June 20

Apparently I have hips that are, to quote the doctor, “totally out of whack”. So on Thursday of this week I will get a steroid shot in my SI joint which should help with my pain, which seems to me to get worse every day.
It will be a little while until I know for sure that the shot has helped and then the doctor will send me to therapist, who, he assures me, is excellent and will target the therapy to what I need.
I feel better just knowing there is a little help in sight.

Too bad that the world is feeling so much pain too. There are so many reasons for the state the world finds itself in, but one of things that is most dismaying to me is the billions spent on war and armaments. What a waste of resources. What if parents spent most of their money stockpiling weapons and said they had no money left over to feed and clothe and give health care to their children?
Anyway, here is a poem that came out of my reflecting on the huge military base near me called the White Sands Missile Range where weapons of destruction are tested.

WHITE SANDS

I am sitting under a bowl of perfect blue sky
on a hillside east of the Organs.
I see a line of distant hills and a green plain,
a vista that stretches for miles, and, over all,
a blanket of blowing dust.

There is a white ribbon near the horizon,
which I know to be a mystery of shifting sands.

A cooling breeze blows over me,
trying in vain to blow away
my thoughts of what is really below.
for it is a valley of death,
a place accepted because its jobs bless the economy
while it curses mankind with weapons.

There must always be new weapons,
new ways to kill,
new ways to be top dog,
to rule the world,
to smother love and mercy.

And so the dusty mist tries to conceal reality
just as clouds of unconcern blur our minds

and the wind blows on,
moving the sands tiny grain by tiny grain,
toward oblivion.

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