guns

This is common sense that needs to be spread far and wide

Leave The Guns At Home

By E.J. Dionne Jr.
Thursday, August 20, 2009

Try a thought experiment: What would conservatives have said if a group of loud, scruffy leftists had brought guns to the public events of Ronald Reagan or George W. Bush?

How would our friends on the right have reacted to someone at a Reagan or a Bush speech carrying a sign that read: "It is time to water the tree of liberty"? That would be a reference to Thomas Jefferson's declaration that the tree "must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants."

Pardon me, but I don't think conservatives would have spoken out in defense of the right of every American Marxist to bear arms or to shed the blood of tyrants.

In fact, the Bush folks didn't like any dissent at all. Recall the 2004 incident in which a distraught mother whose son was killed in Iraq was arrested for protesting at a rally in New Jersey for first lady Laura Bush. The detained woman wasn't even armed. Maybe if she had been carrying, the gun lobby would have defended her.

The Obama White House purports to be open to the idea of guns outside the president's appearances. "There are laws that govern firearms that are done state or locally," Robert Gibbs, the White House spokesman, said on Tuesday. "Those laws don't change when the president comes to your state or locality."

Gibbs made you think of the old line about the liberal who is so open-minded he can't even take his own side in an argument.

What needs to be addressed is not the legal question but the message that the gun-toters are sending.

This is not about the politics of populism. It's about the politics of the jackboot. It's not about an opposition that has every right to free expression. It's about an angry minority engaging in intimidation backed by the threat of violence.

There is a philosophical issue here that gets buried under the fear that so many politicians and media-types have of seeming to be out of touch with the so-called American heartland.

The simple fact is that an armed citizenry is not the basis for our freedoms. Our freedoms rest on a moral consensus, enshrined in law, that in a democratic republic we work out our differences through reasoned, and sometimes raucous, argument. Free elections and open debate are not rooted in violence or the threat of violence. They are precisely the alternative to violence, and guns have no place in them.

On the contrary, violence and the threat of violence have always been used by those who wanted to bypass democratic procedures and the rule of law. Lynching was the act of those who refused to let the legal system do its work. Guns were used on election days in the Deep South during and after Reconstruction to intimidate black voters and take control of state governments.

Yes, I have raised the racial issue, and it is profoundly troubling that firearms should begin to appear with some frequency at a president's public events only now, when the president is black. Race is not the only thing at stake here, and I have no knowledge of the personal motivations of those carrying the weapons. But our country has a tortured history on these questions, and we need to be honest about it. Those with the guns should know what memories they are stirring.

And will someone please tell the armed demonstrators how foolish and lawless they make our country look in the eyes of so much of the world? Are we not the country that urges other nations to see the merits of the ballot over the bullet?

All this is taking place as the country debates the president's health-care proposal. There is much that is disturbing in that discussion. Shouting down speakers is never a good thing, and many lies are being told about the contents of the health-care bills. The lies should be confronted, but freedom involves a lot of commotion and an open contest of ideas, even when some of the parties say things that aren't true and act in less than civil ways.

Yet if we can't draw the line at the threat of violence, democracy begins to disintegrate. Power, not reason, becomes the stuff of political life. Will some group of responsible conservatives, preferably life members of the NRA, have the decency to urge their followers to leave their guns at home when they go out to protest the president? Is that too much to ask?

ejdionne@washpost.com

Scraps

I wrote this one day after rummaging through a lot of pieces of paper sitting in a drawer. Now that I read it again, I think I am watching "60 Minutes" and listening to Andy Rooney. OMG!

Scraps

By Henry David Rosso

Her number's on a piece of paper
Somewhere
I know I wrote it down
Had her name on it too
Somewhere
Remember the lyrics to that song we liked?
I wrote them down
Somewhere
I had the address of that movie we wanted to see
I scribbled it on a piece of paper so I wouldn't forget
Somewhere
I finally got the whole family's birthdays so I'd always have them
I wrote them on a piece of paper
Somewhere
Maybe this is it
No, remember this?
It's the address we saw on TV for the 26 original '50's hits
There's a phone number here too.
No idea what it's for.
Wonder why I'm keeping it.
Wonder what would happen if I dialed it?
If a man answers, hang up.
Maybe someone has my phone number written on a piece of paper
Somewhere
Maybe they'll call me.
I'd get their number and
Write it on a piece of paper
Somewhere.

