I have lived through the Stone Age, the Bronze Age,
the Iron Age, the Middle Age, the Industrial Age,
the Space Age, the Communication Age.
I am human, so it seems,
and able to look back as well as forward;
a mere mammal trying
to become part of that thing
we like to call humanity.
How do we know who we are
when we do not know the neighbor next door?
How much effort does it take to explore
each member of a community?
We do not even truly know our family.
Strangers pose a serious threat
that we have not learned to handle yet.
We play with religion and philosophy
to understand what humans are meant to be.
We have become the source of inhumanity
around the globe we once thought flat.
The more we learn, the more we fear.
The less we know even where we are at.
We who do not know ourselves, can
never feel safe.
Without self we are never in a truly safe space.
Democracy is as fragile as we.
If we cannot trust ourselves, whom can we trust?
In a democratic republic, trust we must.
Demagogues know this is so.
Wealth and power are hard to let go.
To seize power from “no-nothings” comes easily.
Divide and conquer rallies laughingly.
It has become a right-wing norm
used by our nation’s enemies
who need never use their armies
to cross our borders, when we are so willing
to allow them to sway and inform us who we are
day after day after day after day after day.
Only because we do not know who we are, anyway.
Or, in any way useful to ruling ourselves.
Like human children, human adults vote to play.
Humans are entering a new age every day.
A I will now become the new me,
a me I never expected to see.
One I never knew, it is true.
A I will know me much better than I do.
It will write and speak and act for me.
Deep inside what I once felt was free
will wither and wonder if I could have become
the real human, the real man or woman
the real me.
Those who voted “Trump”
are jail-breakers, criminals
in their sad way, too.
Ugly Christmas sweater season has begun.
Americans seem to think it is fun
to dress themselves not in the season’s finest,
but in the ugliest sweater they can find
to celebrate together a sacred date
forgetting the solemnity of Advent’s long wait
to share with us a love divine.
Trees go up lit by flames to give us warning
that climate change may soon end
the faithful earth upon which life depends.
A cabinet full of ugly sweaters fills,
worn by those who think they are better
than faithful civil servants whose only goal
is to keep America safe and whole.
Executives dodging background checks
don the ugliest sweaters they can find
hoping to make a buck or two
off the game pitting us against each other,
me and you,
against all hope that we can survive
a very dangerous political ride.
The party which once celebrated
freedom and patriots’ pride
donned ugly sweaters when it realized
white control was on a slip and slide
with the rising hopes of women
and people of color’s growing pride.
The uglier the better the saying goes,
for Christmas sweaters worn by those
who forget the reason for a season,
forget the principles of a constitution,
forget the laws and regulations
which hold together a flawed nation
and allow democracy to thrive.
The time of ugly sweaters has arrived.
My sorrow does not come
from the loss of an election.
Sorrow bubbles up and pulls down
faith and hope and trust in
legal and constitutional protection
for the progressive direction
we moved, pushing hate aside,
within the blue bubble
where I reside,
within a gerrymandered state
full of Christo-fascist pride.
Court protection is now
too often set aside.
Criminal leaders with immunity
can now act with impunity
to destroy an entire nation,
indeed a free world.
Greed acts with such speed
to push grace and care aside.
And truth is destroyed
by incessantly repeated lies.
My sorrow does not come
from watching my nation die.
It comes from watching
fellow citizens kill my beloved nation
Right before my eyes.
And the worst part of it all is,
that it is not a surprise.
I have watched a predator party
stalk us creatures of democracy
my whole life.
The day I most feared
is no longer just a nightmare.
It is the reality of imminent strife.
I cannot simply smile and reach out,
asked to shake hands with voters
with blood on their hands,
when I want to shout “traitors!”
I think of all who died to protect
and defend my country, my best friend,
I cannot stand to watch cruelty up-end
a nation now at-sea, afloat on lies
that all is at is has always been
after an election.
The desperation of a nation
tears at the soul within.
The soul of each and every American,
until America is dead and buried,
so that rich oligarchs can feed
their need for power and control.
