON: Certainly not.

PLATO: Looking upon this statue now, created 500 years after my time, it almost seems to speak to me, as well—tell me more about it.

CLINTON: It was originally a part of a larger bronze monument honoring the heroism of the defeated barbarians. No victors were shown; only the defeated.

CHIEFTAIN: As a chieftain, I did not fear death. Boldly, I went naked into war, like the rest of my fellow warriors. Plato, you yourself would have approved of this; you advocated that the male and female Guardians of your ideal republic should exercise naked together, throwing off ALL accessories.

WIFE: My husband killed me, then himself, that we would not be slaves.

PLATO: He committed suicide! The only noble man to have lost his life at his own will was Socrates. He did not try to escape the pain of life, but to accept justice as it came. See how this man’s face is so turned away from his wife, from the deed he is doing—there is nothing noble in that.

CHIEFTAIN: What do you know of our pain, scholar? You, descendent of kings, who lived a privileged life as a philosopher student of Socrates? Did you ever taste the heat of battle, ever feel the exhaustion of a drawn-out war after many miles of travel?

WIFE: Did you ever feel the despair of seeing your countrymen dying in multitudes before your eyes? Were you ever forced to choose between surrender to foreigners—or surrender to suicide? Or are you and your ideal leaders too purely gold to look upon the sufferings of the bronze?

PLATO: Bronze is a fitting medium for these statues, then. This man is so strong—powerfully built, as mighty and muscular as a man can be. His flesh is exhausted, though, dragged by the battle—had he more mental might, more of the higher arts than just the physical, he might be more able to deal with the problem of defeat!

CHIEFTAIN: Fine, you’ve found the core of my defeat. At the end of the relentless struggle, I could not think. But my government didn’t follow the same principles advocated by you in your ideal republic, where physical strength would be balanced with mental aptitude.

WIFE: Who could think after such struggle? Battle’s toil not only exhausts the flesh, but the mind as well. I don’t believe Plato realizes that.

CLINTON: How can I argue with a man like you? Perhaps, then, it turns out that I am only silver, or only bronze, for to me, this statue is gripping, seizing, and screaming for my attention with its story—see how the chieftain has killed his wife! ::point:: That is what my husband did to me, before ruining his own life. I have overcome, however, and I will rule, no matter what it takes.

PLATO: There is no room for you, or for your gaudy statue in my republic. Both are an abomination. You must never hold office, and this statue must be destroyed.

WIFE: Haven’t you torn us down enough already?

WIFE: Destroy us, and what’s left to tell our story? If you can’t find out for yourself by visiting the Terme museum in Rome, where we are currently housed, what will be left for you to debate of us?

CLINTON: This is now out of my hands. Unlike your republic, this is a democratic country, and now, in that spirit, I turn it over to my people. Turns to audience. What do you think—does this statue deserve to be destroyed? Question me, question Plato, and even question the statues—what should become of us?

PLATO: I do not believe in democracy, but let them ask, and I’ll beat you at your game! Go ahead and speak to us, citizens of America.

Olympus Meets Sinai

It is midnight on Mt. Sinai. In the foreground, a bush casts off brilliant fire, but it does not burn. For a moment it is silent, just crackling flames, but presently, it speaks.

Yahweh: I AM WHO I AM.[1]

The air crackles excitingly. Presently, toga-clad gods and goddesses descend, wearing gaudy colors, laughing and jabbering away in Greek. They glance towards the bush, suddenly hushed for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Athena: A burning bush! I’ve never heard of a more ridiculous manifestation for a god in my entire life. Why not appear to the beings face to face? The least you could do is to meet them in disguise!

Aphrodite: I don’t know, the burning bush has a certain charm to it. She bats her eyelashes flirtatiously. Perhaps the burning is the burning of passion, and after all, bushes serve many purposes.

Yahweh: Athena, that’s a good question; I’ll get around to it eventually. If I appeared to them face to face now, it would kill them. I love them too much to do that to them. As for disguises, well, doesn’t this count? Moses seemed to like it.

