Category Archives: POETRY

REMEMBER MARTHA STEWART ?

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Martha Stewart was full of ideas.

They were  all “a good thing”. 

And then she told one lie

to the F.B.I.

Martha Stewart roused no hate.

Martha  Stewart was not a saint.

Nor are you nor I.

But she did not steal nuclear info,

plans of defense and attack during war,

or national secrets meant to restore

safety and security forevermore.

She did not pose a threat

to those who now protect

every city, state and shore.

She did not place in question

our entire nation’s protection.

She told one lie and admitted her fault.

Off to prison she went and never balked.

Five months in prison, five months confined

at home, and a $30,000 fine.

Now, tell me why, for the love of country

why he cannot go to prison for repeatedly

telling lies and stealing a nation’s secrets

and threatening to destroy our nation 

 and its ability to stay safe and strong?

Do we have a king and not a man?

Have we misunderstood this all along?

His title was MISTER President; not

your highness. Have you forgot?

Does he have a rule that never ends?

What is he then?

Better than a common criminal?

Better than you or me?

Better than keeping our nation free?

Better than a democracy

of the people, by the people, for the people?

Tell me who we are, then.

If not a people who rule themselves

subject only to the rule of law.

Never subject to a criminal who shelves

the safety of our nation in a bathroom,

ballroom, or resort.

I await your retort.

Stop the nonsense that he cannot be jailed.

Of course he can, and so could we

if we engaged in such perfidy.

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FILING DAY…more to come

I am finally setting up a filing system for the hundreds of poem I have written over the last 25 years. This poem still rings true. So, I am sharing it with you.

I AM THAT EVE 10-27-1999

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I am that Eve

who stood before that tree

and beheld the face of God

eye-to-eye,

as an equal.

I am that Eve

who chose to leave her father’s garden

for one of her own making,

God’s co-creator

of the garden of earthly delights.

I am that Eve

both Magdalen and Madonna

in reflection of God’s love,

an earthly and eternal

gift to man.

I am that Eve

who waits in stillness

and fruitfulness of Spirit

who would crush the head

of those who hiss their judgement of others.

I am that Eve

who takes the hand of man

and leads him from ignorance and lies

to self-knowledge, and places him

in the hands of God.

I am that Eve

who touches the roots

and taste the fruits

of ancient wisdom

and God’s own heart.

I am that Eve.

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HAIKU IN MY DEFENSE

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The lines were too long.

I was too busy to wait.

So, I robbed the bank.

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THE POET

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I wake with words upon the tongue,

fingers ready to write down thoughts among

the fractured dreams of worlds long gone,

whose stories linger eon after eon.

No breakfast nor shower first for those like me

who live and breathe a universe of poetry.

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SUMMER

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Summer wears her heart on her sleeve.

Her false smiles and beguiling ways

encourages all to believe

that she is available to play flirtatious games. 

But, know that Summer will always have her way.

She drags us away from kitchens, desks 

and comfy chairs out into her garden on display.

She allows us to become more aware

of her silken charms directed our way.

Droughts and cloudbursts,

sun that brightens and burns our skin,

Allergens and particulates that settle within

make it hard to breathe in her presence.

Her insects sting and guilelessly bite

while Summer’s flower-perfumed essence

awakens and entreats our most intimate senses.

It would be so easy to love Summer. She puts us to the test

against Autumn, Winter and Spring as to whom we love best.

Summer has become a little too free for me.

I prefer a season who holds back her charms

and grants me shy glimpses which raise no alarms.

As Earth heats Summer’s gaze, subtlety fades  away.

Summer has become almost too bold,

too sure of her dominance, too unsafe

to simply play our Summers away.

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DAY AFTER DAY

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No two days are alike, they say.

Every day is a new day.

Only to others when viewed

through their lens, not our own.

Yet, to each of us each day

seems like any other.

We rise. We feed.

We move. We sleep.

We may laugh. We may weep.

The sun rises, wanes, then sets.

Moon appears. Stars stride by.

