Category Archives: Uncategorized

LEASHED EMOTION

We all see it. The Pope and I wonder “why ?”.

Pet owners walk right by 

the unsheltered homeless

on streets where they lie 

on cold pavement to pillow their heads.

Then stroll on home 

to put the doggy in his doggy bed.

We all see it. The Pope and I wonder “why?”.

Children hunger for safe water, safe schools

and safety from gun play.

No leash on gun violence to save innocent lives.

While redesigned leashes protect thyroids,

keep our dogs safer than our children

who remain threatened by lead water and bullets.

We all see it. The Pope and I wonder “why?”.

Children and teachers drill “Run, hide, fight”

barricading doors, fearing for the day to come

when they will fear for their lives.

Trainers and doggy educators face no such threats.

Do animal shelters run such drills?

Would we permit such atrocities there?

We all see it. The Pope and I wonder “why?.

Pantries struggle to feed the working poor.

Tiny pets sit in purses on shopping trips to buy

shoes and jewels and more and more, always more

including doggy treats, and doggy sweaters, and doggy toys.

If only the needs of children and the poor 

were handled with such concern.

We all see it. The pope and I wonder “why?”.

We mean no offense. We question the intention.

We unleash the suggestion there is a reason

we all see it. There is a reason to explore

the millions spent on pets that drives

a breach in social accord

played upon by those who seek to sow more discord.

Perhaps pet owners fill pantry shelves, 

schools, homeless shelters, and soup kitchens

with needed goods and volunteer hours.

Perhaps pet owners are teachers and preachers,

nurses and social workers, bankers and barmaids

who offer their services to all in need of them.

Perhaps they, too, are in need.

Perhaps the loneliness engendered

by 5G speed-brokered connection,

and hanging on to a blue planet 

speeding to fiery destruction

is soothed by a purring cat, or by stroking a dog’s fur.

Perhaps walking a leashed pet is the only control

they can imagine, the only comfort they can take.

Perhaps a generation splitting apart

heart by heart, takes heart from keeping

one friend, furry or not, 

safe and alive, 

happy and well.

Perhaps that pet fills their well

with love, repair and loyal care.

Perhaps we should all leash our emotion

and fear, and care for ourselves and one another

as we care for our pets. 

Pet owners surely know this better than most.

They already have the skill to love and protect.

Unleash love. Harness loving acts. Save  the world.

We all see it. The Pope and I question “why not ?”

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BLOGGERS

Grief is palpable

hearts made of soft wool;

natural,

real,

felted by tears,

made stronger,

tightening bonds

across miles

circumventing the globe.

Likes on the blog

string together the yarns

of hearts attuned.

We touch.

We share.

We still care

enough to like.

Enough to tell each other

You are heard.

You are loved.

You are heart

of my heart.

We are in this

together.

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A TICKET TO RIDE

Already forgotten bell curves

overcome by spikes and pikes

carrying virus loads

up the nose.

No more waves

of predictability

nor general systems theories

of how things go.

if there are rules of pandemic,

they are rules lost in the mystery,

lost to a history

passed by and past off

by those who scoff

their vulnerability.

Roller coaster rides and pandemics

take away my breath.

Sudden falls after steep climbs

drop my stomach to my toes.

Harsh and sudden turns of phrase

bring fear of death

around each unexpected curve.

One does not mind a five minute ride,

hands held high on final descent;

with a grudging stop and final flop.

The ride softly ends as riders depart.

Unsteady feet steady once more

ready to explore the carousel, and bumper cars,

cotton candy and games of chance.

A three year ride is way too scary

and leaves us wary

of how, if at all, it will end.

With a bang or a whimper?

Or, a sullen long simmer, fall after fall

along rails beginning to wear ?

The ride must continue until all are loaded

with a vaccination, or two, or three;

maybe, more even than four.

The tickets were free,

but too many refused to take a shot

at ending the ride on time.

More climbs, more falls, more curves

until we are all sick to death or dying.

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JOURNALISM

What light becomes

most fashionably bright

to rid us of the shadow of night?

Who decides 

the cast, the angle

shining upon each bead and bangle?

Are we so transparent

no shadow shows,

willing to follow anyone who glows?

