PUTINIZATION NATION

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We now live in 

Putin’s America.

Thanks to all of you

who voted

for Trump/Vance

and every republican

in every state house

in every political position.

I could not feel more derision

for you and what you do

every day you stay

silent,

unapologetic,

absolutely pathetic.

A country I thought you loved

more than you hated

women and people of color,

the disabled, war veterans,

children and the elderly,

homosexual and transgendered.

I underestimated your greed.

I underestimated your need

to make yourself

feel better than someone,

than anyone,

else.

I lost your pulse.

My bad!

And, I know you blame me,

and every liberal,

compassionate,

forward thinking

person you see.

So, you bend the knee

and deny democracy

its rightful place

in American History.

Our loss is Putin’s gain.

Your patriotism

has always been feigned.

Mine, yet remains.

My country may not.

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NOT ENVIOUS JUST HUNGRY,By Louise Annarino,December 27, 2012

NOT ENVIOUS JUST HUNGRY,by Louise Annarino, december 27.2012   On January 20, 2012 I wrote the following commentary.Sadly, near a year later, failure…

NOT ENVIOUS JUST HUNGRY,By Louise Annarino,December 27, 2012

Hard to believe 13 years later we face the same intransigence of Republicans. Only the names have changed. Policies are even more entrenched and courts stacked against the 99%z

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THE RAINS CAME AND CAME AND CAME

Photo by Bud Jenkins on Pexels.com

We keep thinking

it cannot become any worse

this placid earth 

awash in excess or in drought.

Hibiscus big as dinner pates

strung among drenched leaves,

hangs in drooping loops to the ground.

Sun makes its way warily

through clouds weighing the sky down,

new-born leaves water-logged and drowned.

The heavy weight of watered threats

is nearly too much to bear.

Too heavy to breathe, saturated, air

keeps me waiting inside,

Parched lips and  dry-aged skin

too thin to accept such weight again,

hangs loose, losing all pride;

jealous of the hibiscus

which still stands tall

strong enough to resist it all.

I anxiously await a break in the clouds,

days of hope and rest in the sun.

Even the earth is in tears these days.

Like a child I hold my sign and sing aloud

“Rain, rain, go away. Come again

another day.” Or not. Never again

should we women and men

so misbehave and reduce our gardens to tears.

Photo by Mariya B. on Pexels.com

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BEGGING FOR WORDS

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How is it

that when silence

seems treason

words resist?

When resistance

seems patriotic

words run away

to a hidden place

even poets

cannot find,

to my disgrace.

I do not fear

my words will 

cause me harm.

I fear I shall harm

my words.

I fear I will harm

my very soul.

I fear words so full

of anger, even hate

shall ruthlessly escape.

So, I shut the gate.

Today, I try to climb

above the world enflamed

by bullies with no shame

and view the world

I once knew.

A world sublime

but not perfect,

trying to be better,

trying to do better,

trying to achieve better

for every single soul.

This is the world of old.

Knowing the past

is good as gold.

Lingering in the past

will not help us be bold.

And being bold I am told

is what brings change,

topples bullies and their ilk,

eases harm and soothes

like a glass of warm milk,

after a harrowing hundred days.

I beg words to come out of hiding.

I beg for law and order abiding.

I beg for the wealthy to fund the fight.

I beg for police and soldiers to do what is right.

I beg for teachers to speak truth and empower.

I beg for journalists and media not to cower.

I beg for leaders to seize the moment.

I beg for clergy to calm the torment.

I beg for the silent to speak aloud.

I beg for neighbors to support each other.

I beg for words to shout together.

I beg for words.

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THREE HUGS A DAY

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The need for connection

upon reflection

explains the violence

unleashed in silence

within the soul, combined

with alienation of the mind.

Touch is such a powerful greed.

Three hugs a day is all we need.

Yet, too many wait endlessly

for a single, tender touch, daily.

If love does not connect us over too many days

we struggle to find connection in other ways.

The eyes of the lonely tell a story

of diminished worth, and the loss of glory

that belongs to every human being,

and keeps us from loving and truly seeing

the lonely person cowering inside;

afraid to show their loss of pride.

Shouting never brings us closer.

Flying fists simply make us cower.

Violent words have hurtful power.

We hide away from the course force

of those afraid to share lonely discourse.

Hugs would be better

to bring us together.

You may think this only a woman’s view.

I assure you men need hugs, too.

So, hug three people today.

Do not let false pride get in your way.

Thus, three hugs will come to you

and peace may one day be renewed.

Photo by Agung Pandit Wiguna on Pexels.com

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EXAMINATION OF CONSCIENCE

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How easily done depends

on the sinner and sin done that day.

No “ I lay me down to sleep”

before this Catholic child closed her eyes.

An examination of conscience, 

a deep and complete review 

of my sins committed that day, as I prayed

in true contrition for my sins; and a promise

to make restitution to all I had harmed

in my self-centered, humanly-corrupted way.

Only then, could forgiveness be petitioned

and God swayed. Sister told me so in class.

Father told me so in the dark confessional.