Zeus: Ha! You’re so ridiculous, Yahweh—why do you care for those little creatures called men? Aren’t they just pesky flies in our skin?

Yahweh: To you, maybe, but I’m rather fond of them. Looks affronted at first, then eyes Zeus quizzically. How can you say that when you’ve become so, ah, close to their women?

Zeus: Um. . . er. . .

Hera: Oh, don’t get me started on that! Eyes blaze menacingly. I would be quite happy to see every mortal woman on the face of the earth wiped out, in one fell swoop! I mean, after all, isn’t it Eve, a woman, who caused you so much grief, Yahweh? And goodness knows we’ve had enough of Pandora!

Yahweh: Of course, the humans have their faults—they can’t help it, can they? I suppose that is sort of my fault, what with giving them free choice and all—

Zeus: Yeah, gee thanks; they’ve been giving us issues ever since.

Poseiden: Punks! I mean, look at Odysseus, even having the gall to blind my poor Cyclops. Why? Because you gave them the choice to do it.

Athena: Tartly. He was only defending himself, and your Cyclops deserved what was coming to him.[2] Odysseus was a good man.

Yahweh: We digress. As I was saying, I gave them free choice because I love them. It’s that simple. Naturally, I want them to love me, too, but it just wouldn’t feel right if they were doing it just because I told them to. Don’t you agree?

Aphrodite: As if! It’s so much fun to see what happens when they are forced to love each other, struck by my good little Cupid’s arrows. I mean, is it not incredibly fascinating, what Medea did out of forced love? [3]

Yahweh: Would you want to be in her shoes?

Aphrodite: Well, no, but—

Yahweh: I rest my case.

Aphrodite: But we won’t ever be in their shoes! Those mortals exist for our amusement, nothing more. What does it matter to me if a few mortals have miserable lives? It just makes for more entertainment—after all; they continue to perform these stories today.

Yahweh: There’s your problem, guys—all of you! You don’t care what happens to them because you’re never going to take responsibility for what you claim to have created. You just mindlessly create race after race as you get tired of them or as they do something you don’t like, and that just drives me crazy. [4] We’re not going to have a repeat of the race of gold, silver, or bronze—these people are mine, and I’m going to treat them right!

Poseidon: Haven’t we been treating them right? Don’t they, after all, exist to worship us? Don’t human beings exist for our own vindication? Your followers say that often, you know.

Athena: With a start. Wow, Poseidon said something I agree with for a change. How are you any better than us if you’re just using them to win your cosmic disagreement with this Satan guy? Aren’t you just doing the same thing I do when I help wanderers like Odysseus and Jason?

Yahweh: They don’t exist solely for that purpose—they exist because I love them, and I want them to be happy. Satan’s issue is that he really can’t handle happiness and neither, it seems, can you.

Aphrodite: Hey, I’m plenty happy! Considers. Though there are times, I suppose, when I wish that there was something more than the sacrifices and the empty amusements. . .

Athena: Something to reward me from my attempts to help the poor mortals. . .

Hera: Something to fill the emptiness of a heart devoted to a god who cheats on her. . .

Poseidon: Something beyond the anger at those who trespass against my kingdom of the sea. . .

Zeus: Something beyond these infernal divine politics. . .

There is a moment of silent sighing, and then all look towards the burning bush inquisitively. The bush continues to flicker warmly, and Yahweh’s voice becomes soft as he delivers this speech.

Yahweh: As you might have noticed by now, immortality is empty without a purpose. That is why you have turned man into your playthings, your toys of amusement and sources of ego-stroking through worship. I have found a purpose, though: to love my dear mortal creatures, whether or not they worship me. This has given me so much joy in my infinite life, and I want them to experience the same thing. But love is not love if I force them to love me, isn’t it?

Aphrodite: Yes . . . no?

Yahweh: Without choice, there is no love. Without love, life is miserable, as you might have noticed. Consider my servant David.

Athena: I always did like that one—he reminded me so much of Jason and Odysseus.

