GARDEN LESSONS

Louise Annarino, garden photo 2021

HAIKU

Inert seed unearthed,

breathing air unfiltered now

by soil, can’t grow.

Oklahoma Conservation Commission Soil Scientist by U.S. Department of Agriculture is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

LESSONS LEARNED

You have to eat a pint of dirt before you die.

Eating dirt creates immunity.

Now, tell me why

we disinfect what is written or aired.

Tell me why we only care

for news that entertains

yet fails to create community.

Do we deliberately divide the seed

until nothing worth digesting can grow

in gardens allowed to stay fallow

to feed the greed of those who make money

on fields laid to waste covered in words

sweeter than honey?

The last few minutes of every news show

tells a story to touch the heart.

To make certain we continue to believe

the world is better than we think,

despite what was said only moments before.

Can we not take facts straight any more?

Do we need others to tell us what

we are seeing; then tell us not to believe the sight?

Because, everything will simply be alright.

Dirty though the world may be

it is our right to make it what we will

by planting our own seeds

in the fields of our own minds

where it can then grow solid and whole.

The worms move the truth through dirt

enabled by microscopic insects

up the roots and into stems

until blossoms see the light of day.

Just, give us the dirt, and be on your way.

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HOMELESS MAN

Poverty (Armut), (1919) by Aloys by National Gallery of Art is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Down on all four knees,

a child perched on his back

neighing and whinnying,

the man-horse pranced

while children laughed,

and parents smiled.

Dad’s single friend 

who helped him tend bar

and recover from war

with laughter and cheer,

was always happy, and ever near.

He was best-buddy to Dad

and to Dad’s every child.

Ping-pong bouncing on the dining table,

boosts up into climbing trees,

breaking falls while running alongside

learners on tricycles and bicycles,

skipping stones across a pond,

baiting a hook for the squeamish,

even playing dolls…

All the things children liked were his forte.

He knew how to simply play.

Until the day

his mother died.

Then, his fiancee ran away

from his sadness and dismay,

or so, I heard Dad say.

Sadness broke his heart.

Electro-shock broke his mind.

Nothing could break the soul

of a man so loving and kind.

The rest of his long life he wandered

streets empty and alone

except on days Mom dragged him

off the street, into the car, and home.

Clean clothes, a shower and shave

before he could sit at the table with us

and eat the feast mom prepared,

the aroma tempting him to sit without a fuss.

Children’s chatter soon shattered

The peace he felt for too short a time.

Despite our pleas to stay and play,

his alarmed eyes jumped and explained

he felt he had to get away.

And so he left us, once again, 

to wander all alone.

No longer safe inside,

he hid on the streets,

in his new home among the homeless.

Play left our home those days.

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I’LL GIVE YOU THAT

Angelo Annarino, Sr. at age 18. Born 1920. Died 2002. (personal photos of Louise Annarino)

“I’ll give you that”

used to be a phrase

said in a way

to bring an argument 

to a close, 

not a win nor a loss.

Fractured relationships

considered too high a cost

to force a position 

one knows is lost.

My father was a master

of such admissions,

a diva of concessions

with hand flung in the air,

walking away in smiling disgust

by doing what he must

to repair every breach 

brought on by derision

saying without remorse,

“I’ll give you that.”

Building love and trust

his most precious position.

All else was mere dust,

too weak to stand upon.

“I’ll give you that”

is a way of bringing

an argument to a close,

a negotiation to a completion,

an invasion to a retreat,

a war to a peace.

Dad only gave away

what did not belong to him.

He was stubborn that way.

But what he could not claim

he simply gave away.

“I’ll give you that,”

we all should be willing to say.

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WORD TO THE WISE AT SUNRISE

Injuries to the body

break more than spirit.

They break sleep

into small segments

devoid of dreams

held captive

by muscles that scream

“Stop. Change position. 

Move. Get up!”

until night is no more.

Injured bodies awaken

before the dawn appears

to stretch, then stretch some more

until the pain rolls away

out of sight, out of a mind

on which it closes the door.

It keeps moving and maneuvering

to find balance in the spine

where all courage rests supine

allowing hope to settle

in muscle and bone

torn and worn by strife,

to keep the body moving

on its way to healing,

on its way to a fulfilled life.

Nations must do the same,

injured by past deeds.

They cannot heal

if they insist on staying asleep.

Their pain claims all their attention, 

not to mention

stiffening their hearts, minds and souls,

until they are trapped in a body

politic, unbalanced, unable to move

up and out of the bed

with forceful strides 

to claim the prize

of freedom and progress

to move through the world

pain free, on the way to healing,

stretching possibilities

to live in a world truly

peaceful and free.

