Workshop Poem - Waterless Tears

WATERLESS TEARS Who would put vinegar on the lips of those who cry, “We thirst.” Pour dust into the vase of hope’s evaporating promise? Deny the single tear shed for lack of moisture, refuse the very earth its need to grow. Allow the desert’s hand to clutch the young, draining them of all but tearless want, prying from their hearts a future’s flow. We are as Kings, removed from suffering’s intrusion, bathing in the plenty of life’s lot, demanding by decree that all be “mindful”. Pointing to the things that must be done - by others - so that we might wave in Kingly fashion from the throne of sanctimony’s hubris. Could we be the ever doubted primer needed to seduce the dry and idle pump, exert pressure on the rusty handle, draw from deep within - the hidden flow, bathe the powdered tears of children, allow a parents wilting hope to grow? Would we put down our ever-present water bottles, let our lips go dry and cracked by noon, hold perspiration to us in damp clothing while waiting for the shadow’s shape to show? Or will we blame the people and the climate, defer to those who pander to the Kings, while wondering what happened to the mornings in which the gasping songbird never sings. John G. Lawless 3/18/2015 revision... We are like kings, removed from suffering's intrusion, bathing in the plenty of life's lot, demanding by decree all be "mindful". Pointing to the things that must be done - by others - so that we might wave in Kingly fashion from the throne of sanctimony's hubris. Should we put vinegar on the lips of those who cry, “We thirst.” Pour dust into the vase of hope’s evaporating promise? Deny the single tear shed for lack of moisture, refuse the very earth its need to grow. Allow the desert’s hand to clutch the young, draining them of all but tearless want, prying from their hearts a future’s flow. Could we be the ever doubted primer needed to seduce the dry and idle pump, exert pressure on the rusty handle, draw from deep within - the hidden flow, bathe the powdered tears of children, allow a parents wilting hope to grow? Would we put down our ever-present water bottles, let our lips dry, crackle by noon, hold perspiration to us in damp clothing while waiting for the shadow’s shape to show? Blame the people and the climate, defer to those who pander to the Kings, wondering what happened to the mornings in which the gasping songbird never sings. John G. Lawless 5/11/2015 revision with workshop suggestions