Tag Archives: MAGA

TAKE A MOMENT

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I only want a moment of your time

to reflect upon un-poetic rhyme.

There is so very much to do.

I ask either too little, or too much, of you.

His need for subserviency, adoration and greed

takes no notice your own, real need.

You were never meant to be his white serf,

one-step above Black slaves, laboring on his turf.

The DOJ and SCOTUS handed back the whips

to those who do his bidding as he flips

from cruelty to cruelty arranged by Putin’s calls

plotting and planning The USA’s trips and falls.

Military is used to manipulate stock prices so the wealthy few

can buy low and sell high, with no care for you.

Your coins build a ballroom in which you shall never dance.

A triumphal arch between the Washington Monument and Lincoln’s glance

will be constructed that you may no longer easily recall, nor see

American aspiration to realize true equality.

MAGA,Trump, MAGA,Trump! You chanted your power by chanting the name.

The power was a never his but yours.

The conman wins the game, and dances as he scores.

And you cheered. Oh, yes, you did; even gerrymandered lines of hate

for Democrats, Black citizens, college students in every state.

You joined the game without concern, without a qualm

while team leaders covered up crimes, you stayed calm.

Pedophilies, rapists, liars, cheats and colluders in corruption

steal our nation’s health and wealth and reputation

while you stay silent, subservient and take satisfaction

that you can cheat your way to success in every upcoming election.

Detention centers hide concentration camps, not deportation.

If any one of us is not free, none of us are free, don’t you see?

Or are your eyes only on gas price increases, and food costs?

When will you realize nearly all we love is lost?

Get you head out of the book, your eyes off the screen.

Look around at the suffering, MAGA is offering in between

the crazed tweets and mean-spirited acts by the nation’s elites

who refused to be taxed and share the wealth

they gained from your labor with a soft, thieving stealth.

I only want  moment of your time

to discover the truth inside their rhyme.

Then I ask you to stand, speak, even shout

until every single one of us learns what MAGA is really about.

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BORDERS

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Borders have their uses.

They tidy-up the scene,

remind us where we are,

and where we have not been.

They assign us each a plot

of able responsibility,

and call us to fulfill our task, 

to act responsibly, as we ought.

Like naturalists we name each plot

to recognize ourselves within its place.

We mark paths between each plot,

a  no-man’s land of sea and space.

Borders are a mere tool to use.

They can create more civility.

Or, they can abuse all gentility.

We can move across borders easily.

They were not made to stop humanity

from going where it needs to go

to find food and shelter, water and safety.

There is the rub in such a construction.

It can also lead to self-destruction.

For we are all part of the same family

of men and women descended

from a single source evolving merrily.

Until, each one of us is forced to face

the human weakness that lies within

and threatens our dreams of what we could win

if only we were better than we are.

If we were better, we could reach the stars.

Such anger we cannot allow directed at self.

We look for somewhere to place it,

when it should be put on a shelf,

placed  where it can do no harm

and give us time to calm our alarm

that we are far from perfect, but still okay.

Our personal borders help us hold our evil at bay.

Instead, we project all the fear and rage

from and toward ourselves to others,

other humans being human, idiot or sage.

We  carefully choose a human target

who does not quite look like us;

and not because he is truly different at all.

But in mirrored reflection of our follies

his appearance creates a place we can hide

that we are truly the same person, inside.

It would never do to project our own failings

onto another who looked just like we look.

It would prove the foolishness of railing

against all who look the same-self ailing.

So, we choose to note a difference

to justify our disdain and  discrimination.

We close our borders with determination.

We miss the prize right before our eyes.

We miss the chance to accept our need

for the strength that comes with community.

We forget, for as long as we can,

that differences reinforce each man

and help us each overcome our weakness,

our circular thinking, our useless imagination

and build a stronger human-kind nation

within every border, across every border

until we kind humans no longer fear

our very selves, nor one another.

We could act as sister and brother

and settle our squabbles with love

as part of a human family.

We could project amity  

and, perhaps, save humanity.

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CONFIRMATION SLAP

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There was one day each year our Catholic parish could expect the Bishop to visit. Every year the children in the fourth grade, age 10 or so, made their Confirmation of Faith. We studied the tenets of our faith so we would understand more fully what it would mean to be confirmed. This was critical because  the one thing that sank in was the idea that we would not only promise to live our faith, fully and with integrity; we would pledge to be willing to die for our faith, as many of the Catholic saints had done over the centuries. In fact, we chose a name for ourselves of a saint who inspired us to live our faith as fully as they. I chose Bernadette, a young girl unable to be shaken from her spiritual experiences, despite opposition even from church leaders. She was open to the unexpected, unexplainable mysteries of her faith; courageous and persistent, resilient and humble. She could face down any opposition to live her faith experience.

