MOLES IN DEMOCRACY’S GARDEN

Woodland Burial Ground, molehills by Mike Faherty is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

Democracy, listen to me !

The thing that brings you down

shows you the way up

and turns you around.

Once buried deep inside

like a mole it tunneled deep

until it surfaced with nowhere to hide.

Finally, you see and can follow its trail,

the one it uses to make you fail.

As it once used you,

now, you can use it, too.

It shows you its way,

this mole which would lead 

all in your garden astray.

Their ruse is finally up, I say.

Now, all can see the mole

that disrupts your glory,

that twists your best story

into lost ideals  and weakens

you and steals your garden’s beauty.

Finally, you can do your duty.

The mole’s trail, you can follow

and truth can overcome the hollow

shouts of destructive success

as you clean up mole’s mess

and make your garden look its best.

Follow the mole, uproot its trails.

Fill in its tunnels.

Dig deeper than ever before,

Democracy, to restore; 

and, reseed the garden

until it becomes true

that this garden is the best of you.

Democracy, never fear.

A new Spring will soon be here.

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GREY DAYS

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Some days are more difficult than others

and paint will not dry fast enough 

to add the details which make the canvass

come alive in form and color.

The grey, pregnant clouds cover the sky

from end to end and roll over again ,and again,

blocking the sun and the light in one’s eye.

The brush sits, waiting in the palm.

The heart sits, waiting out the storm.

The canvass sits waiting

as empty as life seems to be.

But, artists know better than to fear

the light has died forever.

Artists simply wait out the storm,

paint the clouds above the crowd

of grey and dull thoughts;

and, write the words bold and loud.

Some days are more difficult than others,

thank goodness.

They challenge the artist and poet inside

and offer them a place to hide.

Until the sun rises high in the sky.

then artists and poets run outside,

paint and words flying far and wide.

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

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RACISM IS THE POINT

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Missing the point is the point

when racism dodges and ducks

to avoid the naming of the shrew

which lurks amidst us.

She used to hang out in back alleys

where garbage was tossed away

until collected on trash day.

We set aside days to collect trash

but we allow Racism to stay.

We used to encourage her to hide.

We used to pretend we did not see.

Now, she proudly raises her head

and we simply turn away.

We now allow her to roam the streets,

invite her to give a speech,

welcome her to boardrooms

and classrooms and banks.

In-bed her in textbooks and blogs.

Elevate her upon congressional seats.

She has been the mistress home alone

who now insists on ascending the throne.

She usefully changes the subject

and beguiles all who question

those who embrace her in darkness.

She hides their other secrets,

their lust for power and wealth.

She emboldens their lust

and steals democracy from us

as a means of slaking her the need

for her own power and greed.

Racism is the point man

in the class war being waged.

Racism leads the oligarchic troop,

slakes its thirst to be first into the fray,

Racism guides their way and ours.

Racism entices us and breaks us apart.

Racism is the point.

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BITTERSWEET

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The last sip of coffee from the mug.

The last touch of a lover’s hug. 

The last spoonful of ice cream from the pint.

The last glimpse of a loved-one going out of sight.

The last cuddle from a pre-teen child.

The last day of barefoot running wild.

The last swim on the last day of summer heat.

The last candy left from Halloween treats.

The last whistle of a train traveling down the track.

The last moment at the beach before the picnic basket is packed.

The last measure of a favorite symphony.

The last glimpse of a ship as it heads out to sea.

The last wave of guests traveling off afar.

The last scoop of peanut butter left in the jar.

The last basketball swishing through the hoop.

The last score before a buzzer’s hoot.

The last parade of a disbanding troop.

The last band marching in a parade.

The last night walking across a stage.

The last frame of a good movie flickering on the screen.

The last ripped seam in a favorite pair of jeans.

The last dance before the lights are raised.

The last snowfall at the close of winter’s days.

The last walk in a too-worn pair of shoes.

The last kiss I gave to you.

The last day of 2022.