Yahweh: They have a lot in common, don’t they? My servant David was a man after my own heart. He did his best to follow my ways, and loved me like few of my servants ever have—though he did disobey me quite frequently. I’m sure you’re aware of the situation with Bathsheba.

Aphrodite: Er . . . sorry about that one.

Yahweh: He may have made some huge mistakes in that regard, but he still came back to me. I only wish that there had been some way to keep the end of his life from being so miserable. Unfortunately, we still operate under the laws of cause and effect.

Zeus: Yes, David came back to you, but wasn’t that only after you killed his child?

Yahweh: Every mortal has to die sooner or later—haven’t you noticed? The child would have had to die sooner or later, and in many cases, death at birth would be better than a lifetime of misery. What I do, I do out of love.

Aphrodite: How is death love? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous!

Yahweh: Death isn’t such a bad thing, you know. . .

Athena: Snorts. How would you know? You’ve never died. You never will. You’re immortal—like us. How can you call yourself a god of love and still allow death into the world when you’ve never tasted death? Love! Ha, it never did anything for me, and I despise you for claiming it has any value whatsoever!

Yahweh: That’s where you’re wrong, Athena. You have walked among the mortals yourself, yes?

Athena: Nods.

Yahweh: Worn their clothing?

Athena: Nods once more.

Yahweh: But have you ever truly become one of them, living with them, rejoicing with them, mourning with them, and dying with them?

Athena: Quietly. No, Yahweh. That would involve giving up my power, and why would I want to do that?

Yahweh: To show those wretched mortals love, and to finally be able to speak with them face to face. They lie, they cheat, they are irreverent, they murder and kill—and yet, I love them. For that reason, I will go to them, get off this mountain, and be a part of their lives. I will be their God, and they will be my people.

Athena: Surely you don’t mean. . .

Yahweh: I do.

The burning bush’s fire rages even taller and hotter for a moment, then the flames swirl into the shape of a man, humble and poor—Jesus Christ, the Messiah.

Zeus: That’s crazy. It’ll never work. Why bother?

Yahweh: Haven’t I told you enough for you to get it? Enjoy your pesky little political games, I’ve got mortals to save! Disappears.

Zeus: Well, that was interesting. Anyone want to watch the Festival of Dionysus tonight? They’re performing Oedipus the King, a real treat.

Poseidon: That’s the one where the mortal stabs his eyes out because he tries to mess with us? I’m game!

Hera: Count me in!

Aphrodite: You know me, any excuse to party!

They all turn to face Athena, who is silent for a moment, staring at the spot where the burning bush had been. Sensing their eyes on her, she turns to them and shrugs.

Athena: I. . . guess I’ll go, too. Aside. Thought he might be on to something, but I guess I’m just fooling myself.

All vanish, leaving the mountain empty and dark.

---

[1] Exodus 2.14

[2] Odyssey, Book 9

[3] Argonautika

[4] The Theogony

Groaning in the Fullness of Time

The night was dark, so very dark

And the Earth groaned.

Long had it borne the mark

Of blackened, banishing sin.

Darkness so thick, it could be felt—

How wretched, how wicked

We were!

The Earth groaned,

Creation groaned,

The Universe groaned—

To what reply?

At the fullness of time, He answered.

At the brink of disaster, He came.

The veil of darkness lifted,

The vestments of brightness cast aside,

He answered our groaning.

The shrieking was silenced,

The groaning was silenced

And the dark world watched

Creation watched

The Universe watched

At the fullness of time—

As He cast out darkness

And brought the wretched world

In the fullness of time

To the fullness of light.

The Cradle and the Cross

Did you, O Earth, witness His birth

Before His death proved you His worth?

Did you, O Earth, caress the hands—

Soft now, later nailed to save the lands?

Did you, O Earth, feel the feet—

So small, the plan of Salvation to meet?

Did you, O Earth, touch the head

That would later bear thorns to save the dead?

Did you, O Earth, hear the babish cries

That would become a Messiah’s dying sighs?

Did you, O Earth, listen to the angels’ song

That turned to anguish before long?

