Category Archives: POETRY

The Passion of Old Age

Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva on Pexels.com

I carry the buckets heavy with ash

from the spot where love burned 

long in the past.

Charred earth remains.

Charred hopes dashed.

Passion so bright it lit up the night.

Only ash remains in dawn’s cold light.

Ash is good for the soul.

It reminds us what we all know

in the darkest recesses 

where we seldom go.

We are dust.

and return to dust we must.

Thus, I carry buckets, yours and mine,

with ashes from a brighter time

where light was stronger,

where we could see better.

When we were stronger,

and we were better.

I remember the sparks

that lit love sublime

as I empty the buckets

and spread a dust so fine.

It covers the garden bed

where our roses now climb.

Each rose is a kiss

recalled from the time

when your touch started a fire

and your lips on mine

offered a taste of the Divine.

And love, warm love,

continues to grow.

Its fire now banked

in a steady, warm glow.

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DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL CONVENTION

Photo by Thiago Silva on Pexels.com

Best to keep parched lips closed in the midst of drought.

When the rain comes, as it surely must, lips open wide,

with head tilted back, in a tumultuous shout.

Filling up with rain, one wet swallow can seem enough.

Memory quickly returns of a mouth full of dry dust,

reminding one a single swallow is not enough.

After thirsting so long words have grown tough

to swallow, feel bitter, feel wounded, feel flushed

where they would be drowned 

if only rain would fall down.

Still, the short rain is enough to stir us to our feet,

on the forward march to greener pastures,

cool beneath our bare feet,

taking their fill of all the rains 

that have gone before to make this place

one where one may stay to laugh and play.

We will not go back.

Tears of joy rain down now.

We swallow them whole, 

filled with power so bold

we believe we control

the weather.

We don’t, we know.

But, we can vote.

And our vote grows in volume

as word drops form streams

and create new rivers of dreams

that flow within oceans so strong

their freedom carries us along

to new and better shores 

where right overcomes wrongs.

Words fall like rain, again and again.

Dance in the rain and play

on the way to election day.

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REGRET

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

When even words hurt

too much to write on a page,

it is time to stop.

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AMUSED

Men say there are nine muses

all female,

all source,

all inspiration

behind man’s creation.

I alone amuse myself, 

a female 

well enough,

tough enough

wise enough

behind my own creation.

We females are funny that way.

We have no time

to while away,

nor our egos sway,

where power games lay.

We do not play.

We females amuse ourselves

as we go on life’s way

to build lives better,

to make peace surer,

to allay furor

which gets in the way.

We find joy in  every day.

We bring joy

to every girl and boy,

to every woman and man,

to all we can,

smiling all the way.

Men may need nine muses.

Women are happy to be

all  nine at every time,

in every way,

on every day.

We women do not play.

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LATE SUMMER DAZE

LATE SUMMER, acrylic on canvass by Louise Annarino, 2024

The shades of summer pull slowly closed.

Sun drops quietly behind.

Shadows lengthen across grass carpets

moistened by the dew of cool nights

and warm days peaking through.

Autumn is on her way to paint

hot colors against cool blue skies.

Summer still lingers behind the shade

ready to surprise 

with summer heat intent

on a hot reprise.

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GIVE US AIR !


Vice-President Kamala Harris and Minnesota Governor Tim Walz

August flopped heavily

Sweatily

Vociferously

and fully aware of the pressure

building in the heated

air.

Little relief in scattered 

rains that shattered

a populace already battered

by heated rhetoric

over the curtained waves of

air.

Two-thousand twenty-five

reasons to despair

the planned assault on our care

of one another and a planet

dumb-soaked without a care for

air. 

August is hard to breathe in,

in and out, and in again;

cheering on Harris-Walz

awaiting the slightest breeze of

air.

I can breathe again.

We can breathe again.

The earth can breathe again.

Finally, we can move forward again.

In November we can vote in cooled

air.

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WORDS AS FRIENDS

Photo by Monstera Production on Pexels.com

Treating words like friends

poetry does not create. 

Words can ask that you wait.

Like friends.

Words can obfuscate.

Like friends.

Words can stimulate.

Like friends.

Words can love or hate mandate.

Like friends.

Words can fear understate.

Like friends.

Words can hunger sate.

Like friends.

Words can placate.

Like friends.

Words can ease your fate.

Like friends.

Words can simply be great.

Like friends.

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GARDEN LESSON

Photo by Richa Sharma on Pexels.com

There is nothing like a drought

to teach what life is all about.

Waiting for the rain to fall

is not sufficient to survive.

Tender patience does not thrive.

Buds remain closed, tucked and hidden

deep among leaves’ folds

offering a pace to hide.

Roots buckle down deep

and down, down, down

to depths they seldom explore;

knowing once the rains do come

they may open up closed doors.

Eventually, rains come, and even pour.

Rains batter plants stressed and sore;

opening caches held within their core.

It is only after sun appears

that plants let go their fears.

And in that moment plants flower,

Their faith in Nature restored.

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WHERE HAVE THE BUTTERFLIES GONE?

Photo by Nandhu Kumar on Pexels.com

Hydrangeas move as if on a breeze.

A breeze of bees moving flower to flower

across lime green, blue and pink.

Across ruby red and native plants

their flowers do a pretty dance.

On this hot, dry day I watch bees play.

But, where have the butterflies gone?

They did not appear this year.

The yard is awash in colorful blooms

In past years butterflies found plenty of room

to feast and sleep a moment or two.

Butterfly bushes and  butterfly weeds,

native plants and other species

await their return in sad revery.

I ask everyone I know,

“have you seen a butterfly this year?”

The answer is always a baffled, “No.”

Where did all the butterflies go?

And, will they ever return ?

Who knows? Like lovers spurned,

they may have found another garden

to replace my own. 

I can only hope so, as I mourn

a topsy-survey world grown too warm.

Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com

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GODDESSES AMONG US

I see now why the first deities were female.

Only a woman speaks to the soul of  birth

and breathes new life into 

every soul on this beloved earth.

Goddesses with distended wombs

weighted with hopefulness

are found in every ancient tomb.

Our future had seemed lost.

The entire world seemed doomed.

Death in every household loomed.

A globe on fire steeped in hateful rhetoric

gunned down every effort to escape 

a despondent, hopeless fate.

Covid stole the innocence

of even those usually sitting on the fence.

No one was content to wait and see

what November wrought for democracy.

Moneyed oligarchs of greed stole hope 

as well control over justice with abuse of power.

Federalist  Society Judges delayed justice

hour after hour after hour after hour.

Even the Supreme Court undermined

the Constitution which is yours and mine;

not theirs, not wealthy donors, not those in power.

Then she, she, she, she, she, she, she

took the torch and raised it high.

Emma Lazarus’ female guards our harbor.

Kamala guards us in our darkest hour.

Her smile and laughter brings us

up from our knees, our prayers answered.

A goddess has arisen and made a fuss

of all the lies and hate-filled derision.

Her solemn promise made to us

that she will fight at our side.

She will tan the evil-doers hide

as mothers have always done,

chastising our sins one-by-one.

And so we rise with delighted surprise

to shout as one that we are not done,

and we are not going back where death resides.

We are going forward where life begins.

To a place where elections are open to all.

To a place where life is treasured not spent

on greed and control and all that is indecent.

We are headed to the polls to give our consent

to a mother goddess from heaven’s descent;

called by Joe’s prayers, who always seems to know

what we need and whom to follow.

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