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HAIKU

Darkness Goes

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DARKNESS GOES

This I know. The sun

penetrates the deepest snow.

Slowly, darkness melts.

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PATIENCE

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Patience calls Americans

to become paragons

of those willing to wait

and take their place in lines

where none had ever defined

our supplies, nor our desires.

We had no need of patience

in a nation beyond the expectation

of delays and empty shelves.

Deeper now we must delve

to discover if we can recover

a sense of community.

Covid shines light through a prism

of rugged individualism

once thought the best of our virtues.

Now, consideration of others colors our quest

to be first and best, and heads above the rest

of those with greater needs.

Patience now becomes the seed

to plant a garden where all can feed

and none go hungry.

We never knew we could be patient.

Until now we had no need.

Could it be that patience

has always been our hidden strength?

The thing that stretches our 

breadth and length to reach

beyond the depth of greed.

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SOLSTICE

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Oh, Sun!

You have reappeared.

Yes, I flirt with clouds.

I love their changing shape,

the shadows they cast

across the landscape.

But, it is you I hold most dear.

My heart begins to race

seeing your warm and loving face,

as every day you draw more near,

and stay longer in  my embrace.

Ah, Sun, your hot touch thrills

until my heart stills

then beats along with yours.

Oh, Sun, my Sun, my love!

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BREAKING NEWS

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Consistency, complacency

share a history

we underestimate

to keep the peace.

There is no “breaking news”

for such as these.

Chaos theory is more sexy,

a more golden fleece.

“Breaking news” breaks us, too.

It is meant to raise the hackles

and disclose the jackals

on the prowl again.

It breaks the calm.

It destroys the peace.

It steals the breath

until fear is all that is left.

We yearn for consistency

to shape our days,

and for complacency

to calm our nights.

We remember and remake history

of calmer, safer days

when heartbeats steadied.

“Breaking news” keeps us ready

for the next assault

and coils of thought and fault

to drag us down below the sea

where our heart rate pounds ceaselessly.

How can we survive this way,

when every single moment 

of every single day

we await in repetitive agony

for ‘breaking news”. 

“Breaking news”breaks us, too.

It breaks cities, states and whole countries.

Its persistence destroys real news, too.

Now, we need “talking heads” to explain

news reported, so inane,

we doubt its authenticity.

Smiling faces fill in gaps between the breaks

with stories of good Samaritans

then swing back quickly at the sound

of news breaking and shaking the ground

upon which we stand and hold hands.

Hands now trembling so hard they fall apart,

unable to hold together the bonds we have built,

to overcome guilt and build something new.

“Breaking news” breaks progress, too.

Perhaps, that is the point.

The point of no return to better ways and better days

when people felt free of fear

and were learning to hold one another dear.

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FLASHPOINT IN THE DARK

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There is no in.

There is no out.

There is no round-about.

There is only here.

There is only now.

There is no you.

There is no me.

There is no whomever-they-may-be.

There is only us, if we could only see.

There is only One being you and me.

Incarnation guided  by a star

reminds us who we really are.

Alpha-Omega lights our way

through the shoals of eternity.

There is no path to anywhere

but everywhere we be.

There is only here.

‘There is only now.

Make the most of the moment

we are allowed.

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NOTHING TO SEE HERE

Nothing to see here!

Nothing at all!

Something bubbles and foams

and won’t leave me alone

though everyone else is gone.

I awaken much shaken

and must sit with pen firmly in hand.

I do not understand

where words are seeded

until thoughts much needed

grow on a page

like a personal sage.

Nor why words loosen each

finger, each joint, each thought

until they dance together to teach

in a meaningless display

before I can begin another lonely day.

Some days, this is all I have to say

and say, and say and say.

So don’t bother reading

such drivel, I am pleading.

Just go on your way.

Nothing to see here today!

If you’ve seen one crash

you’ve seen them all.

So, dash away. Dash away. Dash

away all.

Nothing to see here!

Nothing at all.

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