Tag Archives: bullies

NO RETREAT

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My country is not being stolen.

It is being sold to the highest bidder.

Wealth and power

are the voices of the hour.

Not unexpected 

in a consumerism frenzy

fueled by media and investors.

Capitalism has its own axes to grind.

Now, it seems to grind down me and mine.

Turning to fascism is an easy turn of face

for a people untroubled by greed and hate;

for a nation  built on slavery and Jim Crow,

and denial of women’s rights to earn and grow

at the same pace, with the same grace,

all men seem entitled to know.

Religion once again is used to shame

and disgrace anyone unwilling

to bend the knee to fake gods

and destroy all faith

in a democratic republic of equals

with equal rights to remain free

of religious bigotry.

This is an old story, one we left behind

to build a new nation inspired by the divine

rights of all men and women to be free.

Now thugs are granted bounties

to place their heels on our necks.

Military mission which once defended

is now on our own streets, its purpose up-ended.

Wealth and power which once plundered

third world nations for fossil fuel and cash

now plunders our economy and middle class.

Science  once built a solid foundation

for a healthy, productive nation.

All our scientists built is now being turned to ash.

Massive turnouts in the streets.

Massive turnout at polls complete

our voices shouting, “ no retreat! ”

“No retreat! No retreat!”

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Filed under POETRY, POLITICS

MAKE THE BULLIES FLY

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In my childhood neighborhood

the most frequent phrase in use was this:

“Pick on someone your own size.”

Bullies ruled the playground

at the public elementary school around

the corner from our house

Munching through gardens 

along our alleyways, 

grapes the finest prize;

trees along the river inviting us to climb,

the railroad tracks we ran beside

to catch a three block ride 

to the railway station nearby

required forethought and planning

to avoid chiding voices and threats

to make us fly back home,

imprisoned in a tiny yard.

But, I refused to run and hide.

My mouth became a weapon

to make up for my small size.

I had such foolish pride.

I could outrun nearly everyone.

I had feet that could fly

beyond the reach of baseball bats,

grasping arms and kicks gone wide.

But, projectiles I had not foreseen

the day I took my toddler brother

to swing on swings. I pushed him, oh so high.

The rocks hit us both as I held him close

and sheltered his tiny body with my own.

Then, I flew at the bullies as they laughed

and pushed them to the ground.

“Pick on someone your own size!

have you no honor nor pride?”

They stopped, then shrugged,

went on their way, no laughter, just a sigh.

That was the last day they picked on me.

A glare alone was all I needed

to put them in their place and keep them there,

forcing them to snivel, drop their eyes, and hide.

Whenever they saw me coming

it was they who would fly.

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Filed under FAMILY STORIES, POETRY

SELF-CUTTING

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It appears my country is bleeding out

from wounds cut both shallow and deep.

Blood flows from old wounds reopened.

Those hurt the worst, do not doubt.

We see patterns of hate where cuts scar.

MAGA rubs the body politic until it burns.

It wears long sleeves to clothe and hide

the wounds of Project 2025.

Our collective guilt has finally won out.

Cutters inhabit the White House

screaming fake rage and fake news

that makes great TV 

but leaves the world crying to see

the death of a once-great democracy.

Stop the bleeding we beg and plead.

Staunch the flow, lower those hands

cutting so eagerly 

to destroy the place we once felt safe,

if not perfectly, at least happily, free.

Cutters cannot stop themselves.

It is up to you and me.

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Filed under POETRY, POLITICS

IF ONLY

If only I were a bird

Fluffing feathers to increase my girth

And insulate my true worth

Staying warm this way instead,

Despite the bitter cold and dread.

But I am no bird. I am but a girl

Old enough to know better

On such bitterly cold days,

Watching my freedoms iced over,

Under Nazi salutes

And executive dis-orders.