Did you, O Earth, see the glorious light

That would die to bring us out of night?

Did you, O Earth, witness His birth

Before His death proved you His worth?

For now, O Earth, will Earth be no more

As cross and cradle saved forevermore.

Black

Dark was the night

And a cold wind blew

As I left town’s light

To walk close to you.

Up the narrow trail,

Through the icy snow,

The wind seemed to wail

At the icy hearts below.

Here, at the black mountain,

The mountain long forbidden,

I could now at last go

Where my mind was bidden.

The tavern lights may shine

Through the blackened night,

But the glow of merry wine

Never gave true light.

Working late one day,

Serving golden ales,

A man came by my way

With charm that rarely fails.

His breath sour from much wine,

The wine I served but never drank,

Drew his body all too close to mine,

That body that always stank.

I did not want him quite so close,

I did not want him quite so near,

I did not want his breath, so gross

Whispering in my ear.

He kissed me, reached out, and I ran,

In panic, for he pursued—

Fast, fast, fast as I can

Away into the blackened wood.

But he was a huntsman, knew it well—

I was not safe there,

Was not safe there in that hell

Where he set out his lusts bare.

One path caught my eye—

The one where no one goes.

It reached up toward the sky,

How high? Black mountain only knows.

Frightened I was, to go there—

But I knew he would not follow.

Even he would never dare

To go up to your hollow.

In the village, they had always known

Who you were, what you were—

Given you that blackened zone,

In fear of palest vampire.

Running, running, the man called out—

Weeping, entreating me not to go there.

But suddenly, I heard him shout

As though his soul was now laid bare.

I stopped—turned—looked to see

What could frighten such a man.

For it could only, only be

The creature on the village ban.

Silent, standing on the pathway,

Black cloak stark o’er pure white snow,

The sight of you sent him away,

Away to the bright town below.

I looked upon your face, afraid—

The white skin, fanged teeth: black eyes.

Had running from one danger made

Another now arise?

Exhausted from my flight,

My knees caused me to fall.

My eyes saw no more moonlight

And black darkness consumed all.

Black filled my eyes once more

Awakening, in a different place,

Than we had been before,

Away from the great chase.

Shaking, taking in your face again—

You told me not to be afraid,

Told me I’m much safer than

The place where I had stayed.

Slowly, you got me to speak,

And listened to my tale.

Your black eyes seemed to shriek

In rage at the wine-sodden male.

You told me then how you had come

To be a cursed vampire.

We found our selves running from

The exact same kind of fire.

Tears filled my eyes,

To hear this wretched story.

To comfort a vampire could be unwise,

But I held you, stroked that head of worry.

Several days we spent together,

Staying from the village, though.

No wish had we to return to the weather

Of cold hearts in town below.

In the days, I’d enjoy the light

And find food for me—

Then you’d come out at night

And together we would be.

Meanwhile, in the town,

The man’s rage boiled over,

Rage at the vampire who’d thrown

Away his chance to have a lover.

We watched from your high place,

Watched the town, bathed in moonlight

Arming themselves for a chase

To engage you in a fight.

For this, I wept with worry—

For you had grown dear to me.

You assured me, then, that surely

You would be safe and free.

One evening, walking, hand in hand

Your black cloak around my shoulder

We scaled the mountain’s summit to stand

Upon the highest boulder.

There, at last, I said the words unspoken,

How I loved your gentle darkness

And you confessed, in words so broken

Of your love for my own brightness.

Two worlds together, at last united—

Black and white, white and black.

Not long, alas, for the townsman sighted

An opportunity to attack.

The villagers he put in lines,

Circling black mountain’s peak.

Hiding in the shade of pines,

As he’d planned all week.

He trapped us in the open air

Before the time of dawn.

I reached out to you, unable to bear

Your change dust in rubble gone.

So, I asked you something strange,

To do what you had fought so hard

Not to do with me in range

And bite my neck; make it scarred.

You objected, not wishing me to die

Of your curse, by your side.