We had learned through study and life experience that others opposed our beliefs, and especially, our assumed authority to represent Jesus Christ’s teaching . We saw our priests, and even ourselves, as part of the line of succession from Peter the Apostle. A lot of wrongdoing and audacity occurred in between Peter’s time and mine. We were taught to acknowledge errors, correct them and move on. A daily examination of conscience and frequent confession kept us on track.

As a very short child, I led the procession into church. The Bishop asked us a few questions ascertaining that we understood what we were about to promise. I was the first to be confirmed, kneeling at the altar rail, shaking like a leaf, praying for courage. The Bishop spoke the words reminding me that my faith required a willingness to die for Christ. I responded that I would. The Bishop then struck my cheek with a blow so hard those in the back pews could hear the slap, my head snapping to the side. The Bishop looked horrified. I could feel the sting of his hand. I was reminded alright! 

After the service ended, we processed from our pews to the rear of the church, the Bishop and altar servers before us. The Bishop waited for me at the door and joined my parents and family as we stood on the church steps. His handprint was still visible on my cheek. He humbly apologized to me and to my parents. Since I was the first child he had underestimated the strength of his blow, and was mortified. I had never expected to see a mortified bishop. It made my heart open to him as human being, no longer an authority figure. Those moments of my confirmation remain with me, 67 years later, as if they happened yesterday. Over the years I had need of the lessons learned that day.

I learned that faith is not a mind-game, nor a mere consideration. It is a calling to act with integrity, love and compassion. It requires the willingness to suffer for others; to learn them, see them, hear them even when I had to “suffer through” them. I suffered through those I did not like nor respect, as well as those I respected and loved. I learned that those in authority held no power over me unless I gave it to them. I could have withheld respect and forgiveness to a bishop who hit me so hard it hurt. I chose to forgive him and accept his unintended harm. However, I never shirk from showing those in authority the harm they do. It is probably one reason I became a lawyer. I experienced justice that day. Too many in our America do not. It is those we must be willing to die for. Our faith requires it.

I listened to two Catholics, Senator Bernie Moreno from my state of Ohio and Vice-President J.D. Vance defend and protect the President Trump’s unlawful war, threats of genocide, and destructive blasphemy the past few days. They were confirmed. Do they not recall their vow to defend and protect our faith and our church as they attack our Pope? Do they not understand integrity and morality? What did they promise as they affirmed their Catholicism when confirmed? I am not truly surprised because they also seem to have forgotten their vow to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States and Ohio, and the laws of both when they sworn into office as senators and then, Vance, as Vice-President. 

These are not men of conviction willing to suffer for their faith. They are not humble. They lack integrity. They lie. They attack when they should defend… not just the Pope but human beings in Gaza, Iran, Minneapolis, and every city and hamlet in America. They attack instead of defend our people of color, LGBQT and transgender citizens, our women and children, our elderly and disabled, our working poor, our refugees and immigrants. They would suppress votes of students, women, the working poor, the elderly and disabled and brazenly support the provisions in the SAVE act suppressing our votes. All the while they pretend to protect us and our vote. They stay silent while our military is used to perform war crimes, and while our country’s leaders threaten to annihilate others in violation of the Geneva Convention and human rights.

The attack on a Catholic Pope is just part of the plan to replace loving faith and care for others preached by Jesus Christ on his Sermon on the Mount with power and control over others fed by greed and arrogance. It was easy to abuse the weakest among us. Now, they openly abuse a powerful church leader preaching Jesus Christ’s teachings. Of course, Trump posted an AI construction of himself as Jesus Christ. Of course Vance and Moreno, and other republicans think it is meaningless, a joke.  The explanation is as great a lie. It has meaning. It is meant to promote abuse and control at the expense of others. These men were not slapped hard enough when they were confirmed as Catholics. They are not willing to suffer any political nor financial loss to help others. As a Catholic, I hold them accountable and ask them to recall their vows; to their church and to the American people.

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MORE ON WAR

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My father fought the War

to End all Wars.

My Godfather fought the War

that has no end.

My brother fought the War

that was a police action.

My nephew fought the War

undeclared for Kuwait’s liberation

and Hussein’s annihilation.

My great-nephew fights the War

To save an autocrat’s administration.

We all fight the War

opposing cruel opposition to immigration.

Once more, people of peace

protest a war taking place abroad

and its counterpart taking place in our streets.

All to save a man from accusation

of pedophilia, rape and sheer brutality 

who will be asked for an explanation

during his interrogation

which could lead to his incarceration.

Have I got that right?

It is not his sons nor daughter who will fight.

But, yours and mine.

Have I got that right?

It all comes from The Right

so I must be Right

or face the consequences.

