by Jack Ramey | Mar 22, 2023 | Uncategorized
It’s hard being a Christian these days when you are supposed to love your neighbor, your sisters, your brothers-in-law who all voted a narcissistic megalomaniac with the attention span of a child into the most powerful position in the world with the nuclear codes at his disposal. Must I love them, loathe them, or pity their foolishness, their ignorance, their blindness? The sadness of my feet, my thighs, is nothing compared to the sadness in my eyes when I see the sadness of all the sighs of the people displaced all over this sad globe we glibly call home. ………………………………….And here I am sounding the drum of some kind of bleeding heart liberal from the past which is not cool in the age of trump, the stone-hearted age of trump, but I am now a bleeding heart like the bleeding heart of Jesus who bled for the poor and the displaced the meek and the mild and I guess I am one of them or at least I bleed for them because I was once a Passionist and I suppose I still am: my heart is the heart of Jesus and the heart of all those who wish to be with Jesus: I wear a badge over my heart now, and it says: Jesus the (com)passionate bleeds for you. Featured Art: Sacred Heart at the centre of a rose window …….Santa Ifigênia Church, São Paulo, Brazil. …….By The Photographer (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons Related Article: Resisting the age of Trump with the love of Jesus In his early years, Jack studied to be a priest at...
by Jack Ramey | Mar 21, 2017 | Jack Ramey, Poetry, Uncategorized
After winter’s ragged grin, spring comes greening in with leaf-curling smiles of hope for new beginnings: delirious-wild-flowerings in the serious month of May and, in spite of Eliot’s cruelest month, crocus and Iris and lilac and clematis, jonquils and tulips all rise up from their sleep in the perfumed poetry of April fading then back into oblivion never to be retrieved again until next year, when the cycle begins again with redbud trees and nomophobia blooming against the heart again. Honeysuckle vines and bridal wreath streaking through the palms up through the arms to the heart and lungs and brainstem of this organism which is a small part of the vast organism of air and water and leaf and cloud and dirt and stars we sometimes call “this vast creation,” for lack of better words or more elegant turns of phrase. The earth is all before me as Wordsworth said long ago. So I cannot miss my way, even if my only guide is a pale wandering cloud. Featured Photograph: Purple Clematis by Nancy...
