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.
I had only eight one-dollar bills in my purse that day.
The too-battered man standing at roadside a few feet away
caught my attention with his too-battered sign held
close to his chest, on crudely-cut cardboard dirtied
like him, over time; both dusted clear of all grime.
“Smile today” was the message he carried so closely.
A message so needed, so welcomed, so worthy.
Crossing over a lane to reach his side, traffic waiting
for the light to change, let me and my car, squeeze by.
I passed the dollar bills to an outstretched hand.
Then, the grey-haired man in need of a cut,
leaned in to say “Thank you. God bless you.Have a nice day.”
The phrase a common lingo in the homeless way.
His eyes were lit from inside and he smiled, not trying to hide
his humanity, his sanity, his grace so sublime.
I smiled back and told him that I loved his sign.
Pulling out a second sign he had hidden behind the first,
I read the line, “Always Smile” and felt his thirst
to be seen and recognized and able to offer something to me.
Tearfully smiling in a moment of grace
I thanked him the gift he had given to me,
a smile I had unknowingly needed desperately,
the “greatest gift I had received in very long time.”
a thousands suns lit his eyes and opened mine.
Homeless people need to help others as much as you and I.
They may not have shelter, nor food, nor rest;
yet, they still continue to give their best.
They watch us hungrily as we drive by on the road
They hunger not only for what we can give.
They hunger for what they can give to us.
It unburdens their load.
We are in this world together, one smile at a time.
A message of love from one man, alone by the road.
Filed under POETRY
Writing romance can only be done in the dark of night
while stars yet dance holding tight
to Orion’s belt, keeping apace in love’s delight,
swaying to the tune of memories so bright,
they light up the darkest and deepest insights,
recalling softly-murmured prose
that touched the heart and curled the toes,
lifted up bodies locked in embrace,
and kissed in rhythm keeping the pace.
Nights seem long to young lovers
but may I remind,
romance too easily fades over time.
The night too soon ends in the glare of the sun.
Oh, what lovers would give to stay young.
Filed under POETRY
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.
“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.
I carry the buckets heavy with ash
from the spot where love burned
long in the past.
Charred earth remains.
Charred hopes dashed.
Passion so bright it lit up the night.
Only ash remains in dawn’s cold light.
Ash is good for the soul.
It reminds us what we all know
in the darkest recesses
where we seldom go.
We are dust.
and return to dust we must.
Thus, I carry buckets, yours and mine,
with ashes from a brighter time
where light was stronger,
where we could see better.
When we were stronger,
and we were better.
I remember the sparks
that lit love sublime
as I empty the buckets
and spread a dust so fine.
It covers the garden bed
where our roses now climb.
Each rose is a kiss
recalled from the time
when your touch started a fire
and your lips on mine
offered a taste of the Divine.
And love, warm love,
continues to grow.
Its fire now banked
in a steady, warm glow.
Goodness and Mercy
follow me every day,.
Their footfalls softly fall
As I make my way.
As darkness drops ahead
they lift their torches
to light my way,
comforting through nights
that threaten
To never go away.
I hear their voices
in children at play.
I feel their touch in hugs
from friends keeping loneliness at bay.
I share their laughs and smiles
with strangers on my way.
I am carried in their arms
by those who lift my fears away.
I accrue my many debts
but it is they who pay.
They carry me toward my fate
when I would wearily delay.
And, when it seems useless,
they remind me to pray:
“Thank you, Goodness and Mercy
for following me all my days.“
Filed under POETRY
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.
Do not drag me through the mud with you.
No matter what you say,
the fight will be down and dirty.
I know.
I have had to fight this way.
I will be beside you to comfort you.
I will not get in your way.
I am yours and you are mine.
Our fights are all our own.
We cannot our hands entwine
or the battle will be blown.
I will walk across the muddy field
and stay ready to lift you up.
But only you can wield the sword
so you may soon lift victory’s cup.
I will wash the mud from your face.
I will hose you down when needs must.
I shall trod the muddy field apace.
I will not make a fuss.
I have every faith you will succeed.
For, I believe in us.
Filed under POETRY
No single note is discordant.
No single vote voiced is wrong.
How the songwriter
puts the notes together
determines the song.
Our brains fine-tune our ears
to listen for the meaning
of words carried on the notes.
Some songs lift our spirits
to reach a higher cause.
Some songs depress our spirits
and make our hearts pause
with the fear of the other
we hated all along.
Some songs get us on our feet
to dance together, smile and sing.
Some songs hold us in our seats
ready to shout out in defeat.
The songs which truly make us strong
Are those we can rely upon
to offer hope, and love, and peace.
How the notes are brought together means everything.
The music that is America
is hard to sing if notes
are not treasured,
So many notes over so many years
from so many places refugees fled in fear
of famine, crime and even war.
We have sung the song of safety and of freedom,
welcoming all to our shore.
Songs that open minds and hearts
are the best place to start
a journey to a better future;
unlike the songs meant to keep us apart.
So many discordant notes
strung together create chaos,
not a strong and lovely song.
Filed under POETRY
Everyone grieves in their own way, so they say.
But, steadfast Grief remains the same.
Lips once tilted in joy, Grief holds tight with the strain
of holding back anger and keeping screams at bay.
Grief tightens the brow and hardens the eye
to hold back the tears which threaten to slide
tearing apart all that we hold deep inside.
Cheeks held too tight crease
and create runnels where tears may glide.
Grief clutches jaws held fearfully tight.
Once tears escape, will our held-back sobs fight
with a pulse so strong they can never be stopped?
Like a street thug, Grief pounds us into submission
and never takes time to ask our permission.
It pushes us down with pummels fierce and powerful.
Grief uses its bruising punches to keep us sorrowful.
We lie on hard pavements praying for the end to our suffering.
We feel we are losing our grip on reality.
We clutch at old truths, begging help to appear and lessen our sorrow.
Even Grief grows tired over time and lessens its blows.
Help comes when we unclench jaws and scream,
and shout, and let our tears and fears outwardly flow.
Soften the eyes. Relax the brow. Let the tears flow.
Tears wash away sorrow that new faith can be planted
in every tomorrow, with new ways to love
and new paths to follow.
Signs of grief always remain in new lines
that furrow about our lips, across the edge of our eyes,
and on necks which will, henceforth, our heads tip
slightly down, with greater humility, a bit.
Over time bruises heal, muscles grow stronger.
We learn we can handle the tough thugs who sit
on the sidelines, hidden in shadow.
We learn love again, embracing those who came to help.
We learn faith again, embracing those who prayed by our side.
We learn hope again, embracing those who helped us to our feet.
We stand again on loving, faith-filled, hopeful feet;
and, find a new path where joy and laughter can leads us.
We see our new selves in the eyes of those we pass.
We are stronger and last longer than Grief ever could.
Filed under Uncategorized
annarino writes 