Beauty

This is the first poem I ever wrote. Some may think it should have been my last. I was a young teen at the time. Don't have a specific date.

Beauty

By Henry David Rosso

Shades of beauty
Beauty?
Beauty is life
Beauty is death
Beauty is.
Beauty
The elegance of the prow of a ship.
A full-rigged yacht in mid-ocean
A lone fishing boat at sea before dawn
Beauty
The Lincoln Memorial, silent in subdued light
Steel gracefully arched in a bridge
A lonely lighthouse on a fog-bound peninsula
Beauty
The melodic blends of violins of a symphony orchestra
The mellowness of a well-played viola
The combined efforts of an entire orchestra producing tranquility in sound
Beauty
Evening chimes piercing the silence of a small town
An undisturbed blanket of snow on a country field
Towering redwoods flirting with rays of sunshine
Beauty
A Catholic Church with its solemn peacefulness
The story of the crucifixion of Christ
The understanding in, "forgive them, father, for they know not what they do."
Beauty
Children telling their dreams,
Laughing, playing, singing, praying
A child hopelessly crushed by a car told that he would go to god, replying,
"I don't want to go dead and be with god, I want to play."
Beauty
The words of the dying Tiger Flowers, colored boxer,
As he said, "Now I lay me down to sleep."
The acceptance of death by elderly people --
Quiet, resigned surrendering of life
Beauty?
A state of mind

sharing my work

The other day I told my wife that I had posted my short story about military school boys learning to light farts. She was aghast, questioning my sensibilities and maturity. So far, I have posted 16 items, including the chapter from my three years at Manlius Military Academy outside of Syracuse, New York. All the others are poems I have written with two exceptions -- a piece that had been sent to me that I wanted to share and a chapter of my life that had tremendous effects on me. Putting out pieces of literature is always hazardous. I like what I have written -- some more than others. Some I think could still use more work and some I may always feel they need more work. I had fun wit the school bit. It actually happened. It was a Tom Brown's School Days, but personal. It was boys being boys in an all-boys environment. We were 12 to 17 or so and we had the new boys and the old boys and the uniforms and the shined shoes and the inspections and the cadet officers and getting away with things in our own very clever ways and marching in the snow and sneaking across the street to attend the fair. The poems have been sitting in folders and floppies and now on DVDs. The first was written when I was a teenager. They are about things I saw and heard and experienced. And they were/are my way of expressing myself, my feelings and my experiences. Are they good? Only the reader can tell. I enjoyed putting them on paper and now I am enjoying getting them out of hiding and putting them out for anybody to read. Can they all be read in my cousin's third grade class. Absolutely not. Some can. Others are for very select audiences. I do not censor. My Friendly Neighborhood Bar tries to capture the life and language that I observed in the bars. I don't think anybody there ever said, "Gee whiz!" So, here they are. And I have more to add. I'd love to hear from you -- whether you like them, were disgusted by them, thought they needed more work.

Bells, With Apologies to Ed Poe

I have many, many wonderful memories of Switzerland, one of which struck me very early during my experience there. It was bells. I lived in Morges, a small village between Geneva and Lausanne, and my first room was located across the street from the Catholic Church and down the street from the Presbyterian Church. They both tolled the hours -- and the quarter hours with bells 24 hours a day.

BELLS, WITH APOLOGIES TO ED POE
By Henry David Rosso
In the clear, crisp, cool air of a Swiss night
A church bell peals the hour
Four A.M.
Bong Bong Bong Bong

Bells in towns and villages nearby
Take up the tolling
Some overlapping
BoBong BoBong BoBongBoBong

The more distant churches
Squeeze into the night air
Their bells strong at home, but thinned by space
Bing Bing Bing Bing

In the center of Morges
Resting on the shores of Lac Leman
The bells of the Catholic and Presbyterian churches
Vie for attention, one followed quickly by the other.

