Category Archives: POETRY

WALKING

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Each mile makes a difference.

The view changes before our eyes.

The path changes beneath our feet.

The mind changes within our thoughts.

The heart changes within our souls.

To go out and beyond the known;

to return changed and renewed

works muscles we did not know we had

in body, mind and soul.

World travelers we may be

within a single mile.

Starting out with a frown;

returning with a smile.

Exploring even familiar places

down to earth or beyond space

with each footstep we take

changes us and thus

the world.

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LAST GASPS

The walk today around the ponds

did little to cool the heated exchange

of contrary thoughts within my brain.

Backlash I expected 

when Obama was elected,

when coal and oil fell below

solar panels and wind towers,

when colorful skin hues

crossed more borders,

when gender bended far and wide,

when the Greatest Generation

was buried away from memory,

when veterans returned

poisoned by water with lungs burned,

when shuttered factories

shattered lives and families,

when supply chains carried

cheapest goods at higher prices,

when taxes went uncollected

from the richest and best protected,

when democracy was no longer taught

in schools where bullets flew.

All this I knew.

All this I expected.

All this.

All this is nothing new.

Backlash always happens.

But in the past, it was opposed

not embraced. 

Haters were kept in place,

not elected and allowed to lead

insurrections and traitorous rejection

of the Constitution of these United States.

Senators orated and coordinated

across party lines

to stop the attacks on nation

and govern in motions

meant to save the country

with never a notion

to use the hate to gain control

of power and wealth

while the nation died.

Death was a line parties refused to cross.

Now, death is tool to retain control.

I seek life in the ponds, in the trees,

along paths still unseen

in a future confronting

humankind’s utter destruction.

The haters’ last gasps

must not become our own.

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POETIC POWER

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Poems are carrots in front of the nose,

meant to stir the desire to go

by horses so attune to the reins

they have forgotten how to trot

down the lane 

on their own.

Poems are a kick in the rump

meant to raise to action

those sitting on the fence

prone to inaction

when what they need

is a sense of dissatisfaction.

Poems are mere words

until they are not

to those who feel their power

and find themselves caught

in new ways of seeing

and thinking

and feeling.

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AUNT MILLIE

No one can wrap a cord like my Aunt Millie.

Seven children cut from her own.

Cords of affection and protection

wrap family and friends in silken threads,

ribbons of fun and laughter

so loud that hurts and fears

suddenly disappear.

Aunt Millie wraps up tight

anything which might cause fright.

She plugs cords in for light

to make our way bright.

No one wraps cords like Aunt Millie.

The WAR taught her well.

Women in factories men left behind

learned men’s tasks and more.

I watch her hands move gracefully

at each task at hand

wrapping and mapping the flow

of her energy outward to me

and to all children who sat at her knee

learning to accept cords wrapped tight

to set us free.

No one wraps cords like Aunt Millie.

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Flowers not Bullets

Even the flowers wear armor.

They hide their sweetest nectar

deep inside the keep

of their castle,

Behind high walls

surrounded by moats

of thorns and ramparts

of bristles and thistles.

Tender they appear.

But tough they are.

Bending in fierce winds

they survive.

Pass the flowers not bullets.

Flowers are stronger.

They hurt no one.

Their scent perfumes a planet.

Their tender gift of beauty

stirs love and forgiveness.

Even flowers wear armor

to protect themselves.

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LETTER TO MY MUSE

Too many hours have passed

in useless wondering

and thoughtless meandering

among ideas amassed

in wasted floundering.

Alas!

Why bother to address

this failed endeavor to write,

or paint, or garden, or feint

to the left or right to avoid the sight

of another grey day.

The sun has hidden away all motivation,

replacing joy with aggravation.

Too easily am I deprived of hope.

Too ready am I to sit and mope.

Self-disgust is never allowed;

not in this life, not in this house.

So here is the poem for today.

Now, leave me alone.

