Category Archives: POETRY

RETAINING PONDS

Carshalton Upper Pond by N Chadwick is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

The rich are the retaining wells of culture they believe.

They wear their wealth and status on their sleeves

or on their pockets front or back, across their chest,

or from their shoulder purses hanging slack.

Declaring status for all to see.

If there were no caste system there would be

no racism.

If there were no racism there would be

no climate change nor earth destruction.

For where would we put the poison men create?

Not near the wealthy classes’s gate.

They neither see nor suffer unsafe states.

Where do we bury their wealth-earned waste?

Not in Esher. Nor in St. Germain-des-Pres.

Not in Tribeca. Nor in Oud Zuid.

Not in Medina. Nor in Atherton.

Not in Port Royal. Nor in Kensington.

Not in Assiniboine Park. Nor in Port Royal.

Not in Patterson Hill. Nor in The Peak.

Not in any of the places only the rich speak

with cultured voice and true concern

for what the world has now become 

with each season’s unusual turn.

These richest places to live on this earth

are retaining ponds which only confuse

the deadline for earth’s destruction  

which we all face.

And those who have been cast aside.

who carry bottles governments provide,

or heavy jugs of polluted water

about the countryside,

from deadened rivers

and from polluted, toxic wells

live where the poorest live, unwelcome 

to live among the swells.

They live where the poorest dwell,

said to be the lower class,

and are placed among the lowest caste,

selected by race, color or birthplace.

we have no time to waste.

The retaining ponds must survive

to protect and pursue untainted water and skies,

to use their wealth to break down barriers,

to deconstruct the racist muck

they have placed us all in.

Clean air and water should be there for all.

If not, even the mighty and wealthy will fall

as earth reclaims what once was hers

an untainted world free of all humanity

and it poisonous thoughts and actions.

No racism, no caste sytem.

This I long to see. 

If only earth can survive you and me.

Retaining wells we all be.

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CONJUNCTION

26163365 © Mcwarrior | Dreamstime.com

In the darkness are points of light

jewels strung across the sky

by unseen hands of strength and might,

or an unknown someone’s 

imagination taking flight.

I stand in awe, feeling smaller somehow.

I become more minute by the minute,

a small measure of who and what I am

or what I could impossibly become.

I watch Venus and Jupiter 

hanging in the western sky,

nearing closer each night and wonder why.

My tiny self on tiny earth joins them

in silent and solemn trajectory

around our sun, in blazing mystery.

I stand and wonder at the beauty naked to my eye,

joined by history with ancient watchers such as I.

Each night I watch planets appear 

to grow closer and embrace

in the dark expanse of space.

And suddenly, 

I want to fly!

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GARBAGE PICK-UP DAY

Up and down the street 

garbage cans line the curb

waiting for the garbage truck

and men to pick them up,

to clear the debris left 

from those trying to stay alive, 

and leave something behind 

before they die.

Garbage cans on streets and alleys

are on public thoroughfares,

public vessels that can be opened wide

to anyone who cares to look inside

at trash that can disclose truths

hidden inside plastic bags of deceit

filled with their discarded 

food containers, chicken bones,

greasy rags and purchase receipts.

All else goes onto compost piles,

or gets recycled into bins 

for later pick-up, by different men, 

in different trucks, on different days.

Is this how death works?

Are we trash to be decayed

until we become dust

picked up by interstellar winds

and returned to the stars

waiting to be consumed by black holes?

Or, are we picked up 

by different trucks to be recycled

into new lives, like a glass bottle or shipping box

to be used anew in some new way?

Or do we become compost for a new garden

in a galaxy far-far-away where lovely flowers grow?

The truth is that no one knows.

So we build stories of future glories

as we place our selves by the curb

afraid to live and use up all we are. 

We, imperfect people all,

too often place ourselves in the trash can

and simply wait to be picked up.

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REBUILD AND RESTORE

Two people on ladders doing carpentry/building. by Mandt contract is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

It is easy to become disillusioned

with institutions which we know,

and which have gotten us this far,

when we see the mess we are in.

So, what do we do? Organize anew?

And create institutions to do

what we have always done.

Does anyone believe our churches,

companies, and governments

were created out of hate?

Our newly formed groups are not new.

It is always the same.

Each tries to do its best, the best it can do.

The first rule of any group or institution,

like the first rule of each individual,

is to survive, and hopefully thrive.

Membership dues, costs and fees

keep each institution alive.

And money corrupts with greed

to be more, have more, do more.

It seems to be a human need.

As usual, we see the angry diatribe renewed

against religions and governments 

for what they have failed to do.

I ask, what do you do?

How many soup kitchens do you run?

How many hospitals have you built?

How many roads do you maintain?

How many times have you failed

to do your best, and ignore the rest

of us? We are only human.

Should our institutions be better?

If so, then so must we be.

Love is not a verb, but an action word.

Love helps us feel the way to act 

better than we ever knew we could.

Love erases the word “should”

with the act which rebuilds 

institutions of which we can once again be proud.

Tearing down is much easier, I know,

than rehabilitating the world

wherever we are, wherever we go.

Find your hammer, whatever it is.

Mine is words on a page.

Grab some nails and form a crew.

The whole world is depending 

on me, and, on you.

Let us rebuild, not tear down

what worked so well before

it became what we chose to ignore,

and let rot

under the weight of heavy storms.

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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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