Other Poems

by Ken Sehested

What a day! What a day! Not to mention a year,

4+ decades piled head-to-toe,

by Ken Sehested

After fumbling for worthy words, over several hours and much soul-shaking—and listening to “When You’re Broken Open” (from Dance:1, Anna Clyne, cello soloist, with Inbal Segev & London Philharmonic Orchestra & Marin Alsop https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=La22CjPFbIY)—here is what emerged.

§  §  §

by Ken Sehested

Gratitude is surely among the precious few,
truly-renewable energy sources available. The
hearts of both giver and receiver grow larger
in the process. Saying thanks, especially beyond
the demands of simple etiquette, is among the
most accessible violence-reduction strategies.

It is quite possible, of course, that expressing
gratitude simply masks the desire to get in
line for future favors. Or fends off the
possibility that one is now in debt to the
donor. Or is simply a disguised form of
doing business (as in gratuities—tips—to
those who serve us). “Free” market values
have managed to commodify even our
most noble human values. Freedom language
has morphed into a cover for savagery.

by Ken Sehested
Written while thinking of a friend in Cuba

I am up late, glued to
the weather channel, tracking
Irene’s ruinous wake. Apparently
the storm is going north of you.
My furrowed face relaxes.

I do not believe in prayers
changing the course of hurricanes.
But that does not make me
cynical, or my prayers any less
urgent. It only means that
I love what God loves.

by Ken Sehested

What a day! What a day! Not to
mention a year, fifty of them piled
head-to-toe, some of them a bit
fuzzy now (thank God!), others
like constellations whose radiance
still guides during dark nights
of the soul. Little did you know,
a half-century ago, what your
profession would involve,
where your convictions would
take you, the joys then unimaginable,
the sorrows ruthless beyond belief.
And the "ordinary" days, the days
for which songs are never
composed, for which cakes are
never baked, for which poems
are never rhymed nor hymns
inspired, for which hardly anyone
but the Beloved took note.

Scores upon scores of hallelujahs
and heartaches, too. Cares that kept
you up at night and joys that set
you moving at the first sight
of dawn’s light.

by Ken Sehested

These are most surely the days to trace the shape of
hope in the swirl of despair: to reassure children, to
encourage harried parents, to tip big-time, to speak out
loudly against vacuous leaders, to praise medical
professionals, to acknowledge teachers who are
working harder than ever (with exponentially less
notice), to celebrate cleaner air (a foretaste of what
could be if together we were to rigger the needed will
for weaning from fossil fuels). And on and on. (Add here
your nominees for concerted public attention.)

Nevertheless, do not forsake the labor of lament, of
public rituals naming the anguish, of the singing of sad
songs. The very spokes of grief spin on the axis of hope.
No one grieves aloud except for the deep down
awareness that life has come off the rails of gracious
accord, of promised bounty, and the practice of
neighborliness embedded in our DNA.