How have we not learned

that the light of day

best shows the way?

Fireflies dance around the darkness

distracting us from what matters

while truth lies shattered.

Talking points flicker

all day and night

while truth hides out of sight.

News becomes entertainment,

bread and circuses

to detain us.

News streams the highways

with fast-moving high lights

missing the truth by inches along the way.

Such roads cannot be safely crossed.

How do we get to the other side?

By stopping traffic at our own loss?

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WORDS AT PLAY

I don’t understand poems,

or words, or chatter.

How do they form like loose clay

around the mold of earthly matter?

Words cast up their account

of what lies in the gut

and rise to the mouth

to utter and strut.

Do we have no power

over what we say ?

Are we merely overpowered 

by a shower of words at play?

Somedays, words are so strong

they insist and persist, bursting the cork.

Other days, words are so weak

pulling them out is too much work.

The worst thing is not silence.

The worst thing is a paragraph

dragged out with violence.

Today, all words can do is laugh.

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Christmas 2021

Time sleeps

For those who weep

It’s passage stopped by grief.

Time awakens

For those shaken

By tears’ release.

Glorious morning!

When light is reborn

Time freed of fear and scorn.

People awake who longed

For angels in song

Announcing the birth of a babe.

A babe who restarts time

Reawakens hope

And restores our joy.

Merry Christmas morn!

Delight in this gift given

The day Jesus the Christ is born.

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Soulstice

One day is all it takes

for Autumn to blow away

on ice-laden winds

that shock lawns

with frost as thick as thieves

robbing us of long walks amid the trees

which shelter us from too strong a breeze.

Our path is no longer clear

of the detritus of Fall,

of our fall from grace, putting us in our place

inside the  hidden thoughts of our minds;

until the sun shines strong  and deliberate,

with a design to clear the mind.

For now, we wait in hope

for longer days and shorter nights

until we can alight guided

by a Stronger  Light

until Spring returns 

to awaken our sight

and warm our souls.

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THE LITTLE AGITATOR

THE LITTLE AGITATOR

12-23-2021

Did you earn a nickname in your childhood? you know, like a mobster, sticky fingers or tattle-tale ? Some nicknames are freely given merely to shorten names; Elizabeth become Beth, Edward becomes Eddie. There are nicknames dragged from the mouths of aggravated  parents in place of a curse, as patience wanes. Such nicknames only work to guide a child’s behavior to the extant they understand all it definitions. Children are quite literal, unlike adults who have learned to use nuance to avoid consequences of unwise words and actions.

My nickname was “ The agitator”; at first “little agitator”, and as I grew older simply “agitator”. In my childish mind agitator had only one meaning: the central post in the washing machine which swished water around to remove dirt from clothes and allow it to be washed away. I found it quite a compliment to know my effort to wash away the dirt hiding others’ motivations, true belief behind their statements, and misleading or misguided behavior was recognized. It was a puzzle why Mom seemed so upset when praising me so often and so relentlessly.  This “little agitator” looked for dirt everywhere to wash it away with words. I washed it out of the house, the playground, the schoolroom until everyone could cleanly and clearly see the uncomfortable truth.

The older I got the more I realized it had been meant not a an encouragement but as an effort to block my truth seeking. Stirring up the dirt to wash it away is not always a sound practice around mothers overwhelmed by small children who care not for the daily bath.  Politicians and leaders fear a bath as well.

Too many of us prefer to hide behind the dirt. Too many of us allow others to hide as well. We fear our own hypocrisy, I think.  Entire industries exist to heap more dirt on the truth of who we are. Sometimes dirt is thrown merely to entertain and distract us from what lies beneath the surface.  Those seeking to hold on to their wealth develop artificial turf, and artificial dirt, to create an artificial world where they can hide their greed and their misdeeds.

Nicknames last forever.  I claim mine gladly. I am “ the agitator”. Throw your clothes in the hamper and start the wash. It is time we came clean.

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The Last Night

Three dreams in a row

And all I know

The first taught how

To design a plow.

The second showed

The purpose of the plow.

The third dreamed warned

Of the uselessness of fields unfurrowed

Where no seed can grow.

Time for plows, shovels or spoons

Fields are waiting.

The time to dig is now.

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