Just go away!

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YOUNG MEN

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Young men long for 

lighthearted days 

when like the pride 

they gather to roam

far from home,

taking in stride

each new view

of possibilities.

So long as they are together

they do not fear

nor subside

from dangerous tides.

they spread

their dreams wide.

They need not hide

nor cower in fear.

It is enough just to know

their brothers in arms

are near.

Together, they deal well

with what comes next

they do not know.

Apart

they lose heart.

Apart

they lose art.

Apart

they lose the start

to their lives.

Young men need 

one another.

We need young men

to renew post-Covid life again.

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Restless Night and Day

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Good morning yellow-beaked robin redbreast.

I see you quenching your thirst in the bird bath of cobalt blue,

Your brown feathers closed and at rest.

You look toward me wondering why

I am not digging earth to reveal

The worms and insects for your next meal.

Like you, I must first

Have breakfast and quench my thirst.

Some mornings start late after hard nights

Catching the painful dreams in my fists

Anchoring my body to the bed as I twist

The anger and fear as shells fall

On Ukrainian apartment buildings,

Killing the old and the very small.

As a young Black man with a traffic violation

is cut down in volleys of bullets on an Akron street,

Joining other Black men and women throughout the nation.

As nine year old rape victims must flee

to another state to be made well,

and women no longer are free where they dwell,.

As thought police with hateful derision of history

block teachers with facts from teaching truth.

In truth, I cannot rest,

dear robin redbreast.

And you, little bird, may already sense the threat

against you and all creatures of earth

from man’s annihilation.

How can anyone rest with such frustration?

Soon, soon, I will join you in the garden,

Weeding and dead-heading, disturbing the earth

and drawing the earthworms nearer to you.

Be kind, dear robin, only take what you need

and never, never, be guided by greed.

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Restless Night and Day

Good morning yellow-beaked robin redbreast.

I see you quenching your thirst in the bird bath of cobalt blue,

Your brown feathers closed and at rest.

You look toward me wondering why

I am not digging earth to reveal

The worms and insects for your next meal.

Like you, I must first

Have breakfast and quench my thirst.

Some mornings start late after hard nights

Catching the painful dreams in my fists

Anchoring my body to the bed as I twist

The anger and fear as shells fall

On Ukrainian apartment buildings,

Killing the old and the very small.

As a young Black man with a traffic violation

is cut down in volleys of bullets on an Akron street,

Joining other Black men and women throughout the nation.

As nine year old rape victims must flee

to another state to be made well,

and women no longer are free where they dwell,.

As thought police with hateful derision of history

block teachers with facts from teaching truth.

In truth, I cannot rest,

dear robin redbreast.

And you, little bird, may already sense the threat

against you and all creatures of earth

from man’s annihilation.

How can anyone rest with such frustration?

Soon, soon, I will join in the garden,

Weeding and dead-heading, disturbing the earth

and drawing the earthworms nearer to you.

Be kind, dear robin, only take what you need

and never, never, be guided by greed.

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PASSIONATE WOMEN

“Enjoy it, while you can!”

never makes sense

to young ones whose only goal

is to get old enough to let life unfold

on their own.

Until, they are old enough to love.

Then, as the old ladies foretold,

“Enjoy it, while you can!”

I see those women still.

Still young.Still passion filled.

Still yearning for more, and amore.

They gathered for morning coffee

on the screened-in porch.

Pulling me within

by their passion, a torch

to light my way

to womanhood, day by day.

They were all related

by marriage and by blood,

or paesans from villages abroad.

They formed a sisterhood

from marriage to widowhood.

They aged, yet, their passions still raged

at husbands whose passions had been spent

on youthful challenges and endeavors

they embraced as leavers

to lift their families higher

than an immigrant could aspire.

Worn out before their time.

Passions worn too thin

to please their wives.

“Enjoy it, while you can!”

Ah! Now, I am finally

old enough to understand.

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