Category Archives: POETRY

FELLOW TRAVELERS

Trump supporters near the U.S Capitol, on January 06, 2021 in Washington, DC
Getty Images

Cliches are used to describe

beliefs held by members of the tribe.

Fellow Travelers need never think.

They simply repeat without a blink.

They readily follow the scripted lines

which leaders lay down clean and fine

on minds at ease and entertained

by political games played again and again.

Fellow Travelers are nothing new.

Names have changed as hatred grew.

Stalin or Putin, Hitler or Ali Khamenei,

Leni Riefenstahl or Kelly Anne Conway,

Mitchell or Flynn, Himmler or Halloway,

Chamberlin or Trump, Goring or Meadows,

“Both sides are good people” and happy fellows.

No Fellow Traveler deserves a pass.

Two Party systems have paved the way

to allow us to defeat hate each voting day.

Until now, when an entire party has become

the Fellow Traveler of world leaders of hate

whose acts of oppression and crimes of war

remind us humanity has not come so far

as we imagined and hoped and prayed.

We must vote them out next election day.

Elections have never mattered more.

No Fellow Traveler can be allowed

to cross the threshold of Congress’ door.

No Fellow Traveler can take up residency

in The White House of our nation’s  presidency.

No nation can remain free

whose voters cannot think independently.

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SUNRISE

Photo by Louise Annarino

The sky alights as do I.

Sun fills the fibers from head to toe.

Sun awakens so I must go.

I must go follow the sun it seems

or languish within startling dreams.

I prefer reality to map my way out of night.

I prefer a mind and heart filled with light.

Shadows always fall behind me.

Darkness  no longer blinds me

though I am on unfamiliar paths

and the light will not last.

For a few hours, at least, 

I progress past the breach

where it would be easy to fall

onto hopes covered by a pall.

Light guides my way 

for another day.

It no longer matters if I know

exactly where I am meant to go.

I simply take delight

that it is not yet night.

This, then, is the destination

for each soul and every nation.

Be in the here. Be in the now.

Let this be our solemn vow.

As difficult as it is to follow the sun,

humanity’s journey has just begun.

There will always be another night.

Sunrise always returns to give us light.

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HAIKU

Now comes the junco

from his northern clime to mine

singing garden rhyme.

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AN ODE TO MIKE JOHNSON

A Speaker who speaks silently.

He hides in plain sight openly.

Bearing no color, chatting amiably,

amid many-hued others feverishly

there to cover stories that bleed wickedly.

He seems so normal; and, so confidently

preaches stories and fables smilingly.

Keeping all entertained endlessly

as their eyes fall from the prize of democracy,

Stolen and hidden in his wallet shamelessly

are votes cast, all hopes bashed easily.

He smiles calmly, benignly and evilly.

He leads as his party follows blindly.

Hiding in the spotlight openly.

His weight placed upon freedom crushingly.

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BUILDING BLOCKS

Photo by @akb.ph on Pexels.com

Whose power fills the vein,

courses through the body politic,

amidst the loosening strain

by seeking peace and unity

to replace the the fearful rage

wrought by endless war ?

Culture is not the same

as power playing games

to win at any cost

what some fear they have lost.

What they have lost they took in theft.

No need to now feel bereft

of what one never owned.

Thieves have no honor it is clear.

Nor hesitation to build fear

by bullying, intimidation and threats.

Lies cannot heal the wounds,

nor close veins opened in regret

of what we failed to acknowledge

in a past we chose to skew.

Structures fall in blocks of despair

as we stand in quaking dread

of what might lie ahead.

Disaster and opportunity are well met

in the rubble which now settles about

our feet, and all we doubt.

Thoughts and feelings drift down

in the dust settling all around

thoughts tossed and set askew.

We are left choking on what we cannot see.

A pause is not amiss.

But, we cannot afford to wait

to rebuild a globe and create anew our fate,

and heal the hurts from falling debris

from hidden, hate-filled, fearful history

disclosed as walls and nations tumble.

Gather those who grieve the loss of democracy.

Clear the rubble, dust and minds

with a truer view of history

Dedicate such memory to better buildings.

This is humanity’s strength.

Not the structures of banks and governments;

but the blood flowing in the veins

in powerful resiliency to those who would suppress

truth and honesty.

The muscle and sinew of strong minds and hearts

whose only thought as worlds break apart

is how to build anew

a better, fairer, stronger structure

to protect both me and you.

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REMEMBER THAT THOU ART DUST

Photo by Ahmed akacha on Pexels.com

Revenge is a dish

best served cold.

forgiveness is a feast

meant to feed us all.

When fear replaces hope,

and impulse thoughtfulness,

death becomes 

the boon companion

of he who wields the sword

to decapitate infants,

shoots the gun

to annihilate a people,

or sets the fire

to decimate a place.

There is no saving grace.

There is no promise of immortality

to be fulfilled in hateful commonplace. 

There is only disgrace.

Personal value, human value,

no longer take the stage,

nor takes a bow, by those enraged.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Forgiveness is a feast for all.

Where it can be found,

nor how,

I no longer know.

But search I must,

before we all turn to dust.

Photo by Berke Araklu0131 on Pexels.com

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HALLOWEEN

Photo by Charles Parker on Pexels.com

I want some tombstones,

though not my own;

the fake ones which fool

little ghosts, faeries, and ghouls

who ply their trade at my front door,

calling “trick or treat” and more,

as I did so on long ago nights.

I still recall the creepy frights

from neighborhood kids who screamed

and jumped out of dark corners with eyes that gleamed,

laughing with glee at my horrified screech and shout.

That is what Halloween was all about.

Halloween used to be the time when death’s screen

was removed from our young eyes

and we could discover with fearsome surprise

that none of us would ever

live forever.

I want some tombstones in my yard

to remind little beggars from near and far

that life is short and is to be treasured

beyond any sweetness candy can measure.

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POETRY’S PATH

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Poetry may hide under rocks, too.

Poems litter the path with words

often unattached

to any reality,

and blocking the way

to progress.

But, poetry exposed to the sun,

and shared with everyone,

opens up paths of discovery.

Poems can be used as tools

to bring back home

fearful fools

who climbed too high,

led astray by fraudsters

who use their fear

to build a gate,

and create hate

to block the way

to unity and community.

Our village awaits

the return of those who thus roam.

Let poetry guide you home.

Leave hate behind.

Make easier your climb,

unfettered by false letters

in tweets and squeaks

by cowards, hour upon hour.

Such false facts weigh you down

more than personal adversity.

Community will share the load,

no matter how hard your road.

Love, not hate, always finds its way.

Come home.

Come home.

Come home.

Today.

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HAIKU/ POETRY

Photo by Tony S. Zohari on Pexels.com

Wildly careening

prose portrayed as poetry

fools no one but me.

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OLD PATHS

The path beneath my feet

Is one unknown to me.

If I have traversed this way before

It has been lost to memory.

Perhaps, it seems, to be

one once described to me

by lineage and ancestry.

Sicily was often overrun

by strangers to her shore,

Creating new paths to run

new tales of history

of those who had gone before.

Does age create such doubts?

Does age turn straight paths

Into meandering round-abouts

where youthful traffic refuses

to take the time to stop?

Does age create the unmarked trails,

or does youth misdirect those who fail

to take the time to study new maps?

Choosing instead to take a nap.

Forget the nap.

Forget the map.

Become the child again whose life thrives

on striking out for parts unknown

on paths that are not yet overgrown

with comforts and plots we had sown

before we grew too old to recall

what it feels like to stand brave and tall.

Take the unknown path after all.

Live again a life in thrall.

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