Have I got that right?

We make such war at our cost

until all is lost.

Have I got that right?

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BACKED UP SEWER

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No longer can we ignore life

which imitates art 

while art imitates life.

Each part imitates the whole

while the whole

is the sum of its parts.

When the parts break

the whole breaks apart.

The dark drain bears the burden

of  too many broken peaces

and pushes back against gravity;

releases the depravity

and frees the broken whole.

Cleaning crews appear to

remove the waste, fraud and abuse

of leadership run amok among the muck;

Now, so clearly broken, and out of luck.

Hot air blows around every media space

to dry the tears of such disgrace.

Sanitize all you will.

Pack the dirty remnants into opaque bags,

redacted files hidden under seal,

and hide the crimes away.

The sewer can only handle so much

of the dirty secrets we are afraid to touch.

Truth always come to light

when the drain is filled too tight.

Ignoring the dirt contaminates us all,

as we watch the walls of a nation fall.

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BORN IN THE USA, Part 2

WWII Era Bark Print from Tonga, Tonga. Photo by L. Annarino

These war buddies who mourned those buddies who died in combat, and who treasured those who sat with them in solidarity at our kitchen table, shared more than stories. They shared themselves. Mom and I quietly listened, staying in the background, granting them sacred space.

My dad did not collect war trophies. He collected books and papers, which I read and pored over. My favorites were a book telling the history of the USS South Dakota, and one illustrating the flags of every nation. The first spoke of valor and patriotic duty fulfilled by every sailor aboard. The second helped Dad identify incoming planes, separating enemy from ally. I considered this a most useful tool; one I employ to this day, always searching out tell-tale signs of enemy incursion into my life and the lives of others. It may be one reason I eventually became a lawyer whose favorite tool is cross-examination. I am always looking for the “false flags” flown by lawyers, newspersons, politicians and servants of the people. There have been too many lately.

I read Dad’s folder containing assignment memos and his letters of commendation, held his battle ribbons and medals in my hands, marveling at the battle stars gleaming dully after being carried through the war. I have the Tongan Island bark tapestry he bought from the King of Tonga in exchange for a case of beer he hauled from his ship onto the beach where Tongan women were making such artistry.

My father fought his way through WWII. When he finally returned to his Ohio hometown, my pregnant NYC Mom in tow, he had a new fight on his hands. The fight of all first generation immigrants to find a way to support his family, and protect other such families living in pockets of real estate abandoned by earlier immigrants; along industrial-polluted rivers, smoky rail-road tracks, and industrial waste areas.

Dad and his brothers, who had served in the US Army as cooks joined their brother, excused from duty because of tuberculosis, and a cousin; and opened a restaurant. This restaurant was not a food truck as today’s start-ups. No, they found a vacant alleyway between two buildings, put sawhorses covered by planks between the two buildings, collected a grill and started cooking. They hung supplies held by ropes strung between the two buildings. They soon had enough money to add a roof, then a floor. Eventually they had a full-service restaurant a block long and alley-wide with a half-block long bar and side booths. the space behind held two separate dining rooms, a butcher shop, walk-in freezer, walk-in refrigerator, kitchen and dish-wash area, and storage rooms above and below. 

These Italian-American men supported their families; and fed the homeless, emergency workers in the event of community storms, floods, and fires. They cooked for the church and seminary fund-raisers. They contributed in every way they could to the welfare of every person in the community. New immigrants are grateful and hard-working in ways earlier arrivals to our shores have long forgotten. I remember.

My cousins and I spent hours at the Center Cafe, sitting in the family booth or behind the bar talking to our great-uncle with a cauliflower ear about his award-winning boxing career.  Dad hung a boxing bag inside our garage and bought us boxing gloves. I sparred with my older brother and punched along with the boys. As a female lawyer, when that was a rarity, I happily and effectively sparred with boys in and out of court. Sicilian and Italian men love their women and make sure they are safe and can defend themselves. 

Sitting behind the bar selling candy bars for my Catholic elementary school was fun. Dad instructed me to count how many beers a man consumed, and not to approach him until he had had 2-3 beers. He concluded I would sell more candy that way. I always won a prize for selling the most candy. Dad knew how to buy and sell. Living on a salary of $50 per week his entire work life meant he had to stretch every penny to rear 4 children and send them all to Catholic school. We kids all worked from childhood on to buy comic books, ice cream and penny candy. Later, to pay tuition, go to the dentist, buy clothes, books and phonograph albums. We all contributed because we were a family.

The best part of hanging out in the restaurant was listening to patron conversations, especially listening to the men at the bar. All classes of people ate there. Families felt comfortable bringing their children to a place where drunkenness was not allowed. Dad and his brothers knew their customers who became family to them. I watched Dad order cabs and send men home after ‘cutting them off’. He called wives to explain what to expect, assuring them the salary earned that day was still in their husband’s pocket.

