Category Archives: POETRY

THE OTHER DAWN

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There are two dawns.

The first is the illusion of light

the hovers just out of sight

below the horizon,

then seeps across the windowsill

just below the shades that are drawn

against the fearful dark of night.

This dawn is mere reflection

of a sun not yet arisen.

It fools a few to rise before time

and spend their first awakened breath

on false confusion.

The second dawn comes so fast

as sun above the earth does blast

light so fierce, so bright, so new

a second awakening begins anew.

Finally, the day has come on a run

beyond past horizons from dark despair

to fill our days with the light to see

a new day, a new way, a new clarity

where thoughts can follow truth more easily.

The sun is rising and darkness is gone

as patiently we wait for night to move on

and hide once again below the horizon.

This is the only the beginning of a new day.

We eagerly wait to see what it will bring;

what discoveries await newly opened eyes,

and which new vision will make hearts sing

as night fades from sight.

Then we can dance free from fear 

in dawn’s early light

to anthems songbirds only sing

once daylight has suffused 

every blade of grass and bead of water,

and we are no longer so confused.

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9/11 AND EVERY DAY SINCE

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The morning ritual:

awaken, straighten

bed and self.

Turn on television.

Wash and dress.

Newsroom halts

to update news.

So, I stop to attend

feeling threatened

by what no one yet knows.

As newscasters speak 

of smoking North Tower one.

They surmise a small plane

has hit the high-rise. 

I know that cannot be true

with so much fire so fast.

There must be more fuel

than a small plane can carry.

And then, I see off to the side

a commercial jet in the view

of cameras set on the North Tower, one.

No commercial plane is allowed

on a flight path that veers

as this plane does to South Tower, two.

I watch the hit and feel the fear

wrapped in grief for what

I am about to see and hear.

Communication starts and stalls

among first responders to the call, 

using analog instead of the new

radios for the crews.

Heroes rush in to certain death

to save those they can.

I cannot write of what I saw,

horrific images still so raw

they would gut me and cut me in two.

I ran with the people in the street

as I stood before my T.V.

I climbed the stairs with rescue crews

as I stood before my T.V.

I cried with the families searching lists,

posting photos on fences, falling to knees

as I stood before my T.V.

The silence of cleared skies across the country

allowed me to hear the beeps 

of equipment buried deep

with those killed and waiting to be found.

I can hear them still.

I still before the sound.

Two towers fell that day

along with the truth

that foreign affairs decisions kill 

not just soldiers but civilians, too. 

That asbestos kills;

that air quality played its part

to destroy even more lives 

of those who worked as civil servants do

to clean up the messes our decisions make.

And  to take the fall 

along with  buildings that once stood tall.

Civil servants still stand tall for me

despite the crass thinking and perfidy

of the greedy few who withhold

what is needed and refuse taxes 

fairly placed to create a world

free and safe for every member of humanity.

we rebuilt buildings; memorials, too.

Rebuilding that free and safe world?

Awaken and straighten. Always, stay tuned.

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A POET’S VIEW

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Paper of every color and hue

unrolls from thousands of inner tubes

that I might write upon a page;

so bright, it dims the sight

and opens the mind to such delight

in cerulean, amaranth, celadon,

garnet, crimson, vermillion

violet, tangerine, ecru and Eton-blue;

colors I can taste and feel

as they unroll reel by reel

so real they dance and sing and swell

until the pen dips in the well.

I wrap each page around each cell

and feel the energy seep through

blood and bone and sinew

into every soft tissue

that pulses with breath 

and laughter and tears,

and beats with heart-felt truth

so hard and fast it hardly knows

what words spill out upon the page,

which black marks ink signs

to tell me the way

while you can see and understand

before I can even comprehend

that a poem has unfurled from tubes

not of cardboard but of gold.

Writing is the treasure of stories untold

and waiting to be wrapped

then given as gifts as colors unfold.

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EMPTY SPACES

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We wait each day in a small open space

in another-wise closed mind of sameness

for some thing, some new thing, to come our way.

We go out to get the mail in anticipation,

awakened to an heightened expectation,

to what we might find inside the box and us.

What do we hope to find ?

Bills come due for past behavior good or bad.

Notice of unexpected wealth from contest

without real competition promising a future

which holds no need to become more than what we are.

A card of remembrance of some event we attended

far away and long ago, with those not seen since.

Best of all, a letter from a beloved friend or lover

noticing we are here and waiting to resume

where intimate communication left off awhile ago.

An appointment scheduled for the future

to enliven days ahead with something new to anticipate.

What happens when mail or life suspends delivery ?

when that small space stays empty too long

does it wither and die? Shrivel to nothingness ?

Does our sense of discovery also suspend

or does the small space expand end-on-end

until it fills an eternity of space beyond

what we can comprehend in that small space?

Is sameness day-after-day a curse or way to mend

a closed mind, and open it even greater grace

with even greater possibilities?

Time to go get the mail and fill every space

of every day, of every year with everyone

and everything I can, end-upon-end of right now.

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COMPANION POEMS

POET’S LAMENT

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I do not wish to get stuck

in the MAGA yuck and muck.

