Category Archives: POETRY

GARDEN LESSONS

Louise Annarino, garden photo 2021

HAIKU

Inert seed unearthed,

breathing air unfiltered now

by soil, can’t grow.

Oklahoma Conservation Commission Soil Scientist by U.S. Department of Agriculture is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

LESSONS LEARNED

You have to eat a pint of dirt before you die.

Eating dirt creates immunity.

Now, tell me why

we disinfect what is written or aired.

Tell me why we only care

for news that entertains

yet fails to create community.

Do we deliberately divide the seed

until nothing worth digesting can grow

in gardens allowed to stay fallow

to feed the greed of those who make money

on fields laid to waste covered in words

sweeter than honey?

The last few minutes of every news show

tells a story to touch the heart.

To make certain we continue to believe

the world is better than we think,

despite what was said only moments before.

Can we not take facts straight any more?

Do we need others to tell us what

we are seeing; then tell us not to believe the sight?

Because, everything will simply be alright.

Dirty though the world may be

it is our right to make it what we will

by planting our own seeds

in the fields of our own minds

where it can then grow solid and whole.

The worms move the truth through dirt

enabled by microscopic insects

up the roots and into stems

until blossoms see the light of day.

Just, give us the dirt, and be on your way.

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HOMELESS MAN

Poverty (Armut), (1919) by Aloys by National Gallery of Art is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Down on all four knees,

a child perched on his back

neighing and whinnying,

the man-horse pranced

while children laughed,

and parents smiled.

Dad’s single friend 

who helped him tend bar

and recover from war

with laughter and cheer,

was always happy, and ever near.

He was best-buddy to Dad

and to Dad’s every child.

Ping-pong bouncing on the dining table,

boosts up into climbing trees,

breaking falls while running alongside

learners on tricycles and bicycles,

skipping stones across a pond,

baiting a hook for the squeamish,

even playing dolls…

All the things children liked were his forte.

He knew how to simply play.

Until the day

his mother died.

Then, his fiancee ran away

from his sadness and dismay,

or so, I heard Dad say.

Sadness broke his heart.

Electro-shock broke his mind.

Nothing could break the soul

of a man so loving and kind.

The rest of his long life he wandered

streets empty and alone

except on days Mom dragged him

off the street, into the car, and home.

Clean clothes, a shower and shave

before he could sit at the table with us

and eat the feast mom prepared,

the aroma tempting him to sit without a fuss.

Children’s chatter soon shattered

The peace he felt for too short a time.

Despite our pleas to stay and play,

his alarmed eyes jumped and explained

he felt he had to get away.

And so he left us, once again, 

to wander all alone.

No longer safe inside,

he hid on the streets,

in his new home among the homeless.

Play left our home those days.

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I’LL GIVE YOU THAT

Angelo Annarino, Sr. at age 18. Born 1920. Died 2002. (personal photos of Louise Annarino)

“I’ll give you that”

used to be a phrase

said in a way

to bring an argument 

to a close, 

not a win nor a loss.

Fractured relationships

considered too high a cost

to force a position 

one knows is lost.

My father was a master

of such admissions,

a diva of concessions

with hand flung in the air,

walking away in smiling disgust

by doing what he must

to repair every breach 

brought on by derision

saying without remorse,

“I’ll give you that.”

Building love and trust

his most precious position.

All else was mere dust,

too weak to stand upon.

“I’ll give you that”

is a way of bringing

an argument to a close,

a negotiation to a completion,

an invasion to a retreat,

a war to a peace.

Dad only gave away

what did not belong to him.

He was stubborn that way.

But what he could not claim

he simply gave away.

“I’ll give you that,”

we all should be willing to say.

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WORD TO THE WISE AT SUNRISE

Injuries to the body

break more than spirit.

They break sleep

into small segments

devoid of dreams

held captive

by muscles that scream

“Stop. Change position. 

Move. Get up!”

until night is no more.

Injured bodies awaken

before the dawn appears

to stretch, then stretch some more

until the pain rolls away

out of sight, out of a mind

on which it closes the door.

It keeps moving and maneuvering

to find balance in the spine

where all courage rests supine

allowing hope to settle

in muscle and bone

torn and worn by strife,

to keep the body moving

on its way to healing,

on its way to a fulfilled life.

Nations must do the same,

injured by past deeds.

They cannot heal

if they insist on staying asleep.

Their pain claims all their attention, 

not to mention

stiffening their hearts, minds and souls,

until they are trapped in a body

politic, unbalanced, unable to move

up and out of the bed

with forceful strides 

to claim the prize

of freedom and progress

to move through the world

pain free, on the way to healing,

stretching possibilities

to live in a world truly

peaceful and free.

Word to the wise, “Awake!”

A new dawn is here.

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HAIKU

Photo by Stuart Pritchards on Pexels.com

LETTING GO

When the road bends slow

we fail to notice how

much we have let go.

