Category Archives: POETRY

KILL THEM ALL?

Fraud plot in which some Somali immigrants participated? All Somalis are garbage so get rid of them all.

Criminal activity in which some African-Americans engage? All African-Americans are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Investigations and questions by journalists you find troublesome? All journalists are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some women refuse your advances and sexism? All women are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Venezuelan boaters survive an illegal attack at sea? All Venezuelans are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Democrats pass legislation restricting corporate greed? All Democrats are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Military heroes remind military personnel to refuse unlawful orders? All military and veterans are garbage. Get rid of them all.

CEOs defraud, overcharge for goods and services, underpay workers? All CEOs are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some White people commit crimes? All white people are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some men abuse and rape women? All men are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Some bankers hide criminal gains, make money off the deposits? All bankers are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Hate has no logic except its power to destroy.

Hate has no reason except its delight in abuse.

Hate has no goodness in thought or in deed.

Hate is a damning influence and creed.

Hate is the one thing no one needs.

Some people hate? All people are garbage. Get rid of them all.

Hate until no one is left alive, no one at all.

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LEVEL 2 EMERGENCY

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Snow fell.

Quiet reigned

aboriginal and free

amid snow’s mystery.

Only the rabbits

left their tracks

to let us know

life still goes on

despite levels of emergency

tossed to and fro

by weather-casters

who took over the news

while Ukrainian children were bombed,

while fishermen’s boats were blown apart,

while military heroes were called traitors,

while brown and black people were secreted away

to secret places behind fencing and weapons,

while scientists were silenced by conspiracy,

while money poured in to false fronts

put in place by false leaders spouting false claims,

while real drug-runners, insurrectionists, rapists and worse

were pardoned and promoted to prod us to succumb

to the darkness weighing down our days as well as our nights.

And still,

the snow fell.

Pure and white,

it covered up every dirty secret.

It hid all sin from our sight.

it made us believe again.

In what? 

What happens when it melts again,

as it surely will,

as it has since the Wampanoag

and every tribe lost its place,

as it has on every plantation

where enslaved persons 

plotted to run away,

as it does now with every bonus paid to an ICE agent

subduing a person of color and hiding them away.

It snowed last night.

It is freezing and cold today.

Snow did not create an emergency.

We did.

And, we keep trying to cover it up.

It snowed last night.

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THANKS GIVING

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It is good to be thankful.

It is good to be free.

It is good to hope 

and dance so merrily.

It is good to be thankful.

It is good if we can see

it is good to keep trying

to save our beloved country.

It is good to be thankful.

It is good for more than me.

It is good for every “other”

who turns I into we.

It is good to be thankful.

But I want so much more.

I want each of us to lift 

the light beside an open door.

I want each of us to hold and defend

our sacred declared text and constitution.

I want each of us to pledge

we will begin again

and set aside fearful pride

alongside those who deny

the Rule of Law and all it means,

as it loss threatens the safety

of ourselves, and every sister and brother.

I want each of us to vote the bums out.

I want each of us to cry freedom and shout

“We ain’t buying it !” 

to all those who sold us out

so they alone can dance merrily in a ballroom

built on East Wing destruction,

giving in to autocrats’ seduction.

It is good to be thankful.

It is good to be free.

But, only if we all can be

and only if we all 

can dance so merrily.

Too many did not think this is how it would be.

They ignored the liberal thinkers they deplore,

and wholeheartedly ignored

the warnings and pleas to face reality.

Instead, they refused to see,

they refused to look into the mirror

of their own racist, sexist depravity.

It was easier to look away.

They knew they would not like

what they would see.

They felt affirmed and at their ease.

But only for a moment.

Now, this is where we are, but need not be.

It is good to be thankful.

It is good to stay free.

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ODE TO SISTER ROBERTINE, O.P.

Dominican Sisters taught me in grades 1-12. Sister Robertine was my Latin teacher, but so much more. She was the woman who taught me what feminism looked like. She could outwit and outplay our male principal, the priest who thought he ran the school. He did not. She did. She explained, “It is a man’s world; but, a woman’s heaven. Still, you can make it yours.” When we heard clicking rosary beads (we heard her before we saw her) we knew to stand up straight and behave ourselves. She gave no quarter. I wish I had her photo. I wish every child had a Sister Robertine to love them into goodness and greatness. She has been gone many years but her words still resonate; as she explained, words always do. There were two cornerstones at our grade school read: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” Sister Robertine struck that fear in us; then told us only the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it could be.Thank you, Sister!

Words create the reality we fear,

or one in which we can rejoice, and hold dear,

and spend our lives, seeing more clear.

Words have power to describe us,

inflame us, excite us, 

or kill what is inside us.

Words can kill when taken in

by others’ hearts mired

in grace or sin.

Sister Robertine said:

Be careful what you read,

what you see at the movies, or on T.V.

Garbage in is garbage out.

That is what words are all about.

She knew A. I. before it was accelerated

by techno wizards, not the Divine

who works at a slower pace

to afford human-kind much-needed grace.

Sister Robertine said:

Dress how you want to act,

How you hope to be,

how you want to be seen.

You can create each day,

play the part in your own play.

You will soon become 

whom you hope to be.

Dress with self-respect 

and respect you will get.

Sister Robertine said:

only “X” or “BIG X”

when our answer was incorrect.

No rewards nor praise

for getting it right.

Working hard to get it right,

to see it through

was the least we could do.

Our reward for seeking knowledge was integrity.

Our reward for dressing well was respect.

Our reward for working hard was strength.

Our reward for seeking hard truths was character.

We could then write our own play,

play our chosen roll, on our own stage.

We could live lives that mattered,

live lives in which lies were shattered.

We could live in the spotlight of grace and power

to change the world for good, hour by hour.