I wonder if those Germans

who watched fascism unfold

believed the stories they were told

by their brownshirt supported bully;

as the MAGA-hatted crowds

 who cheer our own

American grown version

of violent political rhetoric

mant to intimidate and eradicate

those whose power they fear,

and propelled by a sense 

of victimhood raised to an art

they plot and plan and strive

to drive Americans apart. 

A nation may not survive at all. 

Or, if it can survive it may not be intact.

And freedom may be forestalled

until the danger stops casting its pall

on its very survival.

So, instead of love and flowers,

sunny skies and dreamy hours

I write of dangers big and small.

I write of questions which call

for prompt response.

I note with dismay the loss of time to play.

I wish for earlier days

when citizens felt a duty to stand and say

democracy is under threat this day.

DREAMS OF HYPOCRISY

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The dream stayed with me through the night.

Over and over the image repeated despite

frequent awakenings disturbed by the sight

of four babies with open staples in their eyes.

No matter other images crossing left to right

in dreams arranging matters as they might,

allowing mind to gain much-needed insight.

Those babies needed someone to make right

harms foreseen if removal was not done right.

I struggled with ideas of how to help all night.

Finally, firmly grip with tiny tools and pull tight

became the answer as I awoke at first daylight.

Then a new thought occurred and set truth alight,

“…first, remove the beam out of thine own eye.”

But, then a new thought came to light.

The staples were open to grab whatever came in sight

and make it their own view, with new and greater insight.

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UNVEILING PRESIDENTIAL PORTRAITS

First Lady Michelle and President Barack Obama

The unveiling of a president’s 

and first lady’s presidential portraits 

reveals far more than images of those 

well-respected and well-loved.

The Obamas had to wait for the obstructionist

to lose his election to be invited 

to unveil their honor in Biden’s midst.

Why the former president shunned

his predecessor is no secret.

His racism is well known and well-perfected.

From birther lies to insurrection,

with white supremacist protection,

his lies provide the cover for

the racism of so many others.

Ask not why he never invited

Barack and Michelle;

Ask why he lies about them

and why his tales wear so well.

As for me I celebrate today

when presidential acts take stage

in historical context for the age.

Rejoice and celebrate.

The curtains have been drawn back

to reveal the truth once more.

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CANNON SHOT HEARD ROUND THE WORLD

By the bar before the court

Judge Cannon took her first shot

before claims were even laid.

“ I am inclined to rule” she said.

Judge Cannon pushed aside

stare decisis and professional pride.

With MAGA rule by her side

the law was simply set aside

to push one man above the rule of law,

in a decision destructive and flawed.

How many must die before we see

the damage she has done to democracy,

as the Spirit that kept our nation free

is trampled by Judge Cannon’s perfidy.

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GRIEF LINES

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Grief lines drawn on the face 

by makeup artists focused

on the performance 

about to begin,

and by newscasters focused

on upcoming election days.

We are all waiting for

the next series in the show

to begin, hoping for 

some sense of normality

or at least civility.

Futile hopes of a naive audience.

The actors know the full story

most of the time.

This time, even the actors

are in the dark and the stark

script writ long ago

has never been fully released.

We are left waiting for the text,

for the action on the screen,

for the performance on the stage

set up to demand allegiance

to characters unworthy

of our attention or our votes.

Many have left the theater.

Many stay glued in their seats

afraid to leve untended

those about to be misinformed,

undermined by underhanded

writers of fascist scripts

meant to remove the final

obstacles to final call

for insurrection and destruction

of America.

I need no grief lines drawn

on my brow.

They are placed there by the tears

I shed as the rule of law is replaced

by MAGA judges put in place

by Republican scriptwriters

to disgrace a constitution fully drawn

and now being dismantled

one case at a time.

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HAIKU

careless, careful me

brittle as peanut candy

trying to stay sweet.

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WOMAN STRONG

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Women fret and stew because they feel

with blood and sinew, hands and heels.

Each breath they take is a timeless hold

on the history of family and friends so bold

it carries all aloft to a future filled with bliss.

The nesting instinct is nothing less

than continuation of species and best

embraced and supported as what it is;

our best hope for survival in peace,

in world fractured by power and greed.

Women seize their freedom in both hands.

Women march and take stands against tyranny.

Women need never ask for self-rule of their bodies.

They already hold their own agency.

Only blind men fail to see

powerful women could set them free.

WE ARE THE WORLD

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While children here sing

“Rain, rain go away.

“Come again another day.”

China seeds the clouds above

and firefighters ask for aid

to battle flames that spread so wide

there is no place for lungs to hide.

Fragile systems bend and break

as I lie in my bed alert, awake

to all the trauma in the world;

clutching hands which hold out hope

to help heal damage beyond their scope.

All that seems real are nerves afray

and hands held in prayer for better days.

For days when birds again find their way

among the butterflies and bees.

When war engines fall into disrepair

and children frolic and play free

of worries that hide 

in thoughts of suicide.

We are the world. The world is us.

the world hangs in the balance

of hands held in trust.

Reach out your hands enjoined to others.

Earth’s survival truly depends on us.

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