Instead of fluffing feathers

I reach for carbs to increase warmth

And fill a need birds too feel

When cold grips the air we breathe

And hot words blow smokily

To cover the lies and foolery

Meant to limit our ability to fly.

We have a lot in common, the birds and I.

We are both on endangered species lists,

Fearing our days of flying free are numbered.

We both try to increase in size

That we may create warmth and strength inside,

And fool bullies not so wise,

Who would block our way

On freedom’s journey to better days.

If I were a bird, could I simply fly away?

Instead, I wait and fuel my body.

I wait in trust for better days.

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SPEAKING CREATION

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What is now does not have to be.

Speaking up is an act of creation

in this a darkening and frightening nation.

Speaking out is creativity as life may be.

In this way we are always free

to see the world much differently

than when we are told to bend our knee.

It need never be what others see.

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We can create our own reality.

The act of creation is the greatest act of love,

overcoming destruction from above.

Speaking out lifts not only voices;

but lifts unlimited possibilities and choices.

Those who try to close the gates

and scare us with threats of hate

to block us in and push us down

cannot handle creativity’s frown

upended when we discover

that we can create a world of lovers.

Speak up. Speak out. Speak so loud

creators join and form a crowd

that laughs in the face of hate and greed

and creates a new and loving creed.

Speaking out is an act of creation.

Speaking out will form a new nation

conceived in liberty

and dedicated to the proposition

that no one can force us to take their position.

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DOES LIFE COMPUTE?

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If only life were like a computer program.

I could simply delete the lies and deceit.

I could simply retrieve what I believe.

I could simply edit out every lout

and paste heroes to replace their disgrace.

I could share and button-down my despair.

I could control, alt, delete rancor and heat.

I could scroll down and out all who troll.

I could shift and place higher with a lift

all those deserving of such a gift.

I could highlight in bold those deserving the gold.

I could edit and replace every con-man and scrape-grace.

I could, if I would, but maybe should

not waste the time to forward and rewind

podcasts littering my mind.

But, I am human and neither prophet nor divine.

I am not even A I; just a person line by line

writing to face another day with distaste

for climate and wars showing such force

that destruction follows men’s course

and hope flows down mountains and wipes out

any doubt that my redoubt will succeed.

Too many lies run down from dark skies.

Too many clouds hide arms opened wide

to future peace and prosperity faced with asperity

while storm-trooper rise to bait and debate democracy’s demise.

Their faces bathed in hate’s light meant to cause fright

across every screen invade my dreams.

I cannot hit delete while I sleep fearing defeat.

If only life were like a computer those disputers

who lie line after line, could be sent to my trash.

If only, we could do that without a backlash.

We prepare protection against another insurrection.

We update our program to withstand hack attack.

Maybe life waits in accord for my touch on its board.

Maybe life does compute and refute every dispute.

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SWEET LITTLE OLD LADIES

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This is the face of white supremacy,

the sweet little old lady

who lives down the street from me.

She praises the Walz-Harris and 

Sherrod brown signs in my yard.

She gleefully says they make her happy.

I offer the extra signs I have to put in her yard.

She gracefully declines, “my family

would make it hard on me.

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“So, your family bullies you,” I reply.

Taken aback I watch her smile fade.

“Yes,” she says,” I suppose that’s true.”

“It is just that Black people are so…”

her hands in the air waving away thought…

“They want to take over the country, but ought not.”

“Do you hear what some white people shout,

about taking over government to have their way?

Do you fear them taking over the country?” I say.

A look of confusion crosses her face.

I ask if she thinks every white or Black person

is the same, and if blanket descriptions are really O.K.

This sweet little face now looks away.

Then turns with a frown and admits it’s unfair.

I have family who are MAGA, too, I explain.

If they do not like my signs I simply reply

that they should put out their own signs

and take responsibility for their incivility.

She tells me she is really afraid,

for once glad to be old with death on its way.

I remind her of all dangers she has faced.