I listened to lawyers, judges, CEOs, insurance agents, grocers, plumbers, factory workers, mechanics, gas station owners et al whose faces and voices I recognized because they came every day for breakfast, or lunch, or after-work drinks before heading home. What a cacophony of human behavior and community thoughts were shared between booths and bar. All orchestrated by Dad and his brothers. The music of the masses sang out for all to hear, if they were listening. It still does. If we listen. And we must listen, looking and listening for false flags.

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THE SUPER-BOWL

One key contrast between Alex Pretti and Kristi Noem explains this ...

We live for the Super Bowl 

after  limiting the outcome

to two teams.

Three brothers all played

on our high school team,

wounded warriors, it often seemed.

Cold presses on bruises

and after-game body soaks

became a game-night theme.

How did you get that bruise,

I often asked with due concern.

Sighing, they asked do you never learn?

No one likes to be on the bottom.

I was tackled when I caught the ball.

Then everyone piled on.

There are rules it seems in every game.

And who carries the ball

has a special name.

We cheer the ball carrier who gained the right

to run down the field, ball in hand;

headed for the goal-post to our delight.

Opposing teams and its followers never cheer.

They moan and groan and shout in anger,

sensing competition they cannot abide.

Watchers of the game have more swagger,

are more eager to throw weighted hammers

of hateful words and punches in the air.

Losers are the worst and soundly curse players.

They cannot play the game themselves.

and berate their own team’s players worst of all.

No one likes to be on the bottom of the pile.

It takes more effort to climb to the top.

Clawing, and shoving against pinching all the while.

The guy on the bottom has no chance

without a referee, or two, or three.

All rights lost when thrown to his knees.

More men pile on top to hold him in place

where they believe he belongs,

until he is able to fight his way free.

We watch and ask,

our hearts in our throats,

where are the referees?

Not on our city streets.

Nor in Congress, it seems.

America has become a nightmare,

killing the American Dream.

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RISE UP

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Early morning risers are a breed apart.

They insist upon rising in the dark.

Their tattered dreams soon forgotten

they move to uncover windows;

not to simply let in the coming light

but, to first, acknowledge the night.

Darkness holds little mystery

to those who accept the misery

of what they watched unfold the day before,

and to believe the new day’s light will restore

balance, fairness, wisdom, hope and more.

Surely, the sun will shine on goodness

and love will once more rise with sun’s rays?

Such hopes can only be born in the dark.

Once sun rises and bathes us in her light

we forget the need for change we felt,

we hungered for, we fought for through the night.

Like babes in dark wombs we struggle to alight.

We yearn to be free of darkness and held tight.

Such memories of those first moments

are waiting to be born now in this morn’s sunlight.

Those who wake and walk in darkness know, 

once more of us awake, all can soon be set aright.

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STRONG OF HEART

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Hardened hearts break easily,

leaving broken pieces to fall

as heavy weights of brute strength,

and painful threats strewn about the streets

bathed in pepper gas and tears

of gas dripping over the faces of our children,

our elderly, our disabled; all allies

of the young who’s futures face flash bangs

of deceit and fraud and outright theft.

All of us thrown to the ground 

stumped and stamped upon

by those whose hardened hearts

keep breaking and flung about in rage.

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The hearts of those who protest are soft.

They are known for their easy acceptance.

They are berated for their ease of conscience.

Such hearts cannot break apart.

They are part of one eternal heart.

The hearts of protesters are soft, but firm.

Such soft hearts are resolute and unbreakable.

Their love of country and of one another

continue to beat strong and full of love.

Such hearts always remember to BE GOOD.

The only way to stop strong hearts

is to capture, perhaps kill, them.

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Hearts connected to one another

always continue to beat on.

Ukraine’s heart beats on.

Gaza’s heart beats on.

Sudan’s heart beats on.

Iran’s heart beats on.

Greenland’s heart beats on.

Canada’s heart beats on.

Central America’s heart beats on.

South America’s heart beats on.

The European Union’s heart beats on.

Minneapolis’ heart beats on.

Chicago’s heart beats on.

Los Angeles’ heart beats on.

The United States of America’s heart beats on.

Freedom’s heart beats strong, 

and beats on, now and forever.

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WARNING SIGNS

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Is it possible

for three hearts to beat

within one body?

One full of love and joy

for every creature,

every life form?

One full of sorrow

of what tomorrow

will likely unfold?

One full of anger

and a rage so profound

a heart breaks in pieces?

Oh, now I see.

I have but one heart

being torn asunder.

I am no longer in doubt.

I am no longer unsure.

I am no longer whole.

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