
Grey days may appear
to cloud freedoms, far and near.
Don’t give in to fear.
Think as Spring draws near
of all that you hold most dear.
Peace and beauty shall appear.

Grey days may appear
to cloud freedoms, far and near.
Don’t give in to fear.
Think as Spring draws near
of all that you hold most dear.
Peace and beauty shall appear.

Hope is in the soil beneath our feet
Ready to grow seeds in the lengthening days
Until beautiful souls flower and fill our needs.

Everything is political.
Every thought, word and deed
propels us at top speed.
Day in and day out,
hour after hour,
to reach for our power.
Children wield power well,
if unknowingly.
They use it incessantly
from womb to tomb.
Dust to dust
politics is a must
to thrive, indeed to just survive.
Politics is the skill to find a safe way
to live another day.
Deplore it, if you will.
Ignore it at your peril.
Feel free to laugh and play
while others guard your way.
Until others stop,
until they drop
all pretense of care
while you have been unaware
their needs have taken center stage
and your insistence
turns to resistance
to their formerly hidden rage.

Bodies tell stories.
The boot is on the right foot.
It lifts up the right side.
It tilts the body left.
The left leg shortened,
for a short while;
long enough for the right
heel to heal the heil.
The right heel steals balance.
The right heal steals my right
to take walks, plant seeds,
to talk with ease, laugh aloud.
The right heel pains me,
isolates me,
leaves me motionless.
Soon, the boot will be off.
Therapy will begin to complete
the healing needed to stop
the pain in the heel, and heal the heil.
The extra weight will be lifted.
Both feet will balance the gait
of a body ready to move forward,
beyond the lies, beyond the hate.
Time to heal, if patience allows.
I ask so little it seems;
and yet, too much for now.
Now, when words destroy bonds
formed from shared adversity,
in fear of diversity and loss of power.
I stumble through the day, booted
by the weight of the jack boot
on a leg that has born too much weight
of too much fear, too heavy a hate.
And still, despite the added weight
and uneven gait, I march on,
in my own, stilted way,
on this President’s,
not King’s,
Day.


I thought I could not write because of my pain.
Not, so.
I hesitate to write because of my disdain.
You know.
I think you have may felt it before.
It rises not from my within.
It rises from your within. It is your most-feared sin.
It sleeps in the place your secrets are kept
of all the times you felt inept.
While I simply raced along your side,
trying to match all the runners with pride.
But, you did not want me there.
That is your eternal prayer.
You thought I should stay in my place.
You feared I could actually win the race.
You deep-down know how weak that feels.
You deep-down know how foul the appeal
to those who would embrace
every runner in the race.
So, you create fake news and tell stories
that cause the runners and watchers to worry
that the race is fixed, corrupt and costly.
You can only lose if there is nothing left to gain.
You prefer full destruction than your personal pain.
You care not the cost.
You cannot handle a loss.
It is you I disdain.
You, I hear explain in rambling detail the goodness,
rightness, advancement of hate.
You who shuts doors and padlocks the gates.
You, I watch burn books and erase history.
You, who imagines a world draped in mystery
where no scientific fact
can remain intact.
My words cannot be allowed to create
more fear, more sense of loss, more hate.
My words could darken the stars.
My words could start wars.
That I cannot allow and must abate.
I cannot add one ounce to your tons of hate.
If you think these words apply to one man,
you sadly misunderstand.
They apply to all of us, to me and to you.
We created the world we try to eschew.
In our deep spaces are we mere bagatelle?
Are we a nation without a story to tell?
We need not seek nor accept our ruination.
We have a Constitution, amended to perfect our nation.
We race not to win a trophy nor prize.
The race does not rely on crowd size.
We run to show how races can be won
when runners align and voters cheer on
every runner who flies by.
By my definition
the greatest competition lies within.
Racism is our Original Sin.

Pirates have always been roaming the seas, boardrooms, and where trades are made by greedy decrees.
Those serving the common good have long understood the need to orchestrate the moves they make, regulate how they take the booty, and disclose where they hide.
Privateers are not so prevalent since they rely on government to protect their hide and share the booty in return for protection regardless of true affection.
Elon and his brethren pirates have turned from corporate pirates into privateers, seated on the podium with Republican profiteers.
No more chance to orchestrate the theft from National Treasury, nor regulate the loss of national security by Justice Department employees.
Inspectors General are no more. They and other watchdogs have been shown the door. And who is left to explore truth and reality without independent media?
How can any democracy survive when privateers are allowed to thrive outside all constitutional constraints? And The Supreme Court refuses any restraint on criminality by those in charge?
Privateers are a greater threat than pirates be. The pirates moved off-shore long before privateers were invited to stand beside those who planned to stand with autocrats, despots and traitors to democracies.
We are in the midst of a third Barbary War within our own boundaries and institutions; not off Tripoli’s shores. what ammunition is available in federal courts when even SCOTUS undermines the Constitution?


I’d rather have King George III back.
He answered to Parliament.
We answered to it, too. It is true.
To those promised to hold his rule in check.
We now answer to Elon Musk,
A privateer, if not a pirate
selling his goods to the highest bidders.
Our enemies cheer him on
With promises of increased wealth.
And our new King Showman
Pretends he rules, taking his share.
Unchecked, unleashed, unaware
He has made war against us all.
I am not a freedom fighter
in the usual way.
I am a freedom lover
day after threatening day.
I will not duck and run for cover
when bullies blare the call.
I will not turn away my eyes
from all their dubious lies.
I will not fret and stomp my feet
to match their ugly fascist beat.
I may be small.
I may be weak.
I may be old.
I am not meek.
I am strong to even my surprise.
I grow stronger with every sun-rise.
My strength grows in numbers.
My flower joins the bouquet
my fragrance rousing passion
for my beloved USA.
I cannot let silence stand guard.
I cannot pretend and play
while others fight for freedom
day after day, after day, after day.
My power is a loving blanket
thrown over the fires of hate.
Lovers of freedom, unite.
It is never…never…too late.
I may be old.
But, I am a woman and bold,
as only women know how to be.
I may be sick and weak.
But, I am not meek.
Freedom still smells sweet.
Lift your eyes and feet
and spread love for freedom
along with me.

Let an old hippie show you the way.