I smile and encourage her to take her place

among our past heroes who gave voice to renew

the promise of America for me and for you.

I promise her she is stronger than even she knows,

that together we are strong enough to fight any foe.

I remind her everyone fears what the future portends

She nods and she smiles but her eyes tell a different story

She yearns for the time when being white

meant she could claim control and full glory.

I am an old white lady, but have never been sweet.

Being real is neither pretty nor neat.

I handle truth in its complexity,

dirtying my hands and feet

placing signs in my yard,

refusing to give in to hate and racism.

Ugly truth-teller is my only “ism”.

Silence is complicity.

Fear and hate do not deserve pity.

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TEAR DOWN THE WALLS

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Let me tell you. Being a woman who is fully human is not a given. It is always a hard-won position. Too many dismiss women as not fully human. Women and their ideas are called “empty-headed.” Women are called “weak-willed.” Women are called “frail.” Men are are not thought to brainless or empty-headed. Men are not thought to lack willpower. Men are not expected to be weak. There are stronger and more respectful words for men. I am all for respecting men. I only ask for the same in return. I do not always get that respect. Even if I had remained in my hometown, married a “nice Italian-Catholic boy” which was my parents’ most fervent hope, I would not have been able to avoid such disrespect. But, I might have had a man to come to my defense. More likely, not. Men know how to avoid a fight. Their lives depend on reconciliation to  bullies. Male aggression can be a fierce and unpredictable experience; especially, by men with gangs behind them. 

Bullies come in all guises. They are not just “street toughs” with cigarette packs stored in the rolled-up sleeves of their tee shirts, tatooed sleeves exposed in warning messages as in my childhood neighborhood. Boys and girls both learned to give them a wide berth. Bullies also exist in board rooms, school rooms, and court rooms.

I did not stay and be a well-behaved little girl all my life. I became a lawyer. I entered courtrooms where early-on I was usually the only woman to make an appearance on a client’s behalf that day. Maya Wiley, spoke of her experience as a lawyer yesterday, in an appearance on MSNBC. Ms. Wiley carries two strikes against her. She is not only female; but, like former Prosecutor and Attorney General of California Kamala Harris, she is  a woman of color. She is Black. She lives in a world where the unspoken message is, “If you are Black, step back.” This is the silent message in the brain of too many Americans. I am a white woman. Yet, I find some empathy in our positions as a female.

Ms. Wiley mentioned episodes in her practice of law as a federal district attorney which matched my own experience. The judge, despite her presence at the Justice department table ready to plead her case, pretended not to know she was an attorney. The judge dismissed her entire identity in that moment. He cut her. She bled. She still bleeds.

On several occasions early in my career I made an appearance on behalf of a client. I sat with other attorneys, all men, in the courtroom waiting for my case to be called. It was called and I approached the Bench. “Good morning, your Honor, I am Louise Annarino, an attorney with the Legal Aid Society. This is my client…the plaintiff in the case before you today.” Standard introduction. Not a standard response from the judge, however. Instead he said with a smirk toward my opposing counsel, a man, “Young lady, you cannot just waltz in here without a lawyer. Come back after you get one. Next!” 

Holding back my anger at his attempt to shame and dismiss me…and my female client…from “his” courtroom, I answer, “ Your Honor, I am an attorney. I am representing this woman who is my client. Let me repeat for you that I am a lawyer from the Legal Aid Society.” He responded,

“And, I told you you must be a lawyer to represent this client.” By this time my client leaned in and whispered to me, “I thought you were a lawyer!” I could barely hear her over the laughter of the male attorneys seated behind me awaiting their cases to be called. The judge laughed with them. I did not. I said, “Perhaps you are not listening to me, or are hard of hearing. I shall give you the befit of the doubt.” I am a licensed attorney in the state of Ohio and I am not going anywhere.” He heard my case. My client had her successful day in court. We both bled that day.

