THE OTHER DAWN

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There are two dawns.

The first is the illusion of light

the hovers just out of sight

below the horizon,

then seeps across the windowsill

just below the shades that are drawn

against the fearful dark of night.

This dawn is mere reflection

of a sun not yet arisen.

It fools a few to rise before time

and spend their first awakened breath

on false confusion.

The second dawn comes so fast

as sun above the earth does blast

light so fierce, so bright, so new

a second awakening begins anew.

Finally, the day has come on a run

beyond past horizons from dark despair

to fill our days with the light to see

a new day, a new way, a new clarity

where thoughts can follow truth more easily.

The sun is rising and darkness is gone

as patiently we wait for night to move on

and hide once again below the horizon.

This is the only the beginning of a new day.

We eagerly wait to see what it will bring;

what discoveries await newly opened eyes,

and which new vision will make hearts sing

as night fades from sight.

Then we can dance free from fear 

in dawn’s early light

to anthems songbirds only sing

once daylight has suffused 

every blade of grass and bead of water,

and we are no longer so confused.

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9/11 AND EVERY DAY SINCE

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The morning ritual:

awaken, straighten

bed and self.

Turn on television.

Wash and dress.

Newsroom halts

to update news.

So, I stop to attend

feeling threatened

by what no one yet knows.

As newscasters speak 

of smoking North Tower one.

They surmise a small plane

has hit the high-rise. 

I know that cannot be true

with so much fire so fast.

There must be more fuel

than a small plane can carry.

And then, I see off to the side

a commercial jet in the view

of cameras set on the North Tower, one.

No commercial plane is allowed

on a flight path that veers

as this plane does to South Tower, two.

I watch the hit and feel the fear

wrapped in grief for what

I am about to see and hear.

Communication starts and stalls

among first responders to the call, 

using analog instead of the new

radios for the crews.

Heroes rush in to certain death

to save those they can.

I cannot write of what I saw,

horrific images still so raw

they would gut me and cut me in two.

I ran with the people in the street

as I stood before my T.V.

I climbed the stairs with rescue crews

as I stood before my T.V.

I cried with the families searching lists,

posting photos on fences, falling to knees

as I stood before my T.V.

The silence of cleared skies across the country

allowed me to hear the beeps 

of equipment buried deep

with those killed and waiting to be found.

I can hear them still.

I still before the sound.

Two towers fell that day

along with the truth

that foreign affairs decisions kill 

not just soldiers but civilians, too. 

That asbestos kills;

that air quality played its part

to destroy even more lives 

of those who worked as civil servants do

to clean up the messes our decisions make.

And  to take the fall 

along with  buildings that once stood tall.

Civil servants still stand tall for me

despite the crass thinking and perfidy

of the greedy few who withhold

what is needed and refuse taxes 

fairly placed to create a world

free and safe for every member of humanity.

we rebuilt buildings; memorials, too.

Rebuilding that free and safe world?

Awaken and straighten. Always, stay tuned.

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A POET’S VIEW

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Paper of every color and hue

unrolls from thousands of inner tubes

that I might write upon a page;

so bright, it dims the sight

and opens the mind to such delight

in cerulean, amaranth, celadon,

garnet, crimson, vermillion

violet, tangerine, ecru and Eton-blue;

colors I can taste and feel

as they unroll reel by reel

so real they dance and sing and swell

until the pen dips in the well.

I wrap each page around each cell

and feel the energy seep through

blood and bone and sinew

into every soft tissue

that pulses with breath 

and laughter and tears,

and beats with heart-felt truth

so hard and fast it hardly knows

what words spill out upon the page,

which black marks ink signs

to tell me the way

while you can see and understand

before I can even comprehend

that a poem has unfurled from tubes

not of cardboard but of gold.

Writing is the treasure of stories untold

and waiting to be wrapped

then given as gifts as colors unfold.

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EMPTY SPACES

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We wait each day in a small open space

in another-wise closed mind of sameness

for some thing, some new thing, to come our way.

We go out to get the mail in anticipation,

awakened to an heightened expectation,

to what we might find inside the box and us.

What do we hope to find ?

Bills come due for past behavior good or bad.

Notice of unexpected wealth from contest

without real competition promising a future

which holds no need to become more than what we are.

A card of remembrance of some event we attended

far away and long ago, with those not seen since.

Best of all, a letter from a beloved friend or lover

noticing we are here and waiting to resume

where intimate communication left off awhile ago.

An appointment scheduled for the future

to enliven days ahead with something new to anticipate.

What happens when mail or life suspends delivery ?

when that small space stays empty too long

does it wither and die? Shrivel to nothingness ?

