The Lost Soul
There is no place of safety;
no where to run or hide.
I buried pride a long time ago
beneath the snow of cold hearts,
torn apart by fearful rhetoric
and unsung praise,
a dire malaise that yearns
for all it can learn
of love despite the risk
of loss. I would toss out
the loud mouth lout
who risks discovery of
my presence,and stay silent
if I could,but I cannot
stifle the scream of words
held in check lest they
terrify and distract
from the solution to
dark pollution of a soul.
Where is the Light?
Where is the Peace?
Where is the God
who created the innocence
now lost,perhaps forever?
War changes all.
annarino writes 
PROTESTING IDENTITY,by Louise Annarino,1-4-2013
PROTESTING IDENTITY,by Louise Annarino,1-4-2013
In the midst of campus chaos at OSU I went home one week-end. Week-ends are busy for restaurant owners; so, as usual, if I wanted to see my dad I had to go to the Center Cafe. It was usually a rewarding experience to be welcomed by Dad, my uncles and their regulars. Uncle Joe would boom out a hearty, “Hey, it’s my niece. Say hello to her everybody!” Uncle Frankie would quietly grin and ask, “Want cheese on that body builder?”, as he placed a burger on the grill. Uncle Johnny would uncap a cold coke, fill a glass with ice and pass it across the bar to me with a “Hey kiddo!” Dad would come from behind the bar, give me a kiss on the cheek, motioning me to a booth where we could talk. It was homecoming to my second home.
That Saturday morning, It was not surprising to see a new American flag hanging on the wall of the entrance foyer; there were three equally large flags hanging above the booths running along the wall across from the grill and bar in the front dining room. Each flag had been flown above the U.S. Capitol and gifted to the brothers by a congressman or senator. What did surprise me was the hand-written sign hanging in the entry foyer “Protesters and hippies will not be served. America! Love it or leave it.”
I stood there a moment wondering what kind of welcome to expect this time. Barefoot, a tie-dyed scarf for a top, cut-off jean shorts with a shredded hem, and a triangled-flag scarf on my head, tied at my nape to hold back, my waist-length hair; I looked a proverbial hippie. I had been protesting the racism,sexism and homophobia on the OSU campus for two years. Now, our protest had merged with anti-war protests across the country, and I was boycotting classes. I came home hoping to find a safe refuge, a peaceful respite from the constant turmoil and endless disputes, from the gassings and shootings.
Pointing out the sign, I asked my uncles, “Are you sure you want to serve me? I am one of those protesters you dislike so much.” They each smiled their crooked smiles, not their usual ear-to-ear grins and said, “Sit down and eat. You look like you are ready to disappear.” In order to love me they refused to see me. I had disappeared the minute I entered the restaurant.
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