“Shot.”
“Mom shot.”
“Dad shot.”
Dad lying atop
my tiny body.
Dad blocked
the shot
and the new word
death taught.
The new word
killed Mom.
Killed Dad.
Killed Family.
Killed us all.
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Repeat it with me
over and over and over.
Mom shot.
Dad shot.
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
words no two year old
should know.
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot.
Shot.
Shot.
Shot.
Filed under POETRY
Rain has ceased her assault for now,
broken records shattered faith
in weather patterns, and how!
Streets flooded and gardens submerged.
Waves above plants crested and surged.
Climate change shows the fruitless folly
of distracted senses unable to observe
nothing that matters more
then destructive weather battering the door.
Mother Nature refuses to give up on us,
On Earth’s survival and our own.
She bellows and blows
to drive her message home.
The nihilism of our young is no surprise
as they watch all they knew of truth and honor die.
The hopefulness of youth also decries
the callow acceptance of loss
by ancient leaders who fail to count the cost
as their years surmount their reason
in their final season.
Time to allow youth its voice
and watch them lead us forward
to a better choice.
Allow youth to set aside
the greedy old clinging to their wealth;
as if wealth, not life, is the real prize.
Stay strong young sons and daughters.
These old bones are counting on you
to laugh and love, to plant and grow
a world much better than we have left behind.
I salute you and offer you
all the wisdom you can unwind
from old codgers
with weak limbs, but loving minds.
Filed under POETRY
Every child dreams of America in the womb,
encased in darkness, floating toward light,
eager for freedom, waiting for clear sight.
Every child dreams of America in the womb,
encased in firm walls, tightening the hold,
eager for freedom, waiting for dreams to unfold.
We celebrate the birth of a beloved country.
We celebrate freedom to climb mountains and see
anything and everything we dream we can be.
Like a child in the womb, freedom’s birth brings
new challenges to do the right thing,
as fireworks we watch, and anthems we sing.
Like a child in the womb, freedom’s birth brings
learning to walk and talk and so much more;
to care and share, and love restore.
We celebrate the birth of a beloved country.
We celebrate rights guaranteed, but ignored,
until their loss is a wound we cannot endure.
Every child dreams of America in the womb.
Birth of nations require so much more
than we have been willing to suffer and work for.
Every child dreams of America in the womb.
Like children each detail and pleasure we note.
Like children we play instead of going to vote.
Every child dreams of America in the womb.
Living the dream means nurturing the nation
lest its freedoms, and ours, are entombed.
Every child dreams of America in the womb.
Filed under POETRY
Lack of trust has invaded
in rulings meant to harm.
The Law has always
been my hope,
stare decisis the blanket
which keeps hope warm
and alive. No more.
The plants in my garden
are travelers, often moved
to new places where
they better sink in roots
to mend and grow.
The bulbs, too meander,
carried by squirrels
with short memories
to bloom again.
Such chaos in a garden
must be controlled.
Beauty arises from balance,
the meld of new with old.
It unfurls harmony
in steadfast rules
on which the gardener can rely.
No harmony can happen
when stare decisis flees the garden,
when black robes become shadows
over truths we all know.
The fields ofAmerica will soon lie fallow
because the Supreme Court
has abandoned the land
where democracy grows.
Nine to three line pockets
of those whose greed
suppresses votes,
suppresses women,
suppresses refugees,
suppresses America’s survival
suppresses Earth’s survival.
Filed under POETRY
Feathers line the ponds’ paths.
The geese are in their molt.
They willingly pull feathers loose.
They do not fear their loss.
They know feathers are merely the surface
of who they are, a cultural statement,
not an identity.
They realize they remain geese
even if every feather is lost.
They poke no fun at their flock members.
They do not call them “geese in name only”.
They welcome the molt.
It comforts them to lose well-worn feathers.
Geese accept new feathers.
They know they can fly better
even if they look different.
They accept that different is better.
They are still members of the same flock.
They are still geese, just renewed and improved.
If only Americans could accept the molt
of culture and it well-worn surface.
If only Americans could rejoice in new feathers,
and realize they could fly better
and still be one flock.
We could learn lot from geese.
We could learn to fly in a vee formation
with everyone a leader sharing the point
and bringing the nation
into a new age with the strength and grace
to let go of the old feathers and old fears,
and fly free. If only we were like geese.
Filed under POETRY
“Saving white life” may
have been a Freudian slip.
The story it tells!
Filed under POETRY
I would not trade away today
despite the perilous fray
sure to come.
Interesting times they say
should be avoided.
Yet, history turns her gaze
on such days
making us preciously aware
of what truly matters.
Attentively, I hold my heart steady,
bracing, by body ready.
I have marched through the nation’s streets
with tired legs on weary feet
for too many years to count,
hoping to finally count for something.
Ever more alert,
our marching tread announcing
we are here, here to stay.
History has our ear
exactly as we feared.
Today we march side by side
hoping to turn history’s tide.
There is no place to hide
from white male supremacy,
and the greedy bully
too many ride.
I know not what today will bring.
I pray it brings victory and pride
that our Republic has not yet died.
Filed under POETRY
Little girl, bambina,
treasure of daddy’s heart.
A girl-child set gracefully apart
from the boys running free beyond the yard.
Little girl, bambina,
kneeling in the pew.
A girl-child quietly humming the chorus
while the boys sing free up in the choir loft.
Little girl, bambina
patiently waiting for adulthood
a girl-child home obeying family rules
while the boys explore the world.
Little girl, bambina
now grown and flown from home
no longer a mere girl-child
but an America woman fully grown.
How blessed to be an American woman;
Though Italian, and Catholic grown.
Now free to run alongside the boys.
The world is yours to own.
Little girl, bambina
delighted to be free
and equal to any boy or man.
That is what it means to be an American.
Little girl, bambina,
no treasure now are you aware.
A woman without freedom nor equality,
is your burden, once more, to bear.
Filed under POETRY
The child belongs to the parent.
The child’s thoughts are subject to approval,
The child’s actions under authoritarian rule.
Bedtime, mealtime, doctor’s visits, school,
playmates, inside or outside, work time or playtime;
all regulated by others.
Discipline applied with no guaranteed appeal.
Childhood is a time of fierce lack of control.
No freedom even to choose to speak or stay silent.
No choices at all until the child grows tall.
Each birthday a gift in itself that freedom is coming.
Children count the days in years.
We all remember those days.
Those days have returned for women.
Their lives are no longer their own.
Their choices are not free.
Their silence is demanded and enforced by law.
Their privacy is invaded by others’ will.
Their paths are reduced to only those others allow.
Women are now punishable by law.
Women are not children.
Women do not play at life.
Women are life, and that life is their own.
No legal argument can change that truth.
No man can return us to his control.
Filed under POETRY