I await an examination of conscience by all

who voted for MAGA  entranced and enthralled

by promises of heavenly and earthly reward

for allowing hate to invade and invoke

the souls of nation recently made awoke

by African-Americans and women who showed

they were equally great to any American.

Make America Great Again only meant

make America white again.

And my church paved the way.

Her misogyny always ready to deprive

women of any control over 

the length of their skirts,

the choice to love or escape 

abuse in any man’s embrace,

manage their reproductive health,

choose or excuse another’s hate.

Abortion became the rallying cry

to bring sinners off their knees and to the polls

to vote for the liars who played priests like fools.

There is no place for judgment or blame.

Sinners all, we play the same game.

There is a need for an examination of conscience,

for restitution to a nation’s sacred tenets defamed

by such reckless, sincere but sinful moves.

Now, priests and pastors see the error of their ways

as they accompany immigrants to hearings

to protect them from MAGA misrule?

The MAGA the churches helped elect

is not a surprise. And, it remains a sin to be

examined deeply, and completely reviewed.

I await the results of such a self-examination.

I await the restitution to be completed.

I await the apology for distorting Christian theology.

I await the chance to forgive, wholeheartedly.

I know my church is only human.

If only it could remember that truth.

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HEAVEN ON EARTH

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I have no knowledge of Heaven.

I have never been there,

except in dreams.

One thing I do know.

It must be a place where I

am surrounded by goodness,

fairness, compassion

and loving kindness

all of the time.

Heaven is the type of space

where hate has no place.

The sign in my yard

declares it to be so.

But, as we all know,

My selfish concerns sometimes show.

Creating a heaven on earth

may be an impossibility

because of my fragility

and lack of humility.

My human state has a dearth

of courageous purity.

Yet, still, I shall try to create

Heaven on Earth 

as a constant state.

The lack of goodness surrounds me

all too often these cruelty-laden days.

Kindness is the only way to delay

the triumph of evil over good.

I ask all those in my neighborhood

to join my effort, feeble though it be.

Any small kindness is stronger than cruelty.

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BEES

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Bees have taken over the garden.

their liveliness competes

with slovenly flight of flies,

flies that bite, mercilessly.

Bees never sting me.

They simply move aside

as I weed and prune.

Then move back into the space

I have vacated.

We dance together

in harmony, the bees and I.

There is no waltzing with flies.

I perform a jig

to avoid their biting touch.

I love the bees.

The flies? Not so much.

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THE DEEP SLEEP

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Words fail to awaken on the page

when words fail.

Words dreamlike fight rage

in nightmarish schemes

when words fail.

Before Liberty shut her eyes,

and with despairing cries,

fell into freedom’s now-unsafe harbor

words gave us wings to fly

and above all troubles soar.

Now, words shut down

as they are shot down

as all around us words are bound

with hateful cruelty

demanding fealty

to lying thieves

upending beliefs

in a common humanity.

It is sheer insanity

and words fail to do it justice.

Lower courts words fall before SCOTUS’s lust 

for false security, the only surety

that this is how nations fall into the dustbin of history.

Words are buried so deep

they too soon fall asleep

to escape the pain of obscurity.

That the people rise

is no surprise.

Whose words will act as guide

to peaceful resolution

and a safe conclusion

to those shoveling dirt into our eyes

and blinding us to truths that must not subside

into a deep sleep

to avoid seeing those who weep?

Who will speak now?

Is anyone still awake, still woke?

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4TH.OF JULY, 2025

Photo by Brendon Spring on Pexels.com. Read the full text of THE NEW COLOSSUS, (partially quoted below)by Emma Lazarus and inscribed on the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor.

Today is my funeral.

I have always been myself.

everyone else was taken.

I had become a fossil.

So many layers of sediment

have built up over time

that I

am hard as rock.

Too soon

It has become 

too hard

to remain human.

Especially, when monsters

roam the earth with heavy feet

in lockstep with one another.

They stand atop 

the crumbling rock and pray.

They say

that they

are God’s representative

on this dying earth

to show all the way

to greater days.

We were already pretty great,I say.

I thought we were stronger than they.

I thought they could not

make me, me, me ! their prey.

Yet, on this day we celebrate my birth,

I die during parades

of those who march behind 

school bands playing my songs.

A Statue of Liberty drone-scape

dots the night-time sky

above Red-White-and Boom

crowds cheering while immigrants die.

De-naturalized, de-refugeed

de-citizenized.

No irony there? 

How can the crowds

not realize I am dead.

They are cheering at my funeral.

After all is said,

I am done.

Too few mourners attend.

They have been forced to hide.

Even the Fourth Estate

has crumbled before my eyes,

its voices silenced, 

without enough pride nor ratings

to turn the tide of my demise.

Perhaps it is a Celebration of Life

which once was, but is no more.

Can you bring me back from the dead?

Can you resurrect what I stood for?

“Send these, the homeless,

tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp

beside the golden door.”

You can still speak these words.

you can still act on my behalf,

on behalf of liberty itself.

This. This. This! I sincerely implore.

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