Jesse Jackson: do not hide, please say “no” to genocide

abortion is genocide

Jesse Jackson, please change your mind.
Pray to God to save your kind:
save babies, black babies,
beautiful black babies.

Black babies are killed
at five times the rate of white babies.
We don’t have enough blacks
to replace those who die.
It’s outright genocide.

Jesse Jackson, please change your mind.
Pray to God to save your kind.

Margaret Sanger saw birth control
and abortion as the final solution
to rid the earth of those she did not like.
She preached to wives of the Ku Klux Klan
and wanted to cut short the black life span.

Jesse Jackson, please change your mind.
Pray to God to save your kind.

A eugenicist, it’s understood,
started Planned Parenthood
and said blacks were “human weeds” who shouldn’t live long.
But no one is a weed–Sanger was wrong.

Jesse Jackson, please change your mind.
Pray to God to save your kind:
save babies, black babies,
beautiful black babies.

You were once pro-life
and you had five children with your wife.
Don’t you now see hell on earth?
We are rejecting our own birth.
We value life less and less.
You must be feeling the distress.

Jesse Jackson,
I beg of you,
please change your mind.
Pray to God to save your kind:
save babies, black babies,
beautiful black babies.

 

Marianne  Bovée
(Photo: RadianceFoundation.org)

 

As a Catholic, I want Kasich

Charlie Neibergal AP Anti-Abortion Sign Melissa Brandes Shutterstock

Babies are dying
and I’m not lying;
they’re killed before they are born.

Pro-choicers bring you money,
jobs, and justice plenty–
which leaves pro-lifers torn.

But I won’t vote pro-choice
though they give me a Rolls Royce:
I won’t ignore the unborn.

Trump really wants to win,
puts logic in a tailspin,
and leaves my patience worn.

If you want Trump to lose,
in some districts vote for Cruz,

so that Kasich gets the votes at the contested Convention:
he’s most likely to beat Clinton in the general election.

 

David and Marianne  Bovée
(Photo Charlie Neibergall/AP; Anti-Abortion Sign: Melissa Brandes/Shutterstock)

March Madness, Trump Madness

basketball NCAA final four edition photo by M. Bovee

Villanova is beating Oklahoma.

The Sooners have got to win, win, win,
but it’s 76 to 31
and tears are setting in.

If we had to choose,
we would never lose:

we hate losers,
but we love the Sooners.

The Sooners have got to win,
they’ve got to win.

It’s been so long since they’ve won,
I don’t even know
if it’s ever been done.

In the end it was 95 to 51,
and the Sooners were
quite stunned.

Villanova’s magnificent feat
lifted you from your seat

Some fans were very glad
and others were very sad

And arena owners raked it
in, in, in
They’re the ones that really
win, win, win

They don’t want us to think, think, think,
just to keep us on the brink, brink, brink
while they take it to the bank, bank, bank

America doesn’t win anymore.
We’ve fallen to the floor.
We’re fouled out of trade deals:
losers know how it feels.

We’ve got to win,
we’ve got to win again,
we’re under hypnosis
in a kind of psychosis

We’ve got to win, we’ve got to win again
We’ve got to beat Mexico and China and Japan
even if we go nuclear again

We’ve got to have borders
where others take our orders,
to make a wall  that’s very tall
to make others feel very small

We’ve got to make more money,
we’re so poor it isn’t funny

a billionaire will show us what to do
he’ll make deals too hard for me or you.

we want to win
to make the ball go in
we want to win
to make the ball go in

ours is not to reason why
ours is but to win or cry

we can’t think we can’t think

we’re on the brink we’re on the brink

 

Marianne  Bovée
(photo by M. Bovée)

Stone Ode on the Easter Vigil

stone

By some small
miracle
I sang in a choir
during the Easter Vigil.

I can’t sing well
at all
but the choir was very small
and I wanted it
to swell with glorious sound
to join the throng of angels in song.

So there I was singing
at a Mass so beautiful
it felt as if
I were on the edge of heaven.

Jesus said if the people
stay silent
the very stones would cry out in praise.

There is such painful silence, these days.

My voice is weak,
ineffectual.
It cracks
like a stone.
But I will sing
even if I sing
alone.

In these muted days,
I can’t hold back my praise.

My soul operates as if under some law
to which I gladly assent
–in awe–
and sing Alleluia, Alleluia
Hosannah

to God’s mercy, love and majesty,
now, in time, and through eternity.

 

Marianne  Bovée
(photo by M. Bovée)

On Good Friday

 

Pieta in Cathedral 3 in white

I slowly
spoon liquid from a cup
into my mother’s mouth,
into her frail frame,
which I’ll never see healthy
again.

In the Garden of Gethsemane

Jesus lay
on the ground
in prayer
to His Father.

He asked –if possible–
to let death pass him by.

 I do not want my mother to die.

But the hour has come.

Thy will be done.

And the Father’s  good grace
is welcome.

 

Marianne  Bovée

(Photo by M. Bovée,  from Pieta in Lisbon Cathedral, Portugal.)

 

During the Mass of the Last Supper

Pope kissing feet

just outside Rome
the Pope washes the feet
of refugees,

from twenty-five
different countries.

Kneeling down
on his aged knees
he pours water
on their feet

and wipes and dries
their Hindu,  Muslim,
and Christian skin

as Servant
in persona Christi.

He seals the gesture
with a humble kiss
not to the face
but to the feet

and when he looks up at each
face with a smile,
he is greeted by tears

or by eyes gone dry
too long ago
to cry.

In the Mass
he lifts up the bread and wine
and transforms it
into Christ
to be consumed by those

who live the Cross–
counting their selves as loss—

to become balm
for the wounds of the world.

 

Marianne  Bovée

(Associated Press photo)

How the Dishes Get Done

Dishes

A pile of stones

moved from one side of the field

to the other

and then back again;

as Sisyphus moves

his rock;

as a philosopher

picks up the particular

one

by one

in the fields

of the pedestrian,

with no time

for the Eleusinian;

to think,

yet not to think,

to find the

universal

in a gleaming

dish

as consolation:

this is the testing

in fire

of the

dishwater saints.

 

Marianne Bovée

(poem was published under previous name, Marianne Szabo in Phoenix)

(photo by Marianne Bovée)