MEN ARE MOTHERS, TOO

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On this Mother’s Day  the memories reign

as mothers do every day

in homes across the world.

And, men mother quite the same

hidden behind masculine strength,

deeper voices, thicker muscles,

and hair on their chests beat hearts so full

and love so tender there is no other word

to describe what they feel

but a mothering love, loyal and real.

No less a fathering urge do they feel.

No less a need to protect and defend,

as we expect from boys turned to men.

But, let us look deeper and amend

the idea of what it means to be a mother.

Mothers come in all designs;

those who gave birth or took a child in

to the place nearest their hearts,

those who fathered us along our life’s path,

Those sisters and brothers

who followed that path by our side,

those friends we met along the way,

those who became our lovers and mates.

Labels can never replace the essence of this day.

Mother’s Day has  many faces.

Lovingly, we honor all mothers today.

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THE BOBCAT

Hanging on the edge of sleep

I rise from my bed find some ease

within the garden outside my door,

the place where 5 a.m. feels safe and sure.

There I rest burdens hidden in dreams.

While standing in the doorway I see

a young bobcat strolling confidently

across the patio to where I stand silently.

He pauses to stop and stare, ignoring me,

beyond the neighbor’s fence, and there

curiosity holds him still.

My presence brings him no distress

while my hair rises on its own

and I glory while blanching at Nature’s success

in claiming my garden for her own.

Companionable moments I find with my feline guest.

Then, he turns and fluidly departs

taking with him a piece of my heart.

He follows the stepping stones I have laid

to guide my feet  along the way

around the birdbath path to the tree-line’s edge

where he blithely disappears into darkness,

where no paths lay that I can see beyond the flower beds.

Now, my fearful dreams slide away, too,

into the tree-line of my own bed,

where unreal fears are now easily shed.

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BODHI’S FIRST COMMUNION

Memories of bridal veils and sharp edged crinolines

biting the legs, seated and held still in quiet pews,

hands tight on rosary beads, Grandma’s gifted pearls, twisted,

turning, clacking, in anxious prayer.

Feet planted on kneelers already down

to hold aloft tiny feet in lace-edged socks

in white leather shoes with silver buckles.

Seldom seen relatives from far and near appear

to grace the day so full of grace it overflows

until the urge to flee such attention lightens the air

and breath seems a solemn plea to rise and go.

As my memories do because there he sits,

solemn and silent, and ready as I am never,

with a strength and wisdom so rare

it settles the soul and stiffens the mind

reminding us of the moment soon to arrive

when Grace itself takes form in the Host,

a thought so alive we all rise to process up the aisle

all smiles of delight light us inside and out

as the Host melts on the tongue and our hearts shout

God is alive! As am I. As am I!

Unconditional love exists in this moment of bliss,

in communion with all others, our sisters and brothers

within a family, a church, a neighborhood block,

a city, a nation, an entire world

of people to love and bring inside hearts opened wide.

No human assessment of follies,

no judgement of errors done and undone,

no constant surveillance of sins yet assessed.

On this day

with this child

one only feels blessed.

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FOLLOW THE MONEY

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Daybreak of hearts

darkened  by fear

turned into hate

that evil may be done

in the name of protection

of women and children

pawns in the game

run by powerful men

weighed down by coin

until they can no longer run

toward the light.

So, follow the money

into darkest night

where faces are hidden

in places forbidden

to those with sight.

Coins dropped on the way

to the safe hidden away

by PACS and dark money

counted and stored before

paying the dues

for fake ads and fake news.

Follow the money.

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Filed under POETRY, POLITICS

CHARITY

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If I come to you in need

would you care for me?

Would you open your door?

Would you allow me in?

Would you lecture me on choices made?

Would you tell me I must not sin?

Would you point out the truth of my failures within?

Would you judge me or love me?

Is that even a choice?

Would you teach me or listen

to my oft’ silenced voice?

Human we both be;

Ill-mannered or worse occasionally.

At fault more often than we care to admit.

Would you invite me in and tell me just sit?

Would you open your door?

would you let me in?

Would fear turn your lock

and your heart harden to rock?

If I come to you in need

would you care for me?

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HAIKU

MAY FROST

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First light. What a sight !

Tulips hold their petals tight.

Ice came in the night.

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RETIREMENT

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It feels like the waiting has ended.

I no longer know where time goes.

Wherever it is, it has left me behind

as I follow paths no longer known.

Forgotten perhaps, known paths and I,

or should I say me?

A ghost to those I no longer see.

Such freedom is golden, as is my age.

I hammer another nail into the boards

building an enduring new stage

for the play to go on.

A new script takes shape 

on pages of print awaiting new actors

to bring me alive as I sprint

to unknown territory

devoid of all glory.

Welcome, indeed, a new stage for my play.

What better way to spend each new day.

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TOO OLD TO SEE

Angelo Annarino, Sr. with his youngest grandchild, Johnny.

Too late I rise to see the dawn

of new days when peace is praised;

when all may love, and loving live;

favored by children who long to give

new ways of seeing, doing and being.

We aged can only live on faith

that youth will find a way through

the messy world we leave behind,

and accept our fervent hope

that one day they may forgive

those who refused to awaken

to what the world could be

if it had embraced love

and respect for all humanity.

Days grow shorter, faster,

sooner to see sleep arrive

and dreams of years of work gone by

to create the space for family to thrive.

Touch remains with soft words of praise

for children and grandchildren

who have learned my ways.

I am satisfied.

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HAIKU

WEEPING WILLOWS

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Sadly drooped willows

like sorrowful young widows

cry into the stream.

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BIRD BATH BEAT

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Spirited sparrows and wrens so dull and drab

mingle with cardinals beautifully clad.

Sultry robin pulls closed her robe

leaving her breasts cleverly exposed.

Flicker rounds on the oldest tree 

and begins a steady beat.

Sweet arias of birdsong lift to compete,

their voices familiar and strong

while mourning doves amble along,

chaperones staying and swaying in step.

Listening and watching such beauty I wept.

Each bird’s note has a place in the chorus

of avian talent displayed before us. 

Each wing and beak in flighty choreography

tells a breathtaking story of bird glory.

Insects hiding beneath dark-dank spaces

have no chance amidst such diving graces.

The sun arises each morn as do I

to enjoy their dance before birds take to the sky.

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