Category Archives: POETRY

FREE THE STRAWBERRIES

Louise’s strawberry garden fenced to keep out chipmunks, squirrels,racoons,deer,rabbits,skunks and a variety of birds; allowing in rain, helpful pollinators, and insect enemies of other harmful insects. Rest assured the gate will be turned right side up and our American garden will once again flourish and produce sweet fruit. Patience and effort, constant weeding out those harming the garden. It takes time and is well worth the effort.

The fence is placed all around

The strawberries are in the ground.

The gate is upside down.

The harvest will be delayed

Dismantling what we made

hour by our, day by day.

Chaos alway brings change.

Gardens too rigorously defended

make fences necessarily upended

to reach fruit not intended

for anyone but a few

who fence out themselves, too. 

What is the gardener to do?

A gate is meant to let us through

to the crop we worked for,

and many of us died for,

a free country we yearn for.

We thought we planted within our reach.

We thought we had enough freedom to teach.

We never thought we would beseech

tearing down everything we had built

to avoid admitting our guilt.

The gate MAGA made is all atilt.

The fence is too high, clearly.

We are just so frustrated and weary.

We may never eat another strawberry.

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AGE-OLD QUESTION

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God, You did not give me 

enough time to explain

why i was born

given this name

put in this place

and soon to die

after so much time

acts left undone

songs unsung

canvasses waiting

brushes and strokes

poems unwritten

essays unstated

each day feels emptier

creativity abated

by aches and pains

and clouded thoughts

this is what getting

older has wrought

faster and faster

being the best

that i can be

no symmetry 

only mystery

of what i was meant

to give and to be

an age old question

or old age question?

even that answer

is too much for me

screaming and kicking

i continue to strive

to discover just what

keeps me alive

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MOURNING CUPPA

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The steam rises

then falls

the heat so intense

it moves water

contained in its place

full of promise of a safe space.

Boiling water bubbles slowly

moves the air in structured grace.

The heat so intense

the water’s breath struggles

to escape its place

through a too-tight space.

Water whistles its distress

and warns of eruption,

possible destruction

of water’s very life and form

No longer able to flow in norms,

left on the stove-top too long 

over too high a heat,

preparing for 2025 promises

unneeded, unwanted, unexpected.

The pot empties indecently.

No sudden soggy mess;

just scattered patterns of distress.

All we wanted was a cuppa tea.

That tea thrown overboard

not so long ago.

Now, heat too intense

begins to melt the pot itself.

Overheated, its healing waters

empty into dry, thin air.

Air too thin and too tired to care,

that hot air cannot fill our need for tea.

Our tea cups remain bare.

The only cuppa I may ever again see

is the one left in my memory.

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AWAKENED

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This is no way to wake up.

Perhaps, it has become the only way.

We may have stayed asleep too long.

we may have missed the call

of our immigrant ancestors.
We may have been too deep in our own dreams.

We may not have heard the alarm

in the voices of those awake,

and made to suffer

while we dreamt on.

We may have found dreams

easier to focus beyond

the painful reality

that comes with the dawn.

Becoming awake means

it is not too late

to set aside hate

which weakens all bonds,

and love our country enough

to make it strong enough

to end the nightmares.

We can and we must 

awaken to a new dawn.

I am awake and I quake

in the light made by evil heat

that feels punishing and wrong. 

Today, I uneasily awake

determined to push on

past those who tell us

some of us

do not belong.

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MARTA ASKS “NEVER AGAIN ?”

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Marta married an American soldier

in the front lines of her liberation

from Nazis who invaded her city

where her father’s butcher shop

did business selling cuts of meat

from the cattle raised on their farm

outside the city, somewhat removed

from the war which rounded up neighbors,

Jews, whose shops also served Dutch

neighbors who labored by their sides.

As German soldiers arrived under Nazi flags

These Dutch, Jew and non-Jew, stayed silent

coming out from their shops to watch them march by.

Soon, rumors were heard that non-Jewish shopkeepers

were considering turning Jews in by-and-by

to save and serve their own interests.

Marta’s father knew better. He knew the lie

they told themselves that such hate

could pass them all by, by cooperating.

In the morning the Jewish shops were shuttered.

The Jews had been warned and fled

to no one knew where. On a wing and a prayer

they followed twelve year old Marta

to the family farm where they hid in the barn,

protected and fed, and where they could safely hide.

The Nazis came and took their cattle, their chickens,

but did not find the Jews who were kept hidden,

kept alive. Marta’s family stayed silent, too.

Not to save themselves, nor appease their enemy;

but to save their Jewish neighbors and their own pride.

Years fell away with wizened flesh that kept them alive.

When the food was gone into Nazi bellies

she ate grass soup, and chewed leather hide

from her shoes, made into stews. It kept them alive.

By the time American soldiers took over her town

Marta was an emaciated bag of skin and bone.

