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

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LETTING GO

When the road bends slow

we fail to notice how

much we have let go.

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HAIKU

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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

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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

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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.

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COURAGE!

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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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NORTH MARKET GRAVEYARD

Columbus Metropolitan Library map of North Graveyard, Columbus, Ohio

The bodies left buried

beneath the parking lot

are being excavated.

Who they are, we know not.

The North Graveyard was relocated

more than one hundred years ago,

but hundred of bodies were left to rot.

The bodies of those who died

while their families were passing through,

moving onward to take the lands

of Native Americans pushed aside.

Unclaimed children or the sick

who stopped to rest, and there, they died.

The bodies of African-Americans

buried with such strangers, 

in plots set aside

for those whom true burial plots

in the sanctioned section were denied.

The bodies of the poor immigrants

without any claim to sanctioned graves.

The bodies of those without family, 

with no one left to claim a grave.

Forgotten and hidden from our view

until developers dug footers

to support their grand scheme,

a multi-use tower on land once deemed

the graveyard for a city

who forgot how to grieve

for those not white, nor wealthy.

But, now, we remember, as best we can,

and rebury with dignity 

every child, woman and man.

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RACING THE WIND

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Day after night, night after day,

high pressure, low pressure

winds here to stay,

a world in disarray.

Weather is more predictable

with each new measuring tool.

Less stable winds make prediction

a game for worried fools.

Earth bellows and heaves,

quakes at the disgrace

of shifting ideologies

gathered at the starting gate,

ready to race.

What prize do runners seek

running over Earth’s oldest tracks,

heaving as the path cracks

beneath their greedy feet,

sweating oil, with greasy smiles?

Who waits at the finish line

to hand out the winning purse

filled with drug, guns and oil cash

at the end of their long dash,

during a race where Earth 

is pounded into submission, or worse.

Breathless audiences watch 

the entertaining game.

Some bet, some cheer, and many cry.

The race to unknown riches takes power and control, 

enough to make one frown and sigh.

But such a race is meaningless

and getting very, very old.

Earth cares not who wins such a prize.

Earth overtakes all racers

who race against her clean skies.

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LOVING HEARTS

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A heart cannot break

when it has been given away

and held in another’s embrace,

by layers so deep, love so strong

it finds the place where it belongs

The heart can neither crack nor flake

held safely against the heart of the other,

strengthened and treasured

by steel bands and grateful hands

that strengthen not only the bond

but the heart itself.

With each giving the heart grows stronger,

fearful  and doubtful no longer,

until nothing exists

which could tear it apart.

There is nothing so strong 

as a loving heart.

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