THERE ARE NO WORDS

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There are no words.

Not even thoughts nor prayers

can escape beyond the grief.

Three nine year old Nashville children

could not hold the line

we asked and trained them to do.

The line has grown and stretched

and wrapped itself around

Columbine, Margory Stoneman Douglas,

Uvalde, Sandy Hook, Amish school, 

Pulse, Binghampton, Carthage nursing home,

University of Texas tower, University of Virginia,

Virginia Tech, Northern Illinois University

Washington Navy Yard, Fort Hood one and two,

San Bernardino, Edmund Post Office,

San Ysidro Mc Donald’s, LA dance studio,

El Paso and Virginia Walmarts, Planned Parenthood,

Birmingham church potluck, Living Church of God,

Sacramento and Texas First Baptist Church,

Tree of Life synagogue, Sikh Temple, 

Buffalo and Boulder supermarkets, IHOP

Molson Coors and Hartford Beer, 

Fed X, UPS, Xerox, Lockheed Martin.

The list goes on and on stretching ever longer

the lines we should never cross

until lines wrap our feet and ankles

no longer able to march in the streets.

Until lines wrap our hands and fists

no longer able to wrap them around a pen to write new law,

nor lift them in the air with promise to end what we saw.

Until lines wrap around around our heads and stuff our mouths

no longer able to speak out loud, only muffled groans of despair.

There are no words.

There are no words.

There are no words.

But, words have never been enough.

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HAIKU

TIME

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A single moment

is all. And time is only

a way to forget.

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DEEP FREEZE

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After the cheeping rattle of ice chips beat against the window

and replaced the quiet drift of falling snowflakes

silence descended and coated the ground.

Now there is no sound, 

as if Earth, herself, is holding her breath.

The freeze is so profound that even the tires on cars

silently whirl round and around and around,

trying to grip as the cars slide and slip,

like ideas trying not to collide,

unable to take purchase of a single thought;

awakened from silent dreams fraught

with swallowed screams and naught

to do with this newly frozen world.

New snowflakes, smaller and tighter now twirl

hidden by silent vows made on quiet streets

to freeze out life and cover the Other,

refusing to see them as sister and brother.

The only remarks that life remains for sure

are three breaths controlled and held in check:

the warmth of hot air blown from furnace grates,

the kettle of water heated to steep tea,

and the certainty that I am still me.

Breathe in and breathe out, and never doubt

that frozen days come silently to give us time

to redesign and renew Earth,

and a new birth 

of a new humanity.

Warming brings the thaw of words hidden 

by the freeze of words now bidden

to silence by those who fear trust hidden by design.

I find the hidden poetry in this silent freeze.

I make those hidden words mine.

I wake with you and your warm spirit to shout

across the deep freeze all about.

Sound carries farther on cold air.

So shout and sing and show you care

in this heavily silent deep freeze.

Never let silence shout you out.

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CARRY ON

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Your fear weighs heavily in my arms.

I can only carry you so long

before muscles lock and pain sets in

and you drop, leaden as a casket,

one your fear places us in.

Together we stand on soil loosened

by the heavy weight of two.

Do you not know each one of us

must carry his own cross to Golgotha?

Do you not know your own strength,

hard won with all you have been through?

Or did I so lessen your load by carrying you

that your legs are now too weak to move on

to a solid, firmer ground.

I let you go now. I set you free.

Be on your way, without me.

Carry on. 

Carry on.

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WOMAN’S WORK

My work life started with equality of effort and pay. Five year old brotherAngelo told me I could not help if I could not keep up. I kept up. We shared pulling our wagon through the alley near our house, rummaging through trash to pull our newspapers, cans, bottles and magazines. He pulled as I pushed the loaded wagon onto the scale at the junkyard across the street and down another alley. We checked each other’s math as Mr. Schonberger paid us pennies according to the weight of our load. We each received the same amount.

Angelo was able to secure a job as paperboy for the Newark Advocate. I tried but was told girls could not be paperboys. My brother allowed me to help him, as I always had, offering to split the pay with me. He hated going door-to-door to collect subscription fees. I was pretty successful at it. After awhile he became bored and started allowing me to deliver the paper as well. I was thrilled to finally be a papergirl, full stop! Except, Angelo retained his half of the salary on the premise I could earn nothing on my own so I still came out ahead. From that day on, I angrily experienced pay inequity. It takes many forms, is institutionalized and challenges to it are always risky. One can end up jobless, very easily. My own brother taught me those lessons when I was 8 years old.

After graduate school I became a Resident Counselor at a co-ed high rise residence hall at the University of Cincinnati. I soon discovered that I was paid less than the other three RCs assigned to our building. The other woman was entitled to her salary since she was considered the Head RC. But, the two men had fewer degrees than I and had less experience. Since we were a state university those were clearly defined bases for assessing wages. In my case those considerations were ignored. The second year in this position saw the Head counselor leave on maternity leave, one of the men transferred to the Athletic Dept. and the other man took a position as Head RC. These positional shifts left me to do the job 4 persons had been doing, with no increase in pay. I left after that year to attend law school, determined to learn what I needed to make the world a more just and fair place for everyone.

