Worn and weary I
run away from words hidden
in the dark of night.
Pained and poured out I
slowly ascend the mountain
reaching toward the light.
Strained and so sore I
peruse the new horizon
coming into sight.
Battered but brave I
reach into my open heart.
Love overcomes fright.
MERRY CHRISTMAS
The Christmas Letter 2024
This year I am compelled to ask a question similar to that asked by the youngest child at the Jewish Passover Seder: “Why is this Christmas (night) different from all other Christmases (nights)?” It feels different, more significant, more laden with meaning. It calls for more introspection and reflection. Too many mornings I awaken with dread as if there will never be another Christmas
defined by love for all, peace in understanding, and hope for a free and joyful future. The darkness seems overwhelming. I look for a star in the sky to guide my way. I understand the need to find a course I can follow which will lead me to a simple stable where a humble family seeks shelter. I long for those around me to awaken to the need to overcome the darkness descending on my country, on my world. Crass consumerism can only mask the need for a short time while we search for something bigger than ourselves, to build and belong to a community ruled by fairness which operates within the bounds of law, where each soul has equal value and worth.
Autocrats, fraudsters, and wealthy oligarchs are not new. Courts which give them immunity are new. It is as if I now live among the crowd who shouted, “Give us Barabbas! ” I see that young babe in a manger in a cave or stable and wonder at man’s inhumanity to man, his disdain for women and children, his abuse of the very earth itself. Making a “buck”, to retain power and control, create more darkness over the earth. WE are the Light. The Light dwells within us. This Christmas I celebrate a birth of a babe who taught me this. I celebrate by standing in the Light, against the darkness. I celebrate by spreading Light.
Filed under COMMENTARY
I no longer wait through the night for sun to rise.
Darkness diverts stray thoughts and lets my mind play.
Flowers have taught me to wave away sunny days
whose glare overcomes the true color of all it covers.
Flowers’ colors are brighter on cloudy days
when sun’s harshest, boldest gaze
is tempered by drifting clouds and shade.
The sun arouses, but not always in positive ways.
Passion and love arouse in darkness, under cover,
preparing us to live together on sun-filled days
which can overheat our passion with a challenging gaze,
and guns drawn out in furious blaze.
Night brings safety after those last shots are fired
into the night to hold it at bay, for those who tire
of being alone, hopeless and afraid; whose souls require
less sun to stimulate their hate and more cool nights
to bed down and draw covers over their endless fright.
I welcome the night which offers respite and insight.
I welcome dreams which bring truth and understanding alight.
If only we could recall our dreams in daylight,
perhaps we could create world where justice and mercy prevails
and all are treated right.
On the the hotter, brighter days ahead I fear we may fail,
holding on to what we cannot truly see in such bright daylight.
In such over-heated light true color is lost to our sight
distorting our view of all that is true.
Shoving microphones and spotlights on our frailty
too often distorts our reality
until we no longer can recall the truths learned on darkest days.
I no longer wish the darkness of night away.
I see all more clearly in the muted light of night
than ever I can see in brightest daylight.
I no longer wait through the night for sun to rise.
Darker days are here to no one’s surprise.
They may bring the only way we can survive.
Filed under POETRY
The chronically ill can teach us a lot.
their only role, their only goal
is to become well.
To be well they must be good.
Goodness stems from the earth’s swell
offering direction and protection
from heat and cold, dampness and mold
by rules of nature ancient and bold.
Rules which seamlessly flow
from stars above and earth below.
Walking barefoot and bareheaded
begins one’s instruction, and forms connection
to the healing power of universal affection
for all life willing to know, and grow
into a being of energy full of light and aglow
within every cell and coursing stream
of willpower and desire to hold each hour
in sacred trust and wondrous love.
To the chronically ill it is clear one must
transcend pain and overcome fear with trust;
to value only what is now, and what is here.
To be not chronically ill; but, chronically well.
Jewels like crystals shine
Across the frozen face of snow.
We say avoir, not good-bye.
For all we know
Light never dies
But quietly moves it’s glow
to other sights and sites
where Jewel now delights
In her new life.
And, yet, we mourn
Our grey-grief days
where Jewel once shown
in lives of our own.
Filed under POETRY
Too bright for the eyes
I could not watch
The sun rise.
and his behind cold lids
a fearful surprise
and dread.
No ribbon at a time
of colorful delight,
but a glaring reminder
all is not right.
The overheated sun
surprises the garden
drenched in snow
risen and fallen
from melting ice fields
in warming seas
I may never see.
The connection
between heat and ice
is broken off the glacier
of frozen hearts
in heated despair.
And we, blinded by glare
of the too-strong sun
are too blind now
To see.