I returned to the office and told my colleagues what had happened. A woman attorney said, “Oh my, I forgot to warn you, we women always carry our license with us and lay them on the bench before we start.” I took my license off the wall and put it into my briefcase. I wish I could say that was the only episode, but it was not. Not every judge, nor every attorney cut me. But, I still bled. I bleed writing this account. All women bleed. We have become experts at stanching the flow. Right now, you are thinking of jokes about our menses ever month. Stop it! Those bleeds bring new life into the world. We honor those bleeds. We do not honor the dishonor of men cutting us down to size where we can be ignored as not fully human, not fully equal; cut and bled.

Kamala Harris was interviewed my Mika Byrezezinski at a Know Your Value Conference in San Francisco describing what it was like to face barriers of discrimination and break down walls. She said, “‘When you break things, it is painful. You get cut, and you bleed, and it will be worth it — But be very clear. It will be and can be a very painful process.’ Kamala Harris knows this. Maya Wiley knows this. I know this. Every woman who breaks down barriers knows this. Women break down barriers every day…int their homes, at their businesses, in boardrooms, in school rooms; and yes, in courtrooms. They break down barriers in friendship relationships, in love relationships,  in business relationships. We still do not have an ERA (Equal Rights Amendment). Why do men need barriers from women? We love them. We respect them. We honor them. It is time for them to do the same. And to those women, too afraid to break down such barriers, we get it.  We know the position you are in. We bleed for you, too.

We say to all people, as Reagan said to Khrushev, “Tear down this wall” so that none of us need bleed ever again. Vote for Kamala Harris in November. We need each other. We need each other healthy, whole and safe.

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USE YOUR WORDS

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How often we tell children

“Use your words.”

But, we forget too easily

that words have power

only if they are heard, 

and not dismissed breezily.

Men decided long ago

not to listen to women.

So many lies are told

to quiet women’s voices.

Eve has never been forgiven

for opening men’s eyes 

to painful truths.

Women’s voices are not more shrill.

Women’s screams are not made

to give men their thrills.

Women’s truths are too often

pushed aside to save male pride.

Doors are slammed shut

against voices women can trust.

“Use your words?”

How soon we forget.

Pain is the great motivator

of forgetfulness.

It deadens speech.

It silences words.

Bullies remind us of our pain

to shut our mouths

and drown truth out.

“Use your words!”

Do not forget their power

in the kitchen, in the bedroom,

in the schoolroom, in the boardroom.

“Use your words,” minute by minute,

hour after hour, until the day comes

you  can vote your own power

to “use your words.”

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Filed under POETRY

WRITING ON THE WALL

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The swastika was painted on the outside gym wall.

Underneath the words

“Die, fish eaters, die.”

Anti-semitism is broad

and crosses lines

in so many ways.

Victims are sought among Jews,

Catholics, and Romany, too.

No one is excused

from the hate and need to show

that the hater is bigger, stronger,

in control of a world

they feel is out-of-control.

Seeing hate painted on my school

was frightening to see but not the end

of the feelings inside, the birth of my pride.

Cowards in the night sent me such fright.

Unleashing their hate, leashed my own.

There is no place for hate 

in my world, nor yours.

Cowards and bullies never win.

They always over-extend.

Hate destroys them from the inside, not out.

Love builds up inside their victims, then out

it flows to every other sister and brother.

What do I know?

What do I fear?

Not a swastika, nor white hood.

I fear those who refuse to do good;

who remain silent and unmoving

in the face of a racism, sexism,

anti-semitism and hate speech;

who laugh at jokes meant to harm and disarm;

who refuse to recognize the alarm

screaming in protest and marching along

streets paved with prejudice and fear.

Who see the writing on the wall

and walk away to gated communities

and streets paved with gold.

They allow the old stories to take hold.

I walk the streets where the injured gather

amid the brave souls who know what matters,

and protect those under attack.

The brave who insist we take truth and love back.

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