Does our sense of discovery also suspend

or does the small space expand end-on-end

until it fills an eternity of space beyond

what we can comprehend in that small space?

Is sameness day-after-day a curse or way to mend

a closed mind, and open it even greater grace

with even greater possibilities?

Time to go get the mail and fill every space

of every day, of every year with everyone

and everything I can, end-upon-end of right now.

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COMPANION POEMS

POET’S LAMENT

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I do not wish to get stuck

in the MAGA yuck and muck.

I wonder if those Germans

who watched fascism unfold

believed the stories they were told

by their brownshirt supported bully;

as the MAGA-hatted crowds

 who cheer our own

American grown version

of violent political rhetoric

mant to intimidate and eradicate

those whose power they fear,

and propelled by a sense 

of victimhood raised to an art

they plot and plan and strive

to drive Americans apart. 

A nation may not survive at all. 

Or, if it can survive it may not be intact.

And freedom may be forestalled

until the danger stops casting its pall

on its very survival.

So, instead of love and flowers,

sunny skies and dreamy hours

I write of dangers big and small.

I write of questions which call

for prompt response.

I note with dismay the loss of time to play.

I wish for earlier days

when citizens felt a duty to stand and say

democracy is under threat this day.

DREAMS OF HYPOCRISY

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The dream stayed with me through the night.

Over and over the image repeated despite

frequent awakenings disturbed by the sight

of four babies with open staples in their eyes.

No matter other images crossing left to right

in dreams arranging matters as they might,

allowing mind to gain much-needed insight.

Those babies needed someone to make right

harms foreseen if removal was not done right.

I struggled with ideas of how to help all night.

Finally, firmly grip with tiny tools and pull tight

became the answer as I awoke at first daylight.

Then a new thought occurred and set truth alight,

“…first, remove the beam out of thine own eye.”

But, then a new thought came to light.

The staples were open to grab whatever came in sight

and make it their own view, with new and greater insight.

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UNVEILING PRESIDENTIAL PORTRAITS

First Lady Michelle and President Barack Obama

The unveiling of a president’s 

and first lady’s presidential portraits 

reveals far more than images of those 

well-respected and well-loved.

The Obamas had to wait for the obstructionist

to lose his election to be invited 

to unveil their honor in Biden’s midst.

Why the former president shunned

his predecessor is no secret.

His racism is well known and well-perfected.

From birther lies to insurrection,

with white supremacist protection,

his lies provide the cover for

the racism of so many others.

Ask not why he never invited

Barack and Michelle;

Ask why he lies about them

and why his tales wear so well.

As for me I celebrate today

when presidential acts take stage

in historical context for the age.

Rejoice and celebrate.

The curtains have been drawn back

to reveal the truth once more.

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CANNON SHOT HEARD ROUND THE WORLD

By the bar before the court

Judge Cannon took her first shot

before claims were even laid.

“ I am inclined to rule” she said.

Judge Cannon pushed aside

stare decisis and professional pride.

With MAGA rule by her side

the law was simply set aside

to push one man above the rule of law,

in a decision destructive and flawed.

How many must die before we see

the damage she has done to democracy,

as the Spirit that kept our nation free

is trampled by Judge Cannon’s perfidy.

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GRIEF LINES

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Grief lines drawn on the face 

by makeup artists focused

on the performance 

about to begin,

and by newscasters focused

on upcoming election days.

We are all waiting for

the next series in the show

to begin, hoping for 

some sense of normality

or at least civility.

Futile hopes of a naive audience.

The actors know the full story

most of the time.

This time, even the actors

are in the dark and the stark

script writ long ago

has never been fully released.

We are left waiting for the text,

for the action on the screen,

for the performance on the stage

set up to demand allegiance

to characters unworthy

of our attention or our votes.

Many have left the theater.

Many stay glued in their seats

afraid to leve untended

those about to be misinformed,

undermined by underhanded

writers of fascist scripts

meant to remove the final

obstacles to final call

for insurrection and destruction

of America.

I need no grief lines drawn

on my brow.

They are placed there by the tears

I shed as the rule of law is replaced

by MAGA judges put in place

by Republican scriptwriters

to disgrace a constitution fully drawn

and now being dismantled

one case at a time.

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HAIKU

careless, careful me

brittle as peanut candy

trying to stay sweet.

