BABY BOOMERS, BOOM!

Don’t forsake the power of Baby Boomers.

Many of us are Late Bloomers.

A few of us marched and demonstrated

for Civil Rights, and anti-war.

Post-war babies, we may be 

the fiercest fighters for Democracy.

And yet, too many of us are immature

in understanding the force 

needed to correct a nation’s course.

This is not the time to play and pretend,

a babes are wont to do,

that Democray can never end.

No, being a baby will not do. 

We need to bellow and we need to boom.

Our strength is waning it is true.
We can no longer do what we could before.

The strength in arms and legs wanes.

The strength in minds and hearts remains.

And, our voices raised together are strong

enough sing freedom’s song.

Baby Boomers, sing out loud, sing out strong.

Our fathers soldiered on across the seas.

We must soldier on at home to defend Democracy.

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MORNING BREW WITH GRATITUDE

I stir the cup of coffee at hand,

its green beans browned then steeped

in water boiled until its heat  released

the scent and taste of Nature’s plan

enacted on hillsides in far-away lands.

How many hands labored unfavored

to tend the plants grown to full height?

How many hands delivered my day from dark night?

I sip and I savor their tender labor’s delight.

With a wink and a nod I applaud such dear friends

I shall never meet except through the comfort they send

in each sip, and the warmth of the cup in my hands.

I raise up my cup and salute with this love letter

those who make mornings so much better.

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DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE!

“Don’t make me come in there”, Dad shouted

from the kitchen, cozy and warm,

while all hell broke loose in the living room

from mischievous children whose game had turned

dangerous and destructive. 

Their shouts and grunts warned

as tables overturned and the sound of breakage

stridently and crazily alarmed 

Dad and Mom, and the children themselves.

“He started it!”, we inevitably yelled back.

“Then he better stop it right now. 

You have five minutes to restore

anything out of place, no more,

before I come in there and settle the score.”

So we did. So it was. 

Our childish game turned deadly war ended.

Dad was our Security Council.

We were expected to be a United Nation,

a family which agreed to treat one another with civility.

If we could not act with dignity, Dad came to assure

that we did. We did not decide our world order

on our own. We had no power to block Dad’s

insistence we act right and avoid discord.

Is it time for Dad to go into the kids’ room?

Is it time for Dad to go into Ukraine?

No reason to let the war continue on for years

while blood drains from sons and daughters

upon Ukrainian soil; where cities fall desolate

as buildings fall like overturned tables

and the house seems ready to fall apart,

and a family is left , bereft in tears.

Dad knew that children who cannot contain themselves

must be stopped in their destructive ways

before they harm the harmony of a united family

and destroy the entire house and all within, then spill out.

Is it time for Dad to go into the room?

Is it time for Dad to go into Ukraine?

My Dad would say, “Your five minutes are up.

I am coming in there!”

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GOOSE WALK

Walking with the geese each day

affords a few moments to play.

Strolling along the nearby ponds,

thoughts open my mind as they may.

The gaggle has broken apart

as lovers seek their true heart.

Two-by-two they pair readily.

Even geese know courting requires privacy.

Across the pond they sail,

their wake leaving a lovers’ trail

on their way to domesticity.

Soon goslings will follow

where gander allows.

Later, though flight wings have grown

young geese are not on their own.

The gaggle regroups and once it has flown.

I shall walk the pond all alone.

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HAIKU

Playground turf or nation

must always be defended.

Best always to win.

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HOPE STREET

Where does hope begin or end?

Hope is not a one-way street, I know.

Hope folds back upon itself and those

who travel its streets come and go.

Hope gets caught up in the dark fold

and holds its breath until the street unfolds

where freedom lights and warms the soul

and breath can find its rhythm again.

Wins and losses racing down these streets

means little on this stretch where war has taken hold.

the streets of Harkiv, Cherniv, Chernobyl,

Kyiv, Lviv, and Mariupol and the many towns

and villages along the way show us hope 

passed this way on its way to war and back again.

Bodies lying twisted on Ukrainian streets

executed and abandoned show hope passed through

on its way to our own streets, to our own end.

Hope folds back again and again and again

until our streets meet Ukrainian streets,

util our humanity meets in the streets everywhere,

until we discover all streets meet end-to-end.

Our hopes fold and unfold together on the road

to war and peace, to evil or good, to hatred or love.

Where does hope begin or end?

With each of us.

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NEGOTIATION

Eyes in the back of the head.

Negotiations with liars.

False flags of intent.

Time ill spent?

Honor builds trust.

Honor’s cup was emptied.

Not so long ago we forget.

Chechnya, Syria,Georgia

Ukraine.

Fill the cup with honor first ,

Else we drink 

from a poisoned cup.

Do not wait, nor hesitate

to defend against war

delayed not ended.

Eyes wide open.

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SIGHT UNSEEN

Meaning hides behind the curtain of words

strung on steel spines laid across windows

open to the view of curiosity seekers

walking the borders of meadows

where secrets are held in shallow graves.

I watch their progress across the land

mined with traps of grammar and rhyme,

their trampling feet raising dust to obscure

whatever truths they might find

should their path be more certain, more sure.

Discoveries are few and far between.

They wander and look everywhere but 

where the treasures lie sight unseen.

Makes me wonder why poets write,

what they expect others to glean

from meaning hidden in plain site.

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POETS

A spirit guards this space

placing a soft touch on the hand

which holds the pen

disclosing its presence

where ink marks the page

in a language known

if not understood

except by poets.

The poet is the reader of

Spirit’s words, not the writer.

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LOVING HARD

Today is my Mother’s birthday. If she had lived beyond the age of 70 she would be 98 years old today. She could not survive lung cancer. she is no longer walking the earth but she yet lives in the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved her, who still love her. 

Angela Abbruzzi (Abbruzzese)Annarino was not always easy to love. She was, after all, a mother of four children, equally difficult to love. Love is not easy. Love is demanding…when done right. Mom did it right. 

She never lost sight of her own humanity and ours. She demanded we become the best we could be, no matter the cost to our pride and dignity. She would often discipline us openly before guests, bystanders, family and friends. When this was thrown in her face by her recalcitrant daughter she would reply, “ I don’t care if the president of the United States or Jesus Himself were standing here while I discipline you. You will be behave yourself.” Dad, if he were around would remind us “ everyone puts his pants on one leg at a time.” My parents did not disrespect those “above” us. They just did not believe anyone was more important than anyone else. Whatever the audience, our behavior was openly challenged; our failures disclosed.

They loved us so hard. They made it hard not to be our best. We often failed Mom’s expectations. We never lost her love. What a great lesson she taught us. Be direct. Be truthful. Be real. Be transparent. Try hard. Get up after you fail. Try again. You are loved. Keep trying.You are no better than anyone else. Nor is anyone else better than you. Keep trying no matter who is watching. No matter what vulnerability anyone else sees in you. No matter what anyone else thinks of you. Keep trying. The only way we could fail was to not try. 

Loving hard builds strong children. High expectations builds confidence in the realistically foreseeable, and repeatedly expected, failures of childhood. Mom’s expectations never lessened, so we had to keep trying. I am so very grateful to my Mother for demanding so much from us. She also taught me to demand more from others. To expect the best from others. To acknowledge their humanity, “warts and all”, while loving them and supporting them to be the best they could be. And, to never expect more of anyone else than I expected of myself. She taught me to love hard.

Happy Birthday, Mom. Grazie! I love you, “warts and all”.

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