Filed under POETRY
12-06-2021
Every morning as I made my bed, I started a new chapter in my book of life by telling myself, for example, “Today is the chapter where Louise starts school; or ate with the hobos by the river, or turned black and blue all over.” Each life experience began a new chapter. Today is my thousandth, or more, chapter. Today is the chapter where Louise writes her book for others to read. Not that others have not been reading me for nearly 73 years by simply watching and reporting upon my shenanigans. Today, they go to print.
Life for me was a book being written chapter by chapter. Sometimes under my control; most often, not. That was the exciting part; the part that kept me truly alive. Each episode was laid out thoughtfully, straightened and smoothed as I straightened and smoothed the sheets on my bed. There was always a need to recognize and tend to the rough edges and lumps. They required hands willing to pull tout the seams exposed by the tossing and tumbling of a child’s restless dreams created in my sleep. I once asked my Mother, “ Mommy, when I get up in the morning is this my real life? Or, is my real life what I dream after I go to bed? They are both the same, both as real. How can I tell why is real?” My mother’s answer, after shrugging off the slight frown of surprised concern on her face, was clear and concise. She said, “ I don’t know where you go in your dreams. But your real world is here with me. This life with me is your real life. And that is where you shall stay.” The sheets, this life, continue to need straightening and smoothing.
My earliest memory of this life is the slatted play of light and shadow across my body as I lay on my back in my crib. The shadows moved with the sun, sometimes dancing in strange patterns if the wind blew. I could feel the light and dark dancing in the breeze across my skin. I was too young to understand how any of this occurred. The memory simply tells me what and where. I recall small hands tossing something aside to grasp the light in a tiny fist, I hear the sound of gurgling laughter as I cheerfully played this game of “catch the light.” Whose fist is that? Mine? Curious, I asked my mother where my crib had been placed? My younger brother had just been born and his crib was in my parent’s bedroom. But, I recalled this light play in a corner of another room. I showed Mommy where the memory indicated and she said, “This is where your crib had been placed, but surely you cannot remember such a thing. You were too young. I told her I always heard a loud thud as I reached for the light. “You always threw your bottle out of the crib. I had the hardest time getting you to take a bottle in the crib.” She believed me then.
Memory is a fascinating teacher. Pieces of memory do not hold equal value. Many pieces are lost in the shuffle as we arrange the puzzle pieces that create a life.Those memories we recall may seem senseless. But, it is those tiny, seemingly senseless, memories which hold the greatest value when examined closely, their rough edges smoothed and straightened.
In these dark days of December, we remember that life is the interplay of darkness and light, the void and creation, destruction and rebirth. Every solstice changes the rhythm. This memory mattered to me enough to remember it and its recognize its value. The sense of beauty and awe in the dance of light and shadow across my body opened my senses to the wondrous impermanence of their interplay; and the expectation of their further encounters. This awe at such beauty stayed with me. Even on the darkest nights of my soul as I cared for dying parents, faced the struggles of chronic illness which stripped away so much of the life I had I built. Even then, there was beauty in the dance between light and dark, hope and fear, known and unknown. How could anyone forget such memory?
I am glad I chose to grasp the light in my tiny fists. Glad I chose open hands, and tossed that bottle out of the crib. I chose food for the soul. And in these dark days I choose both darkness and light, the good and the bad. Each. Both. Together they create a beauty beyond understanding. Together they fill me with hope, and the courage to face the unknown. And together, with open hands, we can gather the light into a beacon to lead us out of the darkness we now face.
Filed under Uncategorized
annarino writes 
DECONSTRUCTION
The streets were lined for blocks on end.
Signs reminded all who rejoiced to attend
Why they walked and talked and smiled and waved
At passing cars who braved delays
While drivers honked horns and shouted out
“Vote him out and make it a rout!”
Costumed critters danced to our delight
Knowing their freedom would give him a fright.
Deconstruct the lies we have been told.
Deconstruct the narrative being sold.
Deconstruct the bullie’s hold.
Deconstruct institutional mold.
Gather in peace the young and the old.
Stronger are you, more wise, more bold.
Deconstruct so we can rebuild
What he has destroyed with his minions’ lack of skill.
We know how to do this, and more.
We have done it many times before.
My thanks to my friends in Clintonville area of Columbus who helped me attend this moment of patriots’ challenge to the con men robbing the USA of its power, wealth, ideals and humanity. The lack of media coverage was appalling. The misrepresentation of attendance numbers cannot be challenged when media fails to provide images of the gatherings. A local station covered it AFTER it was over and crowds had dispersed. Another stated hundreds attended when it was actually thousands. We are here. We are resisting. We are going nowhere until the despotism and kidnapping of people and the Supreme Court, universities, news organizations, social media outlets, medical and public health Institutions… even our very language and the meaning of words and phrases has been brought to an end and freedom restored.
We shall not be silenced.
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