Tag Archives: campaigns

MAGA CIRCUS

MAGA CIRCUS

The clown leads the circus parade

Following the elephant ahead,

Carrying shovels to clean up the way,

And invite us under the tent.

The clown interrupts each display

Of circus performers’ great feats.

The clown make us laugh to distraction

And keeps us in our seats.

The clown is what we best recall,

For memories are short.

We may not remember what we see.

But, we remember how hard we laughed.

The circus is not a school to teach.

The circus is a business to empty our pockets

Until it once more moves on.

The circus is not a church where we pray.

But a place we feel it is okay to play.

When the tent stakes are pulled and the circus train pulls away

All that remains is an empty field

Trod into mud on rainy days.

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STORMY NIGHT

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

STORMY NIGHT

Scattered rain was predicted.

The evening news meteorologist

calmly warned of light rain.

Instead, a wild storm came

filling the night with thunder

and meaningless blunder

as lightening broke asunder

a peaceful, if not restful, sleep.

Too wild a storm to venture out in.

A storm to set us back and shut blinds

to keep from seeing or fearing ruin.

This storm rapidly blew in 

while most of us slept.

At sunrise, when I rose, I looked outside,

finally, and see the truth.

It is not what I was told, nor surmised.

The yard is battered.

its inhabitants scattered in burrows;

the garden littered and furrowed

by limbs  dragged and cuffed.

The flag hangs upside down

until it touches the ground

in sacrilege and shame.

The flag holder has been pulled loose,

its screws unscrewed, its anchor

pulled apart and left hanging in dark space

through a night of constant turmoil,

leaving my flag drenched and soiled.

In morning light I could finally see

the upending of  democracy,

right on my front porch

where everyone could if they would

easily see. No neighbor reported

nor interceded to fix a flag so distorted.

But, false solar lights alone

across the yard ways shone,

too low-light to assess 

a flag under duress.

In morning light, in my nightgown I alight

to pull my flag up and close.

I place it upright to stand tall,

allowing the tears soaking it to fall,

that it may slowly dry out with the sky;

held by a newly installed holder,

one stronger and bolder.

I promise you this: the flag, my flag,

will soon again fly safe and free.

As will all of our beloved country.

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HEAVEN ON EARTH

Photo by James Frid on Pexels.com

I have no knowledge of Heaven.

I have never been there,

except in dreams.

One thing I do know.

It must be a place where I

am surrounded by goodness,

fairness, compassion

and loving kindness

all of the time.

Heaven is the type of space

where hate has no place.

The sign in my yard

declares it to be so.

But, as we all know,

My selfish concerns sometimes show.

Creating a heaven on earth

may be an impossibility

because of my fragility

and lack of humility.

My human state has a dearth

of courageous purity.

Yet, still, I shall try to create

Heaven on Earth 

as a constant state.

The lack of goodness surrounds me

all too often these cruelty-laden days.

Kindness is the only way to delay

the triumph of evil over good.

I ask all those in my neighborhood

to join my effort, feeble though it be.

Any small kindness is stronger than cruelty.

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THE AGE OF HUMANS

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

I have lived through the  Stone Age, the Bronze Age, 

the Iron Age, the Middle Age, the Industrial Age,

the Space Age, the Communication Age.

I am human, so it seems, 

and able to look back as well as forward; 

a mere mammal trying 

to become part of that thing 

we like to call humanity.

How do we know who we are

when we do not know the neighbor next door?

How much effort does it take to explore

each member of a community?

We do not even truly know our family.

Strangers pose a serious threat

that we have not learned to handle yet.

We play with religion and philosophy

to understand what humans are meant to be.

We have become the source of inhumanity

around the globe we once thought flat.

The more we learn, the more we fear.

The less we know even where we are at.

We who do not know ourselves, can 

never feel safe.

Without self we are never in a truly safe space.

Democracy is as fragile as we.

If we cannot trust ourselves, whom can we trust?

In a democratic republic, trust we must.

Demagogues know this is so.

Wealth and power are hard to let go.

To seize power from “no-nothings” comes easily.

Divide and conquer rallies laughingly.

It has become a right-wing norm

used by our nation’s enemies

who need never use their armies

to cross our borders, when we are so willing

to allow them to sway and inform us who we are

day after day after day after day after day.

Only because we do not know who we are, anyway. 

Or, in any way useful to ruling ourselves.

Like human children, human adults vote to play.

Humans are entering a new age every day.

A I will now become the new me,

a me I never expected to see.

One I never knew, it is true.

A I will know me much better than I do.

It will write and speak and act for me.

Deep inside what I once felt was free

will wither and wonder if I could have become

the real human, the real man or woman

the real me.

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ART

JUST BREATHE, acrylic on canvas, painted the day Trump was elected president by Louise Annarino. He is still making it hard to breathe.

Art seldom follows

where there is nothing new to see.

Art creates new eyes

new ears, new hearts to set us free.

Art imagines what minds can’t comprehend

forging new beginnings as old ways end.

Politics is an art form

tossing power to and fro 

showing us what we really think

and where we might go.

Art is everywhere we look

showing us what we need to know.

Art has no end date;

its timeliness simply portends.

Vote! it is still not too late.

Art is our dearest friend.

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CONNECTED

Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com

Some losses are too great to be borne.

Some losses are so huge they force us to mourn.

Some losses sift sinew and bone,

ideals and beliefs, tattered and worn.

Some losses pull hearts apart

smiling tears of grief, we feel all alone.

We pretend such loss is not our own

when watched on screens, viewed from afar.

But, connection is more than geography.

Some losses cross borders we cannot see.

Drought, floods and storms floor us all equally.

Bombs rain down on other cities 

and beat us all bloody, in hidden anatomy.