Once again, sun will rise.

And yet, and yet…

doubt remains in expectation

of strangers to be met,

adventures to explore,

and insights to gain.

Conundrums stealthily reign.

Is each day anew?

Or, is each day the same?

Cannot both be true?

It is truly up to you.

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SHADE GARDEN

Lane to Priestacott by Derek Harper is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

It is hard to flower in the shade.

Floral display is for the bees

and pollinators who see

the value and possibility

of a plant to survive beyond its seed.

Nectar moves with pollen from darkest night

and plants mingle and join in plain sight,

to be more and to do more

than simply survive. They strive to thrive.

In deep shade plants may stay alive.

Hosta flowers with a single note.

Its flower pulses high above leaves long and wide,

a surprise symphony of  courage and pride.

Flowers who manage to grace the dark

appear as pale as moonlight,

or tiny and overly bright as minuscule suns,

miniature versions of sun-garden cousins.

Shade gardens offer a place to hide

amid dark plants struggling to flower

when one knows one cannot.

The smallest birds and animals shelter there

beneath broad leaves, safe from hawks

and others who prey on such as they.

When the shine of bright light and heat of sun

becomes too much, we run

to shelter in the shade, listen to its music,

dance on its cool earth, and have some fun.

Flowers would be nice.

Sun’s beauties have a price

some of us cannot afford to pay.

Peace comes in the darkest glades.

I happily, and lovingly, sit in the shade.

Photo by Dagmara Dombrovska on Pexels.com

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THE BURNING TRUTH

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The sky is filled with smoke.

It screens what must remain unseen,

composed of tiny particles of ash

from truth burned into trash.

It spreads on currents of hot air

spewed by media quoting politicians

and those wealthy with despair.

Their heated breath fills the air.

Unhealthy fears create their positions

and policies meant to light the flames

which destroys forests, hills, and plains.

No truth is left to see.

Yet, still, truth chokes us mercilessly.

All that is left as we try to breathe free

are signs of drought and a dying democracy.

Like the phoenix, in truth we will rise 

through destructive smoke-filled skies, 

weeping tears which douse the flames.

While our nations may not seem the same,

They will be stronger, better, truer.

Their lies will be fewer.

We shall know the truth and it shall set us free.

That is the true heart of democracy.

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ETERNAL GARDEN

After the heaving winds of Winter

blow across the face of Earth

dropping heavy rains in ceaseless floods,

the blazing winds of Summer force heat waves

upon plains and forests and fire up

an atmosphere of heat and drought. 

The plants in my garden are anchored

beyond the sound of my pleading voice

begging them to live , if not for me,

then for every butterfly and bee

as if Earth might survive

by some miracle, as have I;

beyond cancer scares and chronic ME,

and fibromyalgia that brings me to my knees.

Yet, like Earth I continue to survive 

and even thrive.

No future generations of my DNA

will I leave behind, but seeds

that blow on restless winds and bury their heads

in fertile soil across the garden I have spread,

and breed new life in a new garden

long after I am gone.

This may be my only immortality.

Or, perhaps there is more

in a place yet unseen but hoped for in my dreams,

built on faith and fed by love

Felt in such ecstasy of our union,

its solidarity a true communion

where we explore the truth that

we are not alone, anymore.

The whole world, not merely Earth

is ours to explore,

building hopeful memories to outlast

the fear of loneliness from the past.

Our loving connection gives such strength

even death cannot break the bonds

of love and life meant to survive an eternity.

We are in this together, you and I.

One thing I know for sure;

like the garden, our love will never die.

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THE ART OF POLITICS

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Politics is performance art.

Parties pick performers to entertain

and blind us to our own innate disdain

for policies we would never entertain

if we stopped to look behind the star 

performer who’s task is to draw

our eyes from the sleight of hand

passing laws we cannot stand.

Laugh and smile at the star engaged

in fooling you in a laughing con

but also look at what goes on

behind the screen, behind the stage.

The Italian Comedians (ca. 1720) by National Gallery of Art is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

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