Bodies tell stories.
The boot is on the right foot.
It lifts up the right side.
It tilts the body left.
The left leg shortened,
for a short while;
long enough for the right
heel to heal the heil.
The right heel steals balance.
The right heal steals my right
to take walks, plant seeds,
to talk with ease, laugh aloud.
The right heel pains me,
isolates me,
leaves me motionless.
Soon, the boot will be off.
Therapy will begin to complete
the healing needed to stop
the pain in the heel, and heal the heil.
The extra weight will be lifted.
Both feet will balance the gait
of a body ready to move forward,
beyond the lies, beyond the hate.
Time to heal, if patience allows.
I ask so little it seems;
and yet, too much for now.
Now, when words destroy bonds
formed from shared adversity,
in fear of diversity and loss of power.
I stumble through the day, booted
by the weight of the jack boot
on a leg that has born too much weight
of too much fear, too heavy a hate.
And still, despite the added weight
and uneven gait, I march on,
in my own, stilted way,
on this President’s,
not King’s,
Day.
annarino writes 
FIGHTING WORDS
Poetry has fled.
Art hides in plain sight
behind clouds of flame,
beyond winds of change,
before plutocrats take the stage,
no longer waiting behind the scenes
which hide their rage.
Words have lost all meaning
when facts go unchecked
flung too fast to sustain truth
and belief in its power to right wrongs
for the weak and the poor,
tossed aside by courts which cower
fearing loss of wealth and power.
Which words are safe when lies procure
the party in power’s silent vote to score
total control of each life, each thought,
each breath threatened by dirty schemes
to pollute the earth, water and air?
Words cannot be spoken, claimed by death
of the rule of law.
No words exist to describe the depravity
some of us saw
as our words lay dying
first inside
then outside
where meaning can be lost.
Words remain frozen in heavy frost,
weighed down by cold hearts
and dead souls
seeking total control.
Freedom resides in words
which too often remain unsaid.
Words too softly spoken to wake
those asleep, escaping, all hopes dead.
Too few words of truth must compete
with an onslaught of unchecked lies.
I listen and watch, lost in thought.
I write and I plead against what we have wrought.
Poetry, I fear, carries too-little weight.
Poetry, perhaps, has waited too late
to escape the threat when so many lies
have buried the truth for power and greed.
Money has always been the creed
clothed in religion and faith
which grants God’s grace
to those who deserve to see His face
on dollar bills and hung on towers.
False gods seek our praise as they devour
a country whose best citizens
refuse to use their power to remain free,
and would rather lose their democracy.
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