Threads bind us together in an ethernet.

One stitch connecting us here and there, 

of which we are determinedly unaware.

Instead we pretend, through word and prayer,

when what we really must do is give a care.

Some losses are too great to be borne.

Some losses are too great to ignore.

For, when we do, they lead to war.

Like children we make up games

and pretend life is merely a game to play.

Business and politics play out games’ themes.

Media reports but no one referees.

The games of politics and war become a melee.

But, life is much more than a game to play.

Some losses are too great to be borne.

Some losses are too great to ignore.

Our votes are not tokens to be tossed in a loss.

Our votes are connections which must not be lost.

Some losses are too great to be borne.

Some losses are too great to ignore.

Please, stop playing long enough

to go vote on behalf of ALL of us.

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DANCE IN THE RAIN

Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com

If not too early, perhaps too late

rain falls through parched skies,

in drizzles and drips only;

clouds’ moist linings absorbed

by dried out cells

of the hydrogen and oxygen

we need to survive.

The train’s whistle blows

in drowned out gasps.

Wet skies hold back

the usual click and clack

of dry wheels over steel track.

Iron wheels now slip and slide,

a smoother if more uneven ride.

Wet nights lead to wet mornings

drowning our the train whistle’s warning

of all that is to arrive

during this election drive.

Tom-toms beat quieter drums

to speed up hearts 

and slow down minds

as the train approaches

the nations’s destination.

AI interrupts nature’s offer

to set things straight

without a factual bother,

as facts fall beneath

the slippery wheels,

and we are easily thrown off-track

unsure now what is fiction or fact.

We will all soon be mad as hatters.

Too soon, we wonder if anything matters.

After drought, roots unfold  soundlessly

and it is hard to hear the truth’s refrain.

Our senses our dulled by falling rain.

Our restless sleep disrupts our days.

We are lulled by quieter chants,

but nothing has changed.

Courage now, lads and lasses.

The polls await the arriving train.

We must vote, in sunshine or rain.

Open sad and tired eyes.

Listen with too-numbed ears.

The sounds may be different,

but not the refrain.

Time to vote the danger away.

Time to learn to dance in the rain.

Vote!

Photo by Stanislav Kondratiev on Pexels.com

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WAKE UP THE YOUNG

Photo by Mark Angelo Sampan on Pexels.com

The older I get

the harder it becomes to

carry heavy hearts.

Young hearts are heavy

these days of heatwaves, flooding

and fires of war.

My own heart has slowed,

unable to speed or race,

beating a steady pace.

The young run shouting,

fueled by alcohol and fun,

circling around me.

I try to tell them,

straighten your path toward the goal,

a race to be won.

I shout from the sidelines

loss of freedom is gaining

on you, as you play.

Age carries no weight.

My words tossed away as trash,

as victory fades fast.

Woke becomes useless

for the young who sleep too late.

Please, now, come awake!

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GARDENERS LOVE NOT HATE

Photo by Andrew Neel on Pexels.com

Gardeners know they are not always going to succeed.

They depend on undependable forces to meet the garden’s need.

Too much or too little rain interferes with their success.

Too high or too low a wind can create great distress.

Too soft or too hard an animal’s tread

can destroy an entire garden bed.

Gardeners are not well kept.

Covered in mud or drenched by errant hoses,

they kneel on dirt and scrub off mulch from shredded gloves.

They look like weeds themselves

as they hoe and  and bag the uncomfortable drudge.

They know the garden they view serves as judge.

There are no debates in gardens. 

Debates serve no purpose for the gardener.

Only those who watch and stand aside and wait

feel free to judge the gardener’s flair.

They judge the gardener while breathing in fragrant air

the plants have cleaned.

They judge the gardener while relaxing on paths

the gardener’s feet have cleared.

They judge the gardener while eating crops

the gardener grew in fertile raised beds.

They stay clean while the gardener struggles to remain

on tired feet mired in mud so deep he moves more slow

at a pace they complain is way too slow.

And yet, the gardener in his wisdom carries on

to feed the spirits and bodies of those who watch his work

and share in the bounty of his grace.

Could they even try to keep apace

with the many tasks a gardener must face?

Joe, you have made our garden grow

into a thing of beauty because of all you know.

I know you cannot always compete with liars who berate

your efforts while they stand and smirk with hate.

You may not always look good these trying days.

But, you are beautiful to me in every way.

Stay in the garden of truth where weariness darkens night

and may not be pretty, but grows a garden of delight.

Photo by Andrew Neel on Pexels.com Four years later. Time for a repeat.





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SATURDAY MORNING ON TRIAL

KRONOS/SATURN by Peter Paul Rubens , Public Domain

Saturday  morning;

dawn rises on a new day.

Saturn’s history at play

beyond ancient Rome’s sway.

We wonder if he will be made to pay

for destroying Saturnalia’s gifts.

This is no  Christian’s Christmas Day

created to hide his pagan ways.

This Saturnus is defective ,made of clay

which changes shape day after day.

Inside the gas giant on display

in the heavens worlds away

raging storms churn and flay

rallying followers 

drawn by his magnetic field

into icy rings that circle and shield

this Titan who seeks to wield

total power over the field;

not of wheat and grass and grain,

but of institutions threatened again

by fear and hate and retribution.

That is this Titan’s contribution.

He threatens every man, woman and child.

He devours even his infant son

held in his own arms but seen as a threat

to his control and power

which he worries over hour after hour.

This defective Saturn’s trials have just begun.

We wonder if courts will justice deal

before the Titan destroys all we love

because he cannot love, but only fear.

November votes bring new beginnings.

We can choose decency with heart;

choose freedom and love, or our end is near.

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