She married the soldier who fed her his rations

and gave her rebirth of heart. She had kept her soul.

She had saved the Jews and her love of humanity.

But her sanity sat heavily on thin shoulders 

no longer able to stem tears nor fears.

She heard those marching feet and shouts  of “Heil !”

In forever dreams she relived the living hell

she and her Jewish neighbors survived.

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EATING ON THE EDGE

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The food has been cooked

too long, too hot.

The bowl is too hot to touch

without protection

of habeas corpus, 

due process,

freedom of assembly

to warn with free speech

that the food is too hot.

When the food is too hot

we must eat around the edges

where cooler air lowers

the heat and hostility

on the tongue of those

who eat from the middle

un-thinking, un-aware,

ready to mix up reality

thinking it will cool food down.

Eat from the edges.

Save the tongue for speech

un-damaged by the heat.

Cool air cannot reach the middle

until the edges have been removed.

Eat around the edges

to compete with the heat

and bring the heat down

until the food  can be handled

and the tongue un-mangled

until the food once again

can be swallowed

and the entire community fed.

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TIME FLIES

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Time flies when you are having fun;

even faster when life is nearly done.

Aging compresses memories

weighted heavier day by day,

which one would expect

should slow time down.

Instead it speeds time up as we create

new memories to fill life up

before it, like we, pass on

before we accomplish all we seek.

Months now seem like a week;

years seem like a month at least,

and decades seem like a single year.

How can one compare the age of time?

How can one compare the time of age?

One simply turns life page by page

to finish the book so long ago begun.

Time flies when you are having fun.

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KNIVES AND FORKS

“A lot of people don’t have much food on their table

But they got a lot of forks and knives

And they gotta cut somethin’ “

-TALKIN’ NEW YORK, Bob Dylan, 1962

It all looks so normal out there

Sitting in a garden chair

Winds drying out the humid air.

Children ride their bikes in the street

Shouting out challenge to those they meet.

Everything looks tidy and neat

Like the 1200 men stowed like trash behind the door

Confined to Cecot, deprived of the rule of law

Hidden and forbidden to leave El Salvador.

Only a few are known criminals, most with misdemeanors 

Like parking tickets, who need an intervenor

To explain confining the innocent is certainly meaner

Than recognizing fraternities are simply rich kids’ gangs

And poverty creates such hunger pangs

That forks are not much use and knives have to cut

Something.

Following daily routines can also be mean

When we ignore so easily the suffering of the poor

So easily victimized while we stand with false pride

Crying on social media at what we have lost,

Free to do so without much cost

Until we discover it is too late to shut the garden gate

And take to the streets dodging kids on  bikes

And march in the parks alongside dogs on the leash

As we try not to see how leashed we are.

This is not normal. We are not normal. 

We search to find normal any way we can, just

Something

before the knives come out.

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LAST BREATH

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What is the period of mourning

when a nation dies before our eyes?

Not in sudden cardiac arrest,

not like a slow cancer.

nor a natural aging

of its body politic.

But, like a chronic illness

which has worsened over time,

sometimes in remission

allowing hope to remain alive.

But, when death’s grip pries

the life from every cell

which protected a nation from demise

and its heartbeats accelerate

at a far too barbaric rate,

what then? How can hope survive

when our national freedom dies?

The violence, the bombs, the rubbled ruin 

comes after the next election, I fear. 

The election may save us from loss

of freedom, but at a cost.

Like Ukraine, we can take a nation back

by electing constitutional, loyal leaders

and set our enemies off to the side.

Like Ukraine, our enemies will regroup

and ferociously and physically attack

what they could not seize by stealth.

They will never let go of power and wealth

which we allowed them to take during this

DOGE-dealing, Heritage Foundation steal.

Courts may save us for a time.

But, be prepared.Everything is on the line.

And the mourning is ever-ceasing

for those who see the fate

of a nation which for too-long

embraced its power and its wealth, 

and allowed itself to hate.

Slavery was our original sin and set the stage

for all the other hate and division

that has led to this time of fear and outrage.

How long is the mourning period for such a loss?

It has been my entire life; yet, my hope has endured.

But, my body senses death at my nation’s door.

And, I fear I simply cannot take it anymore.

What is the end to this period of mourning?

Every cell in the body politic is warning

that this nation, our beloved nation

may be close to its last breath.

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MEMORIES

Memories

The heart’s memory

Holds truth close for but a moment.

Then moves beyond truth

To a greater reality

To become something more,

Something that can last challenging and comforting,

cherished and caressed

Through boundless eternity.

The stories we tell ourselves

May have little basis in reality.

The heart too easily

Makes fools of us all.

Yet, we become enthralled

As our stories unfold,

Especially with those stories

We have never told.

Held close to the chest,

Such untold stories

Make us look, and feel, our best.

Their power keeps us strong

And able to face all the rest.

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