Category Archives: POETRY

KNEE REPLACEMENT SURGERY

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Knee replacement seems an affront to me.

An insult to my body’s integrity.

taking out the knee

which served me so faithfully,

to be replaced by utter falsity.

It will work as a joint should, assuredly.

But, it really means my new knee

is no longer the real me.

The me who knocked together,

whenever I was afraid, with the other.

The knee who knelt in the pew to pray

within the family group every Sunday.

The knee which moved the feet

when I practiced  my ballet,

and danced across the stage

on tap shoes, then all the rage.

The knee that touched yours

when we danced close,

hearts beating down to our toes.

The knee where every baby bounced

while we played horsey and laughed in glee.

The knee that pushed me to my feet

to object to opposing counsel in court;

or at a hearing to enact

what I considered an unjust act.

The knee that bent down to sow

seeds in a garden bed cleared of weeds.

The knee that pushed away

an unwelcome hand or worse.

The knee that I slapped in glee

when I heard a funny verse.

I love that knee.

I hate to see it go.

Part of me goes with it, I know.

Piece by piece each surgery,

has diminished the real me.

My reaction is a form of PTSD

recalling all the times I was told

I was too much, or not enough.

Did my body listen to such guff?

Did I push my knee too hard,

dismantle its soft protective layer,

to satisfy too many others?

It is only a knee, you say.

Not to me. Not today.

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LOOK TO THE YOUNG

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To see the future look to the young people.

They are not yet bound by convention,

nor blinded by the past,

as we old people are,

weighed down and eyes downcast

because we must watch the path

we no longer walk easily.

Such history serves a  purpose.

It offers cautionary tales

learned from days gone by.

But, it predicts nothing,

moves too slowly to catch up

with the speed of a future

unfolding before our eyes.

We can hardly understand

what we see in broken spans

as we catch pieces of the changes

meant to help us survive.

Look to the young people

racing on by, sharing nods of heads

while busily taking it all in stride,

smiling all the while,

letting us hold fast to our past

knowing we think them fools;

but they know they are simply cool.

And they are so, so, so  cool.

They carry our hopes with their own,

and the hopes of ages past grown old

into a world we cannot conceive.

They never break a sweat; 

learning more than we can forget.

I want to live long enough to see

this new world they create, strong and free.

I lift my eyes up to them respectfully,

gladly, lovingly and hopefully.

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BORDERS

Photo by Abd Alrhman Al Darra on Pexels.com

Borders have their uses.

They tidy-up the scene,

remind us where we are,

and where we have not been.

They assign us each a plot

of able responsibility,

and call us to fulfill our task, 

to act responsibly, as we ought.

Like naturalists we name each plot

to recognize ourselves within its place.

We mark paths between each plot,

a  no-man’s land of sea and space.

Borders are a mere tool to use.

They can create more civility.

Or, they can abuse all gentility.

We can move across borders easily.

They were not made to stop humanity

from going where it needs to go

to find food and shelter, water and safety.

There is the rub in such a construction.

It can also lead to self-destruction.

For we are all part of the same family

of men and women descended

from a single source evolving merrily.

Until, each one of us is forced to face

the human weakness that lies within

and threatens our dreams of what we could win

if only we were better than we are.

If we were better, we could reach the stars.

Such anger we cannot allow directed at self.

We look for somewhere to place it,

when it should be put on a shelf,

placed  where it can do no harm

and give us time to calm our alarm

that we are far from perfect, but still okay.

Our personal borders help us hold our evil at bay.

Instead, we project all the fear and rage

from and toward ourselves to others,

other humans being human, idiot or sage.

We  carefully choose a human target

who does not quite look like us;

and not because he is truly different at all.

But in mirrored reflection of our follies

his appearance creates a place we can hide

that we are truly the same person, inside.

It would never do to project our own failings

onto another who looked just like we look.

It would prove the foolishness of railing

against all who look the same-self ailing.

So, we choose to note a difference

to justify our disdain and  discrimination.

We close our borders with determination.

We miss the prize right before our eyes.

We miss the chance to accept our need

for the strength that comes with community.

We forget, for as long as we can,

that differences reinforce each man

and help us each overcome our weakness,

our circular thinking, our useless imagination

and build a stronger human-kind nation

within every border, across every border

until we kind humans no longer fear

our very selves, nor one another.

We could act as sister and brother

and settle our squabbles with love

as part of a human family.

We could project amity  

and, perhaps, save humanity.

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RIGHTS OF PASSAGE

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We wanderers have a right to be

on any path we choose;

known, or unknown in mystery.

Our passage may take many turns.

It may too often lead us astray

from the things for which we yearn.

One foot in front of the other is best,

taking time to consider our choices

while our minds and bodies rest.

Technology speeds us way too fast

telling us hurriedness marks success.

I choose a different pace to proceed,

unconcerned at the costs which occur

as I stroll, ignoring all inclination for greed.

Rights of passage are helpful guides

to push our plodding struggles

to the side, and save our pride.

I may not know when I will get to the place

I am truly meant to be.

I may not know when I will find a space

where I can do what I am meant to do.

I slowly mark my passage on this earth

one moment at a time, and look around.

I am surprised how far I have come since birth.

My right of passage soon may end.

I know not the how, nor when.

And then? And then?

I believe it will begin again.

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CALCULATED BEAUTY

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CALCULATED BEAUTY

What equation rules the mind

and creates beauty as it seeks to find

the perfect formula for an attractive design?

We do the math in hearts, not minds.

Not by calculation, but by satisfaction we find

what makes us happy, what makes us smile.