But I insisted, with the saddened sigh

That my heart had long ago died.

I did want you, oh so close,

I did want you, oh so near,

I did want your breath, like rose

Draining blood along with fear.

Side by side, we watched the sunrise—

Not such a bad way to go,

For light to flash in our eyes,

Then to be black ashes in the snow.

Not one townsmen honors our death,

None ever visit our black grave—

But none will ever take our breath,

None will ever come to rave.

Free, at last, in death’s sweet curse

Black eyes now black ashes

My love’s lot will never get worse,

His back receive no more lashes.

Blue

The day’s shadows grew

As I walked upon the shore;

They framed the deepest blue

Ocean there before.

The blue sea’s waves

Were alight with orange fire

As my soul craves

You, my heart’s desire.

Here we were, so many years ago—

Our ship was sinking, sinking in the brine

Hurtling for the dark blue depths below,

Where little light can ever shine.

My crew had left me,

Finding my true name--

Women on the sea

Will make a ship go lame.

I had been their captain!

What comes of being female?

But they could not know then

How their hearts would fail.

You alone knew,

For you alone I trusted.

In your eyes of deepest blue

My doubts all went and rusted.

How could I not have told you?

You were my first mate—

And after all our talks, it’s true,

The revelation could not wait.

Those long speeches in my cabin

Were all that kept me going along.

Your blue eyes would always win

My heart into a better song.

When my crew was sleeping,

The orange sunset well behind

I saw you there, watch-keeping

The dangers for you to find.

But dangers do not always travel

From the sea we roam;

Into your blue eyes I fell

As driftwood in the briny foam.

Alone that night, it all came out—

The words unspoken for too long.

O, I always wished to shout

How you wrote my heart’s song!

Drowning in a strong embrace,

We did not see the crewman,

We did not see his face

His shock at mate and captain.

Loyalty is like the waves—

In and out, it ebbs and flows,

Filling and unfilling caves

Where the sea-anenome grows.

So went the loyalty of crew,

And so I was imprisoned.

So your blue eyes knew

The fate for which we were destined.

Hands clasped through bars of cell,

Hearts together, breathing as one

We prepared ourselves for the hell

That had only just begun.

Long they kept us there, interred,

As the crewmen argued fast—

Every single hateful word

Drew us closer to our last.

All their bickering did not see

The threat approaching on the water.

Without me, they could never be

Safe from being cannon fodder.

The pirates took them by surprise;

Sadly we watched them fade away.

It is a mighty ship that dies

When its crew is kept at bay.

Fast my crew surrendered to them,

Giving up the good life I’d given.

My heart sang a lonely anthem,

Seeing them so driven.

And what of captain and her mate,

Rotting in the stinking hold?

My crew just couldn’t wait

To sink it—they were bold.

So, the pirates got their lives,

But not my shining ship.

A captain always strives

To go down with the vessel.

So we sank, you and I,

Beneath the dark-blue waves.

Letting out a little sigh

That only water saves.

Some miracle had smashed

The ship upon a lonely rock

And so our bars were washed

Away with rusty lock.

Swimming, panting for dear air,

We made a break for shore.

The land was bleak and bare,

But we could not ask for more.

Exhausted, there we were,

On the barren land.

Death but delayed, that was sure—

For nothing but a strip of sand.

No trees, no plants, just you and I

Starving on the still, cool beach.

We both let out a tiny sigh

And stayed inside each others’ reach.

Dawn, dusk, and dawn again—

That I could but drown in your eyes!

Drowning’s so much better than

Thirst, starvation, and scorching skies.

Weaker, and weaker our bodies became

In the orange light of the sun;

Stronger and stronger, our love aflame

Burned ‘till our lives were done.

My crew is gone upon the sea;

The beach long covered by the waves.

Water is what will ever be

Over the body of the one my heart craves.

Never to be found,

Forever we stay

Forever bound

As we were that day.

As you sail the treacherous sea,

Think of captain’s mate below;

Then ever will his blue eyes be

Setting the sea’s waves aglow.