ETERNAL GARDEN

After the heaving winds of Winter

blow across the face of Earth

dropping heavy rains in ceaseless floods,

the blazing winds of Summer force heat waves

upon plains and forests and fire up

an atmosphere of heat and drought. 

The plants in my garden are anchored

beyond the sound of my pleading voice

begging them to live , if not for me,

then for every butterfly and bee

as if Earth might survive

by some miracle, as have I;

beyond cancer scares and chronic ME,

and fibromyalgia that brings me to my knees.

Yet, like Earth I continue to survive 

and even thrive.

No future generations of my DNA

will I leave behind, but seeds

that blow on restless winds and bury their heads

in fertile soil across the garden I have spread,

and breed new life in a new garden

long after I am gone.

This may be my only immortality.

Or, perhaps there is more

in a place yet unseen but hoped for in my dreams,

built on faith and fed by love

Felt in such ecstasy of our union,

its solidarity a true communion

where we explore the truth that

we are not alone, anymore.

The whole world, not merely Earth

is ours to explore,

building hopeful memories to outlast

the fear of loneliness from the past.

Our loving connection gives such strength

even death cannot break the bonds

of love and life meant to survive an eternity.

We are in this together, you and I.

One thing I know for sure;

like the garden, our love will never die.

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THE ART OF POLITICS

Photo by Michael Anthony on Pexels.com

Politics is performance art.

Parties pick performers to entertain

and blind us to our own innate disdain

for policies we would never entertain

if we stopped to look behind the star 

performer who’s task is to draw

our eyes from the sleight of hand

passing laws we cannot stand.

Laugh and smile at the star engaged

in fooling you in a laughing con

but also look at what goes on

behind the screen, behind the stage.

The Italian Comedians (ca. 1720) by National Gallery of Art is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

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AMERICAN LEFT-OVERS

Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

At a potluck buffet, one always expects to come to a feast.

The spread of food  excites the sight

and left-overs become inevitably

a blinding reminder we have had our fill.

What is left-over but the food we fear to taste,

or simply too much of a good thing gone to waste,

or food prepared by someone unknown,

or food in need of more seasoning,

or food in need of longer cook-time.

Always food not to our taste

is what we allow to go to waste. 

So we put it away for another day.

Too often we forget it still has value.

And, so it is in a country promising 

life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness

that we expect to always be satisfied,

and feel totally justified

in putting left-overs aside:

mothers, children, the aging, the homeless, the poor,

the hungry, immigrants and refugees,

Those who look different, love different

pray different, those whom we fear to try.

The left-overs from the American buffet,

forgotten or simply thrown away.

But, our hunger is never satisfied.

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Haiku

The Willow Tree by Louise Annarino,
acrylic on canvass

Over the pond

Where solemn lilies float free

Hangs the willow tree.

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THE GREAT PIRATES

Photo by Arian Fdez on Pexels.com

The mall became a place of celebration

where crowds danced down aisles

trading fashion for a future;

and built community on never being out-done.

Their challenge was built on altering appearances

which shifted to make room for more fun.

Those who sought reality fled until their wheels were locked

and their treasured auto-mobiles were blocked

by laughing crowds who never looked 

where they were going because they were going

nowhere. 

Or, so they thought.

Dancing until their legs weakened and they were easily led,

weighted down by consumerism, a nation died.

Its future claimed as booty by Great Pirates

in finely-tailored suits, and hair oft-clipped and shined.

Great Pirates are always bent on excess profit

from labor, yours and mine.

The ship of state was run aground, dancers on deck overtaken by fear,

as the ship was made to flounder on the rocky shore of democracy

whose shoals require often altering course to survive.

And those who danced beyond all reason

were marched down the plank into an ocean

of failed dreams and fake news and lies.

This is the way a great nation dies.

And those who stand so sure on shore

weep and cry out, “No more! No more!”

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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THE ANCESTORS

Their voices still speak

inside my head, alive yet,

beyond years long dead.

Angelo Annarino, Sr. and Angela Abbruzzi Annarino

The voices of our parents are never silent. They live inside us and travel beyond us through our words.

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GROWING THE AMERICAN GARDEN

Photo by Kampus Production on Pexels.com

The soil sits compact and firm,

steady and not easily moved 

in its congress with the rotation of the earth.

Nobel in its steadfastness

yet, it is unable to grow a single bloom.

A spade dug deep in its history invades

this too taut and fearfully dark space,

to expose the weeds to light with untidy grace,

disturbing the twisted roots below.

Then, those of us with seed to sow

can bend our bodies to the task

and make a garden grow.

The more diverse the seed, I say,

the happier the birds, butterflies and bees

all agog at the variety of shapes and colors

able to arise from earth disturbed and settled

around a multitude of possibilities

stodgy soil could never anticipate.

Tight-fisted earth formed under sun and shade

is made to shift and flow with uncertainty,

a new and better garden to create.

The season of change is upon us.

We must plant before it is too late.

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HELL ON EARTH

Photo by Duanu00e9 Viljoen on Pexels.com

Prayer has been cheapened by the times.

We avoid the pews where fools recline

and bow their heads to fake news

while making money off government grants

for mega churches which promise service

to the poor and neglected, 

the hungry and disaffected;

yet, vote against every effort to create

a more humane and equitable State.

And, where women fall for the line they are Eve

and evil to want sex 

without admitting how complex

the use of birth control can be

when science is ignored and derided

that men can have all decided

in their favor. Their can be no life

when no egg is released to be indoctrinated

by men of the cloth who refuse to be sated

in their own desires. Instead, women are mired

in deceit and forced to bear the loss of self

to men’s control, if they want to feel blessed.

Enough of this unholy state 

which calls on God’s will to compensate

for their failure to mirror God’s true grace.

Prayer has been lost amid the fray

of those who still kneel to pray

to overcome others who fail to tow the line,

and pay politicians to do their will.

Too many souls have learned to be still

while lies are told and children instilled

with false ideology and true evil;

and their very lives lost to thoughts and prayers

cheapened by the politics of fear.

The path to Heaven has disappeared

as we live through hell right now, right here.

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MEN ARE MOTHERS, TOO

Photo by Carlos Santiago on Pexels.com

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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