I will not go into the racism and sexism In law school, nor in my workplaces over the years. That discussion is for another day. Today is about pay equity. My first legal job was at The Legal Aid Society of Columbus. Pay equity was not an issue in this job. However, the salary there meant I was barely able to repay my school loans. I could not buy a car, could barley pay rent, and was unable to help out my parents or save any money for emergencies. I later secured a position at Ohio University where I could use both my legal training and experience, and my Student Affairs training and experience. I was confident the pay schedules would afford some protection.

I was wrong. After studying the issue of my pay versus the scale I realized had been placed three grades lower than the man who had preceeded me, who also had fewer degrees and less experience. He also did not have all the duties I had, and carried a much smaller case load as well. After a year-long study measuring my position against the pay scale at my university, the pay for similar position at other state schools in Ohio and state schools nationally I concluded I was grossly underpaid. Instead of filing a pay equity claim based on discrimination, I filed for a review of my position to bring it into compliance with the pay scale. I knew if I claimed sexual discrimination I would not have my contract renewed. I loved my job. I loved the work I did. I did not want to lose the position.

I never mentioned sex discrimination in my research report, my application for review, or any cover letters. I tread lightly. The wrangling went on for nearly 2 years while I patiently, if stressfully, sought pay equity. Finally, the Provost asked to speak to me. Such a meeting should have been unnecessary since the pay scale criteria were set and I met the criteria for a move up three grades and across the grade significantly. I had been underpaid from day one, but could only claim an amount due from the date of application for review, losing thousands of dollars in unmet equity. I was willing to forego those losses in order to retain my position. But, wanted fair and equal pay recognized and offered.

The first 5 minutes of the conversation with the Provost explained why he was meeting with me as he started to discuss sexual discrimination. I stopped him, reminding him I had not made my claim one for sexual discrimination which would have created a terrible image for the university, which I had pledged to serve. The university would be harmed if such a claim were made by its own legal counsel. He was caught off guard and stumbled in his speech. What do you want? I want what I have claimed. That started a negotiation. I did not get the back pay I asked for from day one’s misplacement on the scale. I did get the upgrade and back salary of two yers from the date I filed a job review request based on updated information. It was clear I would need to file suit to get full equity. I could not sue the institution I loved and hoped to continue working for. It was a bittersweet victory of sorts.

What I experienced at the university was not new to me, as such inequities existed in nearly every job I have held. Nor are such experiences limited to me. Every woman faces such discrimination. It is baked in to systems and those who create and manage them. It will not easily be removed. It impossible to attain equity but the costs are often too high for mere mortals to bear. A Vice-President for the university called me in soon after I was granted proper pay for my work. He told me the conversation we were about to have never happened should I repeat it to anyone. I will only say that he told me he had never seen such discrimination against any woman, and he had seen a lot in his career in private and public sector, as he saw in my case. He advised I remove myself from the position as the discrimination would not stop until I had been destroyed. He offered me a position under his area. It is hard to trust any man who starts the conversation, “This conversation never happened.” I did not acccept the position he offered.

I wonder, sometimes, if I could have avoided chronic fatigue syndrome which left me bedridden for a year, unable to speak or walk…or even sit-up or crawl. I relearned language. Learned to walk with a walker, then with a cane. I asked to do what many men had done following strokes or heart attacks, be in the office in the morning and work from home in the afternoon, I reasoned my hearings were usually scheduled in the morning. I could schedule meetings then as well; and, write briefs, make phone calls and do legal research in the afternoons. I was told I was not to return to work unless I could be in the office full-time. No man had ever been told this. I was in position to know. And this, from a boss who never came in to the office before 11 then left for a three hour lunch.

Women are marching across the globe for pay equity. I walk with them in spirit. I add my voice to theirs. This is the only way my health allows me to do so. Listen to those women. Hear their pleas. Help them. And do it “on the record”; not as if this conversation never happened.

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NIGHT SNOW ON DAFFODILS

Daffodils in the snow, Torquay by Derek Harper is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

It snowed again during the shortening night;

A staggering and mighty sight

to those who yearn for Spring sun.

I, among them, am one.

The daffodils, though, delight

standing as tall and as resolute as they might

to bear the weight of our expectation,

cheering us on heartily in exultation

that winter’s quiet and tight hold on us all

yet allows the cheerful to stand tall,

and welcome with unabashed delight

another snowfall during the night.

And, somehow, the world, again, seems right.

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RETAINING PONDS

Carshalton Upper Pond by N Chadwick is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

The rich are the retaining wells of culture they believe.

They wear their wealth and status on their sleeves

or on their pockets front or back, across their chest,

or from their shoulder purses hanging slack.

Declaring status for all to see.

If there were no caste system there would be

no racism.

If there were no racism there would be

no climate change nor earth destruction.