Like all good teachers, Sister Robertine directed the play.

I am grateful for such a teacher every single day.

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Words

Some days the words refuse to let me go.

On other days words pretend I am someone they do not know.

The cut-direct should not hurt so.

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PRESS, THE ATTACK

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Writing in the dark

is hard, requires balance,

leaning on insight.

Things do not smell right

despite heightened sense of smell

and story to tell.

Writing in the dark

makes hard to appreciate

journalists who fall.

Things are now hidden 

behind false information.

See? Nothing at all.

And, so it goes down:

free speech, free press, redress.

Democracy Dark!

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HUNGER GAMES

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I see patterns, not the dead.

Patterns of the dead and dying, instead.

Death by a thousand cuts,

every strength lessened  in a labor force,

in flight controllers, educators, hospitals,

F.B.I and military personnel, as well.

Saving money is not the purpose;

but, stealing money to fill the purses

of family and those who hold the cards,

greedy sots who play so hard

they have forgotten how to work

if they ever knew how.

No sweat on their flinty-eyed brow.

The hunger games have now begun.

Watching suffering is part of their fun.

Crying children with aching bellies,

babies once thriving, who will soon be dying.

The weakened working poor and people of color

are always such a weight and bother

to those who seek fortune and fame.

To win, such weak pretenders must play such games.

The cries and shouts are soon drowned out

by Epstein’s files which stretch for miles

across every ocean, their pattern is in motion.

Overpower those you fear and take their power.

Do this day-by-day, hour-by-hour

until they die or wish they could.

Death by a thousand cuts.

Pretend you are doing it for their own good.

Your power is but a sick, slick dream;

a nightmare for hungry children who scream.

Banks profit off your every scheme and stay silent

while you threaten and demean those who show

who you really are, and strive to make clear

this is not who most of us are, or wish to be.

But, too many agree. Too many refuse to see

the patterns they have watched on TV screens

for so many generations that it is destroying a nation.

I see patterns, not the dead.

So busy feeding the hungry we have little time to fight

those who create patterns of dominance and fright

robbing us of the wealth which once fueled our success.

Now, our very democratic existence is under duress.

This is part pf the plan of the Heritage Foundation,

who has shaken the core the the Republican Party so hard

it no longer exists as a proud opposition.

It has become the source of a free people’s annihilation.

I see patterns. I see the plan has been set in motion.

Now, I ask, countryman and women to show their devotion

to a nation entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness

where all are created free as a basic right of creation.

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NORTHERN LIGHTS

view of Columbus, Ohio at CMH

The Aurora Borealis is too much Latin for Americans

who look at night-time skies to see what is hidden

from their more southern views.

White supremacy’s bright lights and cloudy skies

hide the natural truths seen by more northern eyes.

War between the two settled nothing it seems, now

when night holds sway for many more hours of our day.

Electricity heats the cold and hides the stars

while we stay locked inside and miss the show

our saving sun puts on display to energize earth

and remind us of its power in such a  glorious way.

We miss the full glow our northern neighbors see.

We rejoice just to know such light exists,

even though we block its view with technology.

Safe and warm inside, we simply watch it on T.V.

Even a nine year old describes with solemn glee

one more item is met on his bucket list 

as if once is enough to behold one

of the universe’s many mysteries.

We reduce all around us to private lists of goals achieved.

We miss the chance to feel the tiny place we hold

together in the expansive and expanding galaxy.

We need never feel deadened and alone.

With such energy and light our truth is shown.

No reporter nor weatherman on our screen

can reveal the natural world right outside our door

in all its truth and glory, telling us the story

of who we are, who we could become, and how to see

the Northern Lights, which warm the heart 

and light the soul, if truth be told.

To see the sight of the Northern Light

we must face the darkness and the cold.

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MY FIRST AND ONLY CONFESSION

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Confession is good for the soul.

I have been told.

My first confession

at the age of seven

Took Sister Mary Claude,

whose diligence I applaud,

months to abate my fear.

First in line, I strode near

the confessional where Fr. Torre

waited to hear blood and gore

from little ones whose blame-game

only recently became a cause of shame.

With whispering words I began to confess.

“Father, forgive me.”( I felt such stress.)

“This is my first confession.”

Father stopped me right there

as I sat on the edge of the chair.

He was behind the screen,

a solemn, still figure barely seen.

“Please speak up so I can hear.”

And, so I did, and started to enumerate

all my sins, expecting him to strongly berate.

His words caused me even greater fear,

“Louise, not so loud, or all will hear.”

No longer did I worry who heard what.

He knew me, when I had been taught,

confession is anonymous.

Now, I felt infamous.

How could I face him across my Mother’s table

when he came each week that he was able

to eat her suga and Italian food;

and feel like family, with buoyant mood.

My only sin that day

was what I confessed every single Saturday,

“I disobeyed my Mother 10 times a day,

every day, of every week, of every year.

I was a disobedient child who shed no tears.

And over these many years

I have never changed my insolent creed

My father told me as I stood at his knee,

“Every man puts his pants on one leg at a time.

No one is better than you; (I liked that line)

and you are no better than anyone else.”

Equality set my soul free, made my heart pulse.

Equality became the base of all courage.

Equality kept me from being discouraged.

As a woman in a man’s world and profession.

I learned to speak up and out loud in my first confession.

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A NEW DAWN

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Even the pictures on the wall

are tilted to the right.

Was there another disturbance overnight?

A tweet, and email, a deep-meet out of sight?

Did I stay asleep to avoid another fright?

When dawn came to anew and renew me 

I woke to the strengthening light.

I straightened every picture on every wall.

Was all this only a nightmarish dream after all?

I suddenly feel stronger, the longer I recall

what the world looked like before America’s fall.

Once again, I vow, Americans will be able to stand tall.

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