blogger dies in Iranian prison.

Friday morning I read an article about a man about my age in Iran who recently died in prison.  He was in prison because he insulted a "supreme leader" on his blog.  His name was Omid Mir Sayafi.  He was sentenced to two and a half years in prison, but he died long before those years came close to passing from improper medical attention.

All politics aside, this news bite stopped me in my tracks. I realize that I don't typically go off on political leaders or say overly racy things on my blog posts, but if I felt passionate about something like that, if I wanted to deride the President or make a commentary on religion, I could.  The only commentary would likely be banter, at most sparking a debate, but then it would all just move on through like a summer rain storm.  

I think about writing and how precious it is to me, the way the written word is in many ways eternal, an anthem that began before him and lasts long after the writer dies.  How God himself is the Word.  Everyone is a writer, really. We have the gift of speech and labyrinthine communication--how tremendous!  This is God's gift to the human race, and yet not everyone is able to practice his right to write, no pun intended.

After the story shocked me, I got pretty sad about it, just thinking about all the writers in the world who can't open the door and unleash their passion.  It made me kind of sick.  It still makes me sad, but I'm also thankful now too. Makes me want to write further, to extend my vocabulary and tell more stories, to contribute to this anthem that's been written for thousands of years since the light first separated from the dark.

Spring on the Northern Coast

Up north on the coast 

Spring is no new season at all.

I remember dense damp fog,

the sky was gray and plump

geese with long black necks

flew as arrowheads slicing slate clouds.

I remember the air so cold and wet-

my skin stayed moist and my nose

became red.

The beach on the sound, rocky

with smooth stones and 

we took off our socks and shoes 

and splashed in the lapping folds of the sea.

Our feet turned opaque on the soles

and in the toes.

We rolled up our blue jeans and

our raincoats collected droplets from the 

tide and from the dripping sky.

We laughed at the sound seagulls make. 

Dad  panned the old shore for 

segments of memories. He held 

the leash and patted the golden retriever

saying, "Good girl, Sadie."