The Island. Angels voices soaring to roll off the ceilings curves,numb hands pressed against grieving ones,roaring winds pulling at the aged stones,no threat to peace or pain inside the vault,sharing the seeping warmth of love departed. The lintels still carry chisel strikes,left by rough hands that toiled,a hundred years of rain have yet,to find their way inside,each stone as tight together as the families,who sit in hushed mourning rows beneath,
Tibnin Bridge. In 1999 I drove over Tibnin Bridge in the sweltering heat,as the UN bus rose a trail of dust,billowing up behind us,the laughter onboard almost distracted me from my task,the careful watch of the road signs,my finger following the road snaking through South Lebanon,on a trip from Tyre up into the hills. I was only a baby when you died here,but not much later my older brothers went to serve in that land,which was soaked with your blood,I heard your story while I was still so very young,in the weeks before the first of them left for the Lebanon,they spoke in hushed tones in the kitchen,but I heard from my games in the hall outside.
Seen It I have seen the love,when Father makes himself into a bed,to raise the weary child from off the deck,cradling all the treasure of the world,within his arms, underneath thin blankets. I have seen the love,of brother held fast to brother,sleeping, no support but each other,I had not the words to ask,did they even share a Mother?
Mother Jones. She was 93 years old,grandmother of all agitators,immigrant teacher's words stirred men to action,she wrote her story down,passing labours flame from Pennsylvania,from coal mining heartlands built on the bones of union,tales of the silk children's knight crusader,charging the power of the mill. The call of the woman of the north side,fell into the ear of the ragged trousered wretch,growing straight in the regimented pines,arrayed through the ruins of famine homesteads,hemmed in by the meandering dry stone walls,built from their shells,pray for the dead,fight like hell for the living,in mines and bogs or dockyard slips,the boot seeks a neck,the company scales the pocket picked,join a union
Paper Never Refused Ink! 
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