Word to the wise, “Awake!”

A new dawn is here.

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HAIKU

Photo by Stuart Pritchards on Pexels.com

LETTING GO

When the road bends slow

we fail to notice how

much we have let go.

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HAIKU

Photo by Chanita Sykes on Pexels.com

THE UKNOWN

Fear waits past the gate,

grabs my hem and pulls me out

into the unknown.

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ODE TO THE RIGHTEOUS RIGHT

Photo by Lara Jameson on Pexels.com

If I were to tell you what I have been thinking

The embarrassment we both would feel

would be unlikely to appeal,

and that which each us would never 

hope to reveal.

But, of course I have no filter

to hold back honest perceptions.

Should I do so, anything I write

would be obvious deception.

Thus, my silence has descended

as a weight upon conception

of any new creation.

Does no one else see the destruction

being wrought against true thought?

The annihilation of creation

to move us forward as it ought?

No need to ban books or what is taught.

Your violent rhetoric descends and upends

those willing to create a better place

in a newer world, free from error and strife.

Your lies make my truths rise so high

you pick them out in your rifle sight,

aim and fire, destroying my light.

And that is your goal, is it not?

To destroy all that you are not.

Not decency nor truth, nor equality.

Nor compassion, nor peace, nor freedom.

All you are is greed and lust for control,

allowing wealth to trap your soul.

In this ungodly hour you use our churches

as bastions for your holding power

over all that is holy and sacrosanct.

My country ’tis of Thee. 

And, Thee, are destroying

my country, and my faith in Thee.

You are not right.

You are simply using your might

to block out all light.

I cannot stay silent.

It would bring on the night,

with the nightmare you hope to ignite.

Thus, today, once again, I write.

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SKY WARS

Photo by Enric Cruz Lu00f3pez on Pexels.com

Before the world lit itself up like a Christmas tree on every corner we could stand in our backyards and view the Milky Way. Now, the stars are blocked, locked away behind the haze of nights ablaze in light. We can no longer mark our place in the universe, feel the smallness of our being, as we watch the movement of stars across the sky. We can no longer mark time throughout the night. I miss the stars. As a child I spent hours lying on my back in the grassy yard watching the stars move through the sky. We begged to be allowed to sleep outside on warm nights, stringing blankets like a tent over the clothes line. We seldom slept inside the tent. It was more for Mom’s benefit than our own.

I loved the sky, the way clouds moved across it. I sometimes let myself feel earth’s rotation through the passage of stars and clouds. I recognized that stars were fixtures, and it was I who was being moved about while standing on Earth’s surface. Such thoughts were dizzying, electric, compelling. One night, my Father and his brothers gathered all of us cousins in Uncle Frankie’s yard, out beyond any city lights that we might watch the passage of The United States’ first satellite Explorer 1, a year after Russia’s Sputnik 1. Its passage times were charted daily and printed in the newspaper. We stood in a single row with parents standing behind; children and adults both in awe. I was hooked. I was 8 years old. I am still hooked at 74.

Each autumn I made a leaf book. I collected the most beautiful and perfect leaves I could find from the trees along the neighborhood alleys and iron them between pages of wax paper to preserve their color and form, then sew together the pages into a book. I preferred to pull leaves from the tree before ground insects, soil and trampling feet marred their full beauty. The autumn I was 12 I was reaching up for a bright yellow oak leaf when I noticed an object brighter than any star in the afternoon sky. It was three times as high as the jet streaking across the sky, a tiny form one-tenth its size, far below. Such discrepancy in what I had ever seen in the sky startled me. I pointed it out to the neighbor children who were following my progress and searching for leaves. We stopped and simply watched in wonder for perhaps 30-40 minutes. For the first 30 minutes or more it did not move. It simply hung there, huge and brilliant in the sun reflecting off its surface. Everything else in the sky shifted as time passed. It stayed in place. That was confusing.

The shape was also confusing. It appeared as two curved plates turned toward each other, with a smaller curved plate in the center, below the main body of the object. It was a perfectly formed “flying saucer.” We could not believe what we were seeing. Yet, we could not take our eyes off the image. Suddenly, the object moved upward in a straight line faster than we had ever seen an object move in the sky. It was not flying at any speed we could comprehend. It lingered in its position for several moments then moved even more rapidly at a right angle directly right, stopped and immediately flew straight up again. We were not strangers to how planes or even helicopters flew. This was clearly neither one of those. We gasped at each strange move, entranced at its uniques pattern. Then whoosh! It flew so fast it literally disappeared from view. The breathless chatter of our group became a crescendo of need to know what it was we had witnessed. One friend, Paula, remembered a brochure in the box her telescope came in. It had a phone number we could call. She found the brochure and we read about Project Blue Book. It included a phone number. I called.

