Families are strange.
At once a warm, firm embrace;
and, cold, hard shackles.
Families are more
than blood, bone and genetics.
They are countries, too.
Families argue.
Families may often fight;
then set things to right.
VOTE!
AVOIDANCE
All I want
is to avoid
my own thoughts
lately clothed in fear
so pronounced
they bring me to tears.
It finally must be said
anger fades to grief
when death brazenly nears.
Watching a beloved die,
clutching the hand,
wiping the brow,
for perhaps the last time
applies to nations.
I watch my beloved country
whose solemn vow
has always been protect and defend
all those living within
the boundaries of an idea in place
to open freedom’s gates
to all equally, within its small space.
I hold my nation’s heart and soul
with trembling hands
and shortened breath.
In painful realization
that so many countrymen
in this amazing nation
fear not, nor mourn with me
the loss of our democracy.
Friends and family alike
smirk and snarl in true delight
the unleashed dogs of fear and fright
which rip apart all we have built
without a trace of grief nor guilt.
They break my heart
as they tear our world apart.
GRIFTERS UNITE
A nation of grifters.
That now seems right.
And the right has taken
grifting to a new level,
right in our sight.
Trump bibles, watches and hats
to grift cash for legal defense.
Elon Musk funds the cache
with his own which once
was our own, using what our
tax dollars created as his own.
Grifters come in all moneyed sizes.
But, the fine print on their offers
is too small to easily read,
hiding their grifting and greed.
Starlink for free to victims
of hurricanes Milton and Helene.
Except it is not free.
And if Musk and Trump succeed.
None of us will be free.
After one month, we will owe
Musk three-hundred forty-nine plus
dollars and service fees.
Backlash forced him to extend
the grift until the end
of the year 2024.
when victims will be left
holding the bag and more.
And so grifters appear to be
enlightened and generous and we
their sycophantic beneficiaries,
until it is too late
to shut the fascist gate
being constructed right under our nose.
Grifting away democracy is not new.
It has happened to others before,
but now, for us, it is way too close.
The grifters have united
and now so must we.
Vote!
REMAINING ON STAGE
Crickets on the hearth,
Spiders in the bed,
push early-morning risers
to live out their dread
of hurricanes and floods
and myriad disasters;
reminding us we are mere humans
and the joke of the universe’s laughter.
Perhaps, that is why some few stay
and refuse to be subdued,
pretending they control the stage
lifting a finger in Mother Nature’s face.
And we imagine they are me and you.
As the curtain comes down
the audience leaves,
except for the very few.
And laughter dies, as seas and rivers
overcome their bounds and flow anew.
Filed under POETRY, Uncategorized
J.D.VANCE
May I lie to you?
I promise to do it sweetly
and completely.
You will not feel a thing,
not really, never really.
Soft-spoken hateful lies
only raise hair across the nape.
Polite lies do not become the farce
of a carnival barker red in the face
who raises bile and never smiles
except in that smug way.
My smug smile lies in wait
only to be seen behind the screen
of my politeness and grace.
The need to shower away filth
subsides as one leans forward
to catch the whispered slide
of my quiet lies across the skin.
Lying to win is not a sin.
I lie so well.
No one can tell.
and so, I softly and secretly smile
with serious gaze all the while.
It is ridiculous
how insidious
polite lies swell.
Can you tell?
CONNECTED
Some losses are too great to be borne.
Some losses are so huge they force us to mourn.
Some losses sift sinew and bone,
ideals and beliefs, tattered and worn.
Some losses pull hearts apart
smiling tears of grief, we feel all alone.
We pretend such loss is not our own
when watched on screens, viewed from afar.
But, connection is more than geography.
Some losses cross borders we cannot see.
Drought, floods and storms floor us all equally.
Bombs rain down on other cities
and beat us all bloody, in hidden anatomy.
Threads bind us together in an ethernet.
One stitch connecting us here and there,
of which we are determinedly unaware.
Instead we pretend, through word and prayer,
when what we really must do is give a care.
Some losses are too great to be borne.
Some losses are too great to ignore.
For, when we do, they lead to war.
Like children we make up games
and pretend life is merely a game to play.
Business and politics play out games’ themes.
Media reports but no one referees.
The games of politics and war become a melee.
But, life is much more than a game to play.
Some losses are too great to be borne.
Some losses are too great to ignore.
Our votes are not tokens to be tossed in a loss.
Our votes are connections which must not be lost.
Some losses are too great to be borne.
Some losses are too great to ignore.
Please, stop playing long enough
to go vote on behalf of ALL of us.
DOES LIFE COMPUTE?