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HAIKU

Photo by Chanita Sykes on Pexels.com

THE UKNOWN

Fear waits past the gate,

grabs my hem and pulls me out

into the unknown.

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ODE TO THE RIGHTEOUS RIGHT

Photo by Lara Jameson on Pexels.com

If I were to tell you what I have been thinking

The embarrassment we both would feel

would be unlikely to appeal,

and that which each us would never 

hope to reveal.

But, of course I have no filter

to hold back honest perceptions.

Should I do so, anything I write

would be obvious deception.

Thus, my silence has descended

as a weight upon conception

of any new creation.

Does no one else see the destruction

being wrought against true thought?

The annihilation of creation

to move us forward as it ought?

No need to ban books or what is taught.

Your violent rhetoric descends and upends

those willing to create a better place

in a newer world, free from error and strife.

Your lies make my truths rise so high

you pick them out in your rifle sight,

aim and fire, destroying my light.

And that is your goal, is it not?

To destroy all that you are not.

Not decency nor truth, nor equality.

Nor compassion, nor peace, nor freedom.

All you are is greed and lust for control,

allowing wealth to trap your soul.

In this ungodly hour you use our churches

as bastions for your holding power

over all that is holy and sacrosanct.

My country ’tis of Thee. 

And, Thee, are destroying

my country, and my faith in Thee.

You are not right.

You are simply using your might

to block out all light.

I cannot stay silent.

It would bring on the night,

with the nightmare you hope to ignite.

Thus, today, once again, I write.

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COURAGE!

Photo by M Venter on Pexels.com

Too many today feel disaffection

expecting a loving connection

where none is possible.

Independence is overrated

in a culture soaked in sex

and self-gratification.

What bonds can be created

when self-focus reigns supreme

and dodges vulnerability

at every opportunity.

What love can grow in such infertility?

Have we lost the basic ability

to fall in love, to wrap in feeling

the deepest needs we fear to speak?

Courage! Courage! Take the risk to try

to open your heart, deep and wide.

Yes, love may fail. It almost certainly will.

But taking love’s ride is such a thrill.

Grab that hand. Touch that cheek.

Allow your deepest longings to speak.

Perhaps this one will 

be the one who listens 

with a heart ready to be filled

with you.

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ODE TO ANGELA AND ANGELO

I have outlived my own mother,

one like no other, as yours must be ,too.

A mother who labored to bring me to life

then labored every day after

to create a world of joy and laughter,

joined by my father with teasing whiles

who kept a joke ready for when I most needed smiles.

Life struggles were an everyday event

twisted into humor at every bent.

Nothing could really bring us down

so long as we could laugh and play the clown.

Long gone are my parents, to play other venues

where they must have been needed,

while I continue to live honored and feted.

Happy birthday to me, yes, it is indeed

thanks to two people whose love brought forth

a daughter who could never fully explain their worth.

Being loved teaches love of self passed on to others.

Brought to each of us by our fathers and mothers,

if we are lucky enough to join such hearts.

Such love breaks every sorrow apart.

And, love leads to laughter beyond the here-after.

I still feel Dad’s touch tousling my hair

as Mom grunted a sigh of despair

at some forbidden lark I had dared.

I still sense their dismay when I leap into a fray

they would wish I had avoided,

or take a risky challenge simply to brighten my day.

I hear their voices of warning advising how to proceed.

Their teachings continue to meet my every need.

They may be gone beyond my sight

but they continue to live within a greater light

that fills the heart and seeds the mind just right

that I see Dad’s grin on my face as I pass a mirror,

or hear mom’s lilt as I sing at the kitchen sink,

recalling her tilt into dad’s arms as he gave me a wink.

Each day my parents gave to me

is wrapped like a present in distant memory.

I am thankful for the life they gave to me.

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NORTH MARKET GRAVEYARD

Columbus Metropolitan Library map of North Graveyard, Columbus, Ohio

The bodies left buried

beneath the parking lot

are being excavated.

Who they are, we know not.

The North Graveyard was relocated

more than one hundred years ago,

but hundred of bodies were left to rot.

The bodies of those who died

while their families were passing through,

moving onward to take the lands

of Native Americans pushed aside.

Unclaimed children or the sick

who stopped to rest, and there, they died.

The bodies of African-Americans

buried with such strangers, 

in plots set aside

for those whom true burial plots

in the sanctioned section were denied.

The bodies of the poor immigrants

without any claim to sanctioned graves.

The bodies of those without family, 

with no one left to claim a grave.

Forgotten and hidden from our view

until developers dug footers

to support their grand scheme,

a multi-use tower on land once deemed

the graveyard for a city

who forgot how to grieve

for those not white, nor wealthy.

But, now, we remember, as best we can,

and rebury with dignity 

every child, woman and man.

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