We then relax all concentration,

and simply relish each occasion

such unspoken math implies.

Beauty fills our deepest self and widest eyes.

We see the beauteous truth, rejecting ugly lies.

Chaos is not beautiful, nor pleasant to behold.

It ages quickly hearts and souls made old and cold.

Chaos lacks the symmetry of perfect geometry

which settles, comforts and controls thoughts

twisted into ugly shapes of those distraught

lying right before our eyes.

No words dictated as order can still our unease.

Chaos spreads like a demented disease

to overcome us with such speed

we are unable to restrain or contain 

the unholy, arrogant and ugly pain

of a world lacking the means to create a straight path

to a stable place of constancy where beauty reigns.

Make beauty come alive. Do the math.

Photo by Max Fischer on Pexels.com

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HIDDEN SPRING

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What do the Earth and her creatures know

which we do not know?

Are our hopes too high, too soon

even as the green grass grows

and trees unfurl leaves 

that shelter all from heat and sun?

The squirrels still seldom leave their nests.

The rabbits yet burrow beneath the shed.

The disquiet of too quiet daybreak

without birdsong warbling to wake

all the creatures eager to begin

days of freedom without and within.

Why do the creatures continue to hide

in shelters away from prying eyes?

Where are the bees 

as the flowers bud and bloom?

Why such a quiet garden devoid of all sound?

Is it too soon to expect, Earth’s creatures

and I, our freedom to rebound?

Or, should we find our peace

by staying underground?

In the silence, I walk carrying dreams

instead of shutting them down in dawn’s light.

Dreams cannot stay hidden by night

after the sun reappears in the sky.

Earth and its creatures may stay hidden;

but not my dreams of Spring. Not I, not I.

I move through the garden, 

my eyes searching wide

for other creatures, unwilling to hide.

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AT NOT AI

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Artificial intelligence is askew.

It mispronounces names when I try to make a phone call.

I Then must make the same error to chat-up a friend,

or order a pizza or a ride.

It misspells words as I write. No text, no essay, no poem

is safe from un-related words and ideas.

Every few moments I must review or a single word

shifts all those which follow until I forget

where my thoughts were headed,

or as AI just told me my thoughts were “ceded.”

AI has ceded my thoughts to its own.

This is artificial thought- AT; not intelligent at all.

Ads pop-up to block the knowledge I would glean

from newspapers journalling the news.

Scrolling down only un-leashes new ads to view.

To reach family, friends or businesses by phone

I must mispronounce and match AI errors to get through.

AI is training me. I am not training it; or as it states

I am “trailing” it. I trail behind my own ideas and actions

to allow AI to proceed to guide me I know not where.

I soon become unaware of my own brain.

My own thoughts become lost and I, unaware.

I am betrayed in ways I cannot accept.

We underestimate the power of our minds

to override the fault lines of our brains.

AI is not artificial intelligence.

It is artificial thought.

It is a thinking process like a brain.

It is artificial thought or AT.

Like all thoughts within our brain,

our mind knows thoughts must be constrained.

Our minds modulate and regulate our thoughts.

Propriety is the hallmark of sound thought,

the peacemaker and moderator 

of any civilized society.

We must correct the nomenclature of AI

and call it AT in order to keep it in its rightful place,

under our control, protecting our community.

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A NEW DAY IS COMING

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Morning must wait awhile

for the sun to cross the stile.

We wait in darkness,

shadows their starkest;

unable to see our way,

knowing the sun will rise,

always, on a new day.

But, I am awake for hours;

no years, no decades now.

I have pushed away darkened skies,

I have struggled to plant seeds

in hardened soil stomped on

by supremacist feet of clay.

I have listened to hateful words

until my soul shouts and sways.

Always, always, I wait for the sky

to lighten on a new day.

I listen for the first notes

of morning-birds’ first songs

carried on morning-breath’s first breezes

stirred by sun’s rising heat

overturning the cold of night;

up-ending threatening nightmares

and tossing them away.

Soon, soon, I promise you.

There will come a new day.

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MARCH 28, 2026

Photo by Charles Criscuolo on Pexels.com

The place where I write may have to change.

A soft couch for a hard chair I must exchange.

Age hardens the bone more than the sight.

Age does not dull the urge to set things right.

Except…

Age questions all sense of reality.

It doubts what right seems to be.

Age moves faster the longer it goes.

It upsets the cart full of all we know.

Age unsettles from head to toe.

We see higher up and deeper below.

Age quickens and shakes our stability.

It makes us question who we will be

in an uncertain future coming so fast

we wonder how much longer we shall last.

Age keeps reminding us we cannot fall;

not our selves, nor our country, no one at all.

So we march for a future, a future unclear and unsure.

Bravely, because we have done this many times before.

Are we wisely foolish, or foolishly wise ?

The fact we don’t know is no surprise.

So, I get up off the soft couch, and drop the pen.

Time to go march, one by one step, together again.

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WIND

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The wind can be both friend and foe.

Harnessing his power 

to make him my own

can never be, I know.

He may clear the air

of any disputes yet leave me

to struggle to breathe, 

inhaling what make me sneeze.

He cleans out the cobwebs,

the garden beds, and gutters.

He leaves me breathless

at his show of strength.

He is a lover like no other.

I stand stronger within his embrace.

My body feels lighter,

my countenance tighter,

my body lifted up off my feet.

Wind is my lover, sight unseen,

except for what he brings 

and takes from me.

I see his caress of every shrub and tree.

I yearn for his heavy touch on me.

I love the wind. 

I am sad to see him die low,

knowing he, too soon, will leave me.

I do not want wind to go.

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