If only life were like a computer program.
I could simply delete the lies and deceit.
I could simply retrieve what I believe.
I could simply edit out every lout
and paste heroes to replace their disgrace.
I could share and button-down my despair.
I could control, alt, delete rancor and heat.
I could scroll down and out all who troll.
I could shift and place higher with a lift
all those deserving of such a gift.
I could highlight in bold those deserving the gold.
I could edit and replace every con-man and scrape-grace.
I could, if I would, but maybe should
not waste the time to forward and rewind
podcasts littering my mind.
But, I am human and neither prophet nor divine.
I am not even A I; just a person line by line
writing to face another day with distaste
for climate and wars showing such force
that destruction follows men’s course
and hope flows down mountains and wipes out
any doubt that my redoubt will succeed.
Too many lies run down from dark skies.
Too many clouds hide arms opened wide
to future peace and prosperity faced with asperity
while storm-trooper rise to bait and debate democracy’s demise.
Their faces bathed in hate’s light meant to cause fright
across every screen invade my dreams.
I cannot hit delete while I sleep fearing defeat.
If only life were like a computer those disputers
who lie line after line, could be sent to my trash.
If only, we could do that without a backlash.
We prepare protection against another insurrection.
We update our program to withstand hack attack.
Maybe life waits in accord for my touch on its board.
Maybe life does compute and refute every dispute.
2024 ELECTION
September blew by
with the promise of little
and threat of battle.
SWEET LITTLE OLD LADIES
This is the face of white supremacy,
the sweet little old lady
who lives down the street from me.
She praises the Walz-Harris and
Sherrod brown signs in my yard.
She gleefully says they make her happy.
I offer the extra signs I have to put in her yard.
She gracefully declines, “my family
would make it hard on me.
“So, your family bullies you,” I reply.
Taken aback I watch her smile fade.
“Yes,” she says,” I suppose that’s true.”
“It is just that Black people are so…”
her hands in the air waving away thought…
“They want to take over the country, but ought not.”
“Do you hear what some white people shout,
about taking over government to have their way?
Do you fear them taking over the country?” I say.
A look of confusion crosses her face.
I ask if she thinks every white or Black person
is the same, and if blanket descriptions are really O.K.
This sweet little face now looks away.
Then turns with a frown and admits it’s unfair.
I have family who are MAGA, too, I explain.
If they do not like my signs I simply reply
that they should put out their own signs
and take responsibility for their incivility.
She tells me she is really afraid,
for once glad to be old with death on its way.
I remind her of all dangers she has faced.
I smile and encourage her to take her place
among our past heroes who gave voice to renew
the promise of America for me and for you.
I promise her she is stronger than even she knows,
that together we are strong enough to fight any foe.
I remind her everyone fears what the future portends
She nods and she smiles but her eyes tell a different story
She yearns for the time when being white
meant she could claim control and full glory.
I am an old white lady, but have never been sweet.
Being real is neither pretty nor neat.
I handle truth in its complexity,
dirtying my hands and feet
placing signs in my yard,
refusing to give in to hate and racism.
Ugly truth-teller is my only “ism”.
Silence is complicity.
Fear and hate do not deserve pity.
DANCE IN THE RAIN
If not too early, perhaps too late
rain falls through parched skies,
in drizzles and drips only;
clouds’ moist linings absorbed
by dried out cells
of the hydrogen and oxygen
we need to survive.
The train’s whistle blows
in drowned out gasps.
Wet skies hold back
the usual click and clack
of dry wheels over steel track.
Iron wheels now slip and slide,
a smoother if more uneven ride.
Wet nights lead to wet mornings
drowning our the train whistle’s warning
of all that is to arrive
during this election drive.
Tom-toms beat quieter drums
to speed up hearts
and slow down minds
as the train approaches
the nations’s destination.
AI interrupts nature’s offer
to set things straight
without a factual bother,
as facts fall beneath
the slippery wheels,
and we are easily thrown off-track
unsure now what is fiction or fact.
We will all soon be mad as hatters.
Too soon, we wonder if anything matters.
After drought, roots unfold soundlessly
and it is hard to hear the truth’s refrain.
Our senses our dulled by falling rain.
Our restless sleep disrupts our days.
We are lulled by quieter chants,
but nothing has changed.
Courage now, lads and lasses.
The polls await the arriving train.
We must vote, in sunshine or rain.
Open sad and tired eyes.
Listen with too-numbed ears.
The sounds may be different,
but not the refrain.
Time to vote the danger away.
Time to learn to dance in the rain.
Vote!
annarino writes 