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LABOR DAY 2022

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My earliest memory of Labor Day was being lifted by my father from the stroller and placed on his shoulders. I remember feeling I might fall back and my mother’s hand holding me in place while she warned my Dad, “Be careful, honey.” Dad still had on his apron. He left work with his wife and children to watch the parade striding past his restaurant. I have no idea if the doors to the restaurant were left open. My guess is, knowing how the family business functioned, some uncle stayed inside to keep company with those already sitting at the bar this early in the morning. We never missed a parade.

Labor was honored in this Ohio factory town surrounded by farms. The parade was huge. The parade started a block away from the restaurant so we watched the parade walkers gather and assemble, the floats line up, the horses struggle against the urge to run, held pacing in place by their riders. We kids rejoiced in the front row view with insight into parade warm-up.

Every workplace, it seemed, had a float and/or groups of walkers. Factory workers carried their union flags and smiled as they passed out candy to the kids. Flags were in  abundance. Everyone in town participated in some way. Boy scouts and bands, dance and gymnastics academies, florists and glass blowers…farm equipment, police cruisers and fire trucks…politicians in cars, their wives and children smiling and waving. 

The parade queen was slightly less popular than the military and VFW contingent led by soldier, sailor, airman and marine cadres, followed by equipment from the local National Guard Armory. The soldier most vivid in my post-World War Two memory wore an unusual uniform. Dad explained he was one of the last living Civil War Union Army survivors. I shall never forget that man, ancient and proud of his service to country. He was bigger and better than the tanks, to me.

When I was about four or five years old I was considered old enough to sit on my dance school float. We were placed between two high school bands. It was deafening, if jaunty. I always got nosebleeds in the hot sun. Thus, I held a handful of increasingly bloody tissues in my hands; so, I could not wave at the crowd, nor wave away my humiliation. That never stopped me from climbing aboard the float. I simply learned humiliation should never get in the way of trying something new, and being part of the community. The ability to embrace humiliation cannot be underestimated. It has gotten me through every stage of life.

Farmers and factory workers lived and worked together in my small town. On Saturday afternoons farmers’ trucks and factory workers’ trucks were parked side by side on the town square while their wives shopped, kids sat on benches eating ice cream, and the men stopped into my dad’s restaurant for a quick drink. Later their families would join them for dinner there. Many of the farmers also worked in the factories, the unions protecting them both. A strong middle class grew in strength recognized by politicians as crucial to the country’s national defense. Post-war workers and politicians valued the middle class and encouraged its growth.

As I left for college the town was changing. A conglomerate was formed to shut down and take over local dairies, United Dairy Farmers was not a union protecting dairy farmers. It started the downward slide of strong family farms, substituting investor controlled farming which has usurped most of American farm production despite the current interest in “farm to table”. for centuries Farm to Table was firmly in place; until, investors saw a way to make money off the labor of farmers. Factories eliminated Research and Development divisions, relying on the easy gain to pay investors profits rather, than plowing profits into future gains which would ensure job growth and livable wages. Workers and farmers became serfs to investors. Today, even doctors and hospitals have become serfs. Wall Street investors now control their schedules, their workplace conditions, their decisions while practicing medicine. 

To make such a return to serfdom succeed unions had to be undermined and destroyed. After a short time, the parades ceased. Celebration of serfs’ labor made no sense. Companies which no longer invested in future growth and sound wages certainly would not invest in parade floats. Undermining union strength and avoiding the growing recognition that regulation of pollutants, safety for workers, and labor rights was accomplished by moving factories overseas. Acres and acres became ghost towns where workers mourned lost jobs. 

Brown fields blocked recommissioning the use of these acres to other uses. The costs to small towns was monumental. Politicians no longer valued workers but investors. Labor day lost it meaning. It simply became another day to sell hot dogs and potato salad, and lawn tents for family picnics, to those underemployed or out of work; cheap food for those no longer receiving a living wage. 

There is a resurrection going on. Over a million Americans have died in the Covid pandemic. The ongoing endemic and threat of more pandemics to come with global climate change disclosed a reduced work force. The broken immigration system, refusal to acknowledge existing refugee laws, and racial prejudice have further reduced our workforce. Supply chain issues have exposed the flaws in sending production of goods overseas, only to get stuck and threaten economic growth. 

These insights are giving rise to re-unionization of the American workforce. Our young workers have had it with wages so low they must have two to three jobs, cannot afford training or retraining to higher paying jobs, and must live in their parents’ basements. Workers refuse to remain serfs, working for Wall Street instead of Main Street. Workers have reason to hope this Labor Day. I only hope the parades can resume someday before I am gone. I eagerly await an epic Labor Day Parade as wonderful as those I attended as a child. It would mean labor is once again recognized and properly valued. I wish the same for workers everywhere. Higher wages, more parades. Workers unite!

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