Project Blue Book was housed at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in nearby Dayton, Ohio. An officer there took my call and said he would call back. My Mother was surprised the next day when she received a call from the officer to ask if she would allow me to meet with him and another officer at the Public Library the following day. She and Paula’s mother agreed we could meet. The two officers in military uniform met us and immediately separated us for interviews. I told my story, answered every question and drew photos to illustrate its form, position in the sky, altitude and movements. Then, I answered the questions a second time before the officers switched places. The interview resumed with repetitive questioning. At the close of the interview both officers sat with Paula and me and explained that were checking to see if our stories were consistent and true. They agreed we were truthful. They admitted we had seen what the Air Force called an unidentified flying object or UFO. The next step would take some time. More than 90% of such sightings turned out to be identifiable objects. They told us they would be checking for weather balloons, experimental flying objects of our country and of other nations.

Sometime later, the officer called to tell me what we had seen was a true UFO. They could find no explanation for what we had seen. He began sending me a monthly newsletter covering sightings around the country, some explainable, others not. I wish I had kept it. From that time on I paid attention to what we were putting up in our skies, and into outer space. I have watched the commercialization of space with concern, as the skies have become crowded without clear rules of operation worldwide. What goes up must come down and the duration of satellites and their eventual demise is a real concern for those of us on Earth below. The space race which began in 1957 has only picked up speed and, unfortunately, mass. Fortunately, NORAD, a joint effort by The United states and Canada, monitors those skies from the North Pole to Central America.

Events of the past week are not truly surprising. They are inevitable. The strategy behind the positioning of the Chinese spy balloon is interesting and worth considering. Unfortunately, Americans pay more attention to sci-fi thrillers than to facts and are more interested in movie scenarios than reality. The usual suspects are already claiming aliens are landing, one more group of “the other” to fear so white America votes hard right. Perhaps the Chinese strategy is not so inscrutable after all. Perhaps these events will awaken the world to the need to regulate the space where satellites and weather balloons claim dominance over those of us below. Keep looking up. There are challenges ahead and we must unleash imagination to meet those challenges. But, never fear. The best is yet to come.

Photo by SpaceX on Pexels.com

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COURAGE!

Photo by M Venter on Pexels.com

Too many today feel disaffection

expecting a loving connection

where none is possible.

Independence is overrated

in a culture soaked in sex

and self-gratification.

What bonds can be created

when self-focus reigns supreme

and dodges vulnerability

at every opportunity.

What love can grow in such infertility?

Have we lost the basic ability

to fall in love, to wrap in feeling

the deepest needs we fear to speak?

Courage! Courage! Take the risk to try

to open your heart, deep and wide.

Yes, love may fail. It almost certainly will.

But taking love’s ride is such a thrill.

Grab that hand. Touch that cheek.

Allow your deepest longings to speak.

Perhaps this one will 

be the one who listens 

with a heart ready to be filled

with you.

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ODE TO ANGELA AND ANGELO

I have outlived my own mother,

one like no other, as yours must be ,too.

A mother who labored to bring me to life

then labored every day after

to create a world of joy and laughter,

joined by my father with teasing whiles

who kept a joke ready for when I most needed smiles.

Life struggles were an everyday event

twisted into humor at every bent.

Nothing could really bring us down

so long as we could laugh and play the clown.

Long gone are my parents, to play other venues

where they must have been needed,

while I continue to live honored and feted.

Happy birthday to me, yes, it is indeed

thanks to two people whose love brought forth

a daughter who could never fully explain their worth.

Being loved teaches love of self passed on to others.

Brought to each of us by our fathers and mothers,

if we are lucky enough to join such hearts.

Such love breaks every sorrow apart.

And, love leads to laughter beyond the here-after.

I still feel Dad’s touch tousling my hair

as Mom grunted a sigh of despair

at some forbidden lark I had dared.

I still sense their dismay when I leap into a fray

they would wish I had avoided,

or take a risky challenge simply to brighten my day.

I hear their voices of warning advising how to proceed.

Their teachings continue to meet my every need.

They may be gone beyond my sight

but they continue to live within a greater light

that fills the heart and seeds the mind just right

that I see Dad’s grin on my face as I pass a mirror,

or hear mom’s lilt as I sing at the kitchen sink,

recalling her tilt into dad’s arms as he gave me a wink.

Each day my parents gave to me

is wrapped like a present in distant memory.

I am thankful for the life they gave to me.

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