For where would we put the poison men create?

Not near the wealthy classes’s gate.

They neither see nor suffer unsafe states.

Where do we bury their wealth-earned waste?

Not in Esher. Nor in St. Germain-des-Pres.

Not in Tribeca. Nor in Oud Zuid.

Not in Medina. Nor in Atherton.

Not in Port Royal. Nor in Kensington.

Not in Assiniboine Park. Nor in Port Royal.

Not in Patterson Hill. Nor in The Peak.

Not in any of the places only the rich speak

with cultured voice and true concern

for what the world has now become 

with each season’s unusual turn.

These richest places to live on this earth

are retaining ponds which only confuse

the deadline for earth’s destruction  

which we all face.

And those who have been cast aside.

who carry bottles governments provide,

or heavy jugs of polluted water

about the countryside,

from deadened rivers

and from polluted, toxic wells

live where the poorest live, unwelcome 

to live among the swells.

They live where the poorest dwell,

said to be the lower class,

and are placed among the lowest caste,

selected by race, color or birthplace.

we have no time to waste.

The retaining ponds must survive

to protect and pursue untainted water and skies,

to use their wealth to break down barriers,

to deconstruct the racist muck

they have placed us all in.

Clean air and water should be there for all.

If not, even the mighty and wealthy will fall

as earth reclaims what once was hers

an untainted world free of all humanity

and it poisonous thoughts and actions.

No racism, no caste sytem.

This I long to see. 

If only earth can survive you and me.

Retaining wells we all be.

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CONJUNCTION

26163365 © Mcwarrior | Dreamstime.com

In the darkness are points of light

jewels strung across the sky

by unseen hands of strength and might,

or an unknown someone’s 

imagination taking flight.

I stand in awe, feeling smaller somehow.

I become more minute by the minute,

a small measure of who and what I am

or what I could impossibly become.

I watch Venus and Jupiter 

hanging in the western sky,

nearing closer each night and wonder why.

My tiny self on tiny earth joins them

in silent and solemn trajectory

around our sun, in blazing mystery.

I stand and wonder at the beauty naked to my eye,

joined by history with ancient watchers such as I.

Each night I watch planets appear 

to grow closer and embrace

in the dark expanse of space.

And suddenly, 

I want to fly!

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GARBAGE PICK-UP DAY

Up and down the street 

garbage cans line the curb

waiting for the garbage truck

and men to pick them up,

to clear the debris left 

from those trying to stay alive, 

and leave something behind 

before they die.

Garbage cans on streets and alleys

are on public thoroughfares,

public vessels that can be opened wide

to anyone who cares to look inside

at trash that can disclose truths

hidden inside plastic bags of deceit

filled with their discarded 

food containers, chicken bones,

greasy rags and purchase receipts.

All else goes onto compost piles,

or gets recycled into bins 

for later pick-up, by different men, 

in different trucks, on different days.

Is this how death works?

Are we trash to be decayed

until we become dust

picked up by interstellar winds

and returned to the stars

waiting to be consumed by black holes?

Or, are we picked up 

by different trucks to be recycled

into new lives, like a glass bottle or shipping box

to be used anew in some new way?

Or do we become compost for a new garden

in a galaxy far-far-away where lovely flowers grow?

The truth is that no one knows.

So we build stories of future glories

as we place our selves by the curb

afraid to live and use up all we are. 

We, imperfect people all,

too often place ourselves in the trash can

and simply wait to be picked up.

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REBUILD AND RESTORE

Two people on ladders doing carpentry/building. by Mandt contract is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

It is easy to become disillusioned

with institutions which we know,

and which have gotten us this far,

when we see the mess we are in.

So, what do we do? Organize anew?

And create institutions to do

what we have always done.

Does anyone believe our churches,

companies, and governments

were created out of hate?

Our newly formed groups are not new.

It is always the same.

Each tries to do its best, the best it can do.

The first rule of any group or institution,

like the first rule of each individual,

is to survive, and hopefully thrive.

Membership dues, costs and fees

keep each institution alive.

And money corrupts with greed

to be more, have more, do more.

It seems to be a human need.

As usual, we see the angry diatribe renewed

against religions and governments 

for what they have failed to do.

I ask, what do you do?

How many soup kitchens do you run?

How many hospitals have you built?

How many roads do you maintain?

How many times have you failed

to do your best, and ignore the rest

of us? We are only human.

Should our institutions be better?

If so, then so must we be.

Love is not a verb, but an action word.

Love helps us feel the way to act 

better than we ever knew we could.

Love erases the word “should”

with the act which rebuilds 

institutions of which we can once again be proud.

Tearing down is much easier, I know,

than rehabilitating the world

wherever we are, wherever we go.

Find your hammer, whatever it is.

Mine is words on a page.

Grab some nails and form a crew.

The whole world is depending 

on me, and, on you.

Let us rebuild, not tear down

what worked so well before

it became what we chose to ignore,

and let rot

under the weight of heavy storms.

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