The big city churches sound every quarter hour
Two quick peals — bongbong -- for each quarter
At 4 A.M. they announce bongbong bongbong bongbong bongbong
Bong Bong Bong Bong

Bells sing praises
Cry in mourning,
Dance with happiness
Ring in new years

Announce victories
Celebrate weddings
Count cadence at funerals
Signal naval watches

The same bells that lift spirits
Pain hearts
Signal alarms
Wear heavy on souls

A tiny bell on an altar
Tinkles through incensed smoke
Bringing parishioners to their knees
To pray for whatever purpose

Bells beckon servants to service
Signal classes to change
Open the stock market
Sound warnings at train crossings

A tall, thin woman dressed in black leans far over
She speaks to the young boy
He raises his hand to salute
While a grieving nation watches
Bong
Bong
Bong
Bong

And the caissons go rolling
Carrying the flag-draped coffin
As bells that cry for joy
Now stir a nation to tears

Ma Bell, Taco Bell, Carol of the Bells
Jingle Bells, Liberty Bell
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Saved by the Bell

Alexander Graham Bell
Catherine Bell
Tinker Bell
Christmas bells
Hells Bells

Thomas Paine didn’t like bells
In 1797 he condemned them as a public nuisance
The noise of bells, he said
Increase the distress of the sick

Cows, sheep and horses
Display no distress
Munching and lolling
Bells clanging around their necks

Cows don’t eat around the Salvation Army
Merry Christmas jinglejinglejingle
JinglejinglejingleQUIET
Jingle

The Dart Game

This is the second of the bar poems. I spent many hours playing darts and hope I have captured some of the intensity. You need to know the language of the game

The Dart Game

By Henry David Rosso

Challenge the board!
You're on.
The slick, slim shaft, barrel and point are withdrawn
From the leather case with care.
The feather-light flights are attached.
The shaft is tightened against the barrel.
The point is sharpened with a small square of sandpaper.
The challenge is met.
Cricket?
Cricket.
Points?
Of course.
Cork.
The first shot of the game, to determine who goes first.
The silver steel and plastic tail head toward the center
Hoping for a dead center.
Close.
But not too close.
Nothing to do but watch your opponent.
She lets fly and hits dead center.
She can hit cork.
It's bad news.
She goes first.
Toe on the line
Eyeball the target
Cock the arm
Feel the balance
Adjust
Don't rush
Stroke toward the goal
Pull back
Stroke again
Fire
Twenty-four grams of steel and plastic
Fly silently and swiftly toward the board
The point finds its mark with a dull thunk.
Two more times the process is repeated.
Cold steel hitting compressed paper under the glare
For all to see
The point kisses the outer ring
Almost as a teaser
Each shot that misses its mark is like foreplay
It's your turn
She intimidated you with the first shot.
But she bolstered your confidence with the next two.
Now you get to stroke and probe
Hoping to reach the ultimate goal.
Anticipation.
Fingers close around the tiny steel shaft
Flights twirl in readiness
The steel flies.
Close. So close.
Adjust
Shoot
There, it's in
Do it again.
Cock
Aim
Shoot.
It's there again.
Back and forth the game progresses
Arms cocked
Eyes squint
Heart stops
Steel parts air and strikes with a thud
Concentration mounts
Careless shots
Followed by more disciplined shots
This time it will be true
This time it will hit the mark
This time you will go ahead
Hold the lead
Watch your opponent
She's staying close
Keen eye travels down the arm
The wrist
The fingers
Across the space to the target bathed in light
Arm back, cocked
Fingers tighten
Forward, let it fly
Steel flies through the air to the target
Thud.
It's there.
Make another mark.
A slash
An X
A circle
Spectators gather to watch
The match is close
A challenge to the board
Sides are chosen.
The steel splits the air again
A cry of ecstasy.
The mark has been made
Another turn
Spectators eye the players
Players eye the board
Steel flies.
Thud
Point
Good dart
Smile momentarily replaces frown of concentration
Steel flies
A gasp
The game is at its determining point
Smile fades
Replaced with frown of concentration
Arm cocks
Eye travels down arm
To wrist
To fingers
To target across the space
Dart arm rocks back and forth
Body leans across the line
Arm cocks back and lets go
Steel flies across the air
Thud.
Cork!
The game is won.
Smiles replace frowns
But only for a short while
The board has been challenged.
The game starts anew
The victory is a thing of the past
New game
Set the rules
Cricket?
Cricket
Points?
Of course
Shoot cork
The victory only counted for one game
It only mattered for a moment
Memory can never repeat the thrill of the moment
It is time for new thrills
New victories
New challenges
Steel flies through the air
Thud.
A miss.
Your turn.
We can only try.

the friendly neighborhood bar

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