Citizens United has long been on a roll
to knock down all opposition,
and watch weak Americans fold
their cards and lose their last hand.
Such sorrow, I fully understand.
I dream of Nazis…
men in blue jeans and camouflage
jackets with pockets
to hold weapons,
wearing red MAGA hats;
and bleached-hair women
in comfortable clothes
and comfortable shoes,
smiling at cameras
while they praise
a nobody who makes them feel
like somebody.
Like tools they line up
on his bleachers to be used
to disparage and demean
the others they call fiends.
These are not dreams.
These are nightmares come alive
and rending the seams of a nation’s fabric
with fascist schemes.
I can no longer sleep
in the silence
of so many who stay quiet.
Too ashamed to shout with that lout.
But willing to vote him in
to the place where our destruction begins.
I dream of Nazis,
the shouters
the doubters
the scoffers
the weak
the divided
the insiders
who refuse to give up
position and power,
while hour after hour
the fascist beast devours
airwaves and pews.
Let there not be too few
to block his way
on election day.
VOTE!
All I want
is to avoid
my own thoughts
lately clothed in fear
so pronounced
they bring me to tears.
It finally must be said
anger fades to grief
when death brazenly nears.
Watching a beloved die,
clutching the hand,
wiping the brow,
for perhaps the last time
applies to nations.
I watch my beloved country
whose solemn vow
has always been protect and defend
all those living within
the boundaries of an idea in place
to open freedom’s gates
to all equally, within its small space.
I hold my nation’s heart and soul
with trembling hands
and shortened breath.
In painful realization
that so many countrymen
in this amazing nation
fear not, nor mourn with me
the loss of our democracy.
Friends and family alike
smirk and snarl in true delight
the unleashed dogs of fear and fright
which rip apart all we have built
without a trace of grief nor guilt.
They break my heart
as they tear our world apart.
If not too early, perhaps too late
rain falls through parched skies,
in drizzles and drips only;
clouds’ moist linings absorbed
by dried out cells
of the hydrogen and oxygen
we need to survive.
The train’s whistle blows
in drowned out gasps.
Wet skies hold back
the usual click and clack
of dry wheels over steel track.
Iron wheels now slip and slide,
a smoother if more uneven ride.
Wet nights lead to wet mornings
drowning our the train whistle’s warning
of all that is to arrive
during this election drive.
Tom-toms beat quieter drums
to speed up hearts
and slow down minds
as the train approaches
the nations’s destination.
AI interrupts nature’s offer
to set things straight
without a factual bother,
as facts fall beneath
the slippery wheels,
and we are easily thrown off-track
unsure now what is fiction or fact.
We will all soon be mad as hatters.
Too soon, we wonder if anything matters.
After drought, roots unfold soundlessly
and it is hard to hear the truth’s refrain.
Our senses our dulled by falling rain.
Our restless sleep disrupts our days.
We are lulled by quieter chants,
but nothing has changed.
Courage now, lads and lasses.
The polls await the arriving train.
We must vote, in sunshine or rain.
Open sad and tired eyes.
Listen with too-numbed ears.
The sounds may be different,
but not the refrain.
Time to vote the danger away.
Time to learn to dance in the rain.
Vote!
Best to keep parched lips closed in the midst of drought.
When the rain comes, as it surely must, lips open wide,
with head tilted back, in a tumultuous shout.
Filling up with rain, one wet swallow can seem enough.
Memory quickly returns of a mouth full of dry dust,
reminding one a single swallow is not enough.
After thirsting so long words have grown tough
to swallow, feel bitter, feel wounded, feel flushed
where they would be drowned
if only rain would fall down.
Still, the short rain is enough to stir us to our feet,
on the forward march to greener pastures,
cool beneath our bare feet,
taking their fill of all the rains
that have gone before to make this place
one where one may stay to laugh and play.
We will not go back.
Tears of joy rain down now.
We swallow them whole,
filled with power so bold
we believe we control
the weather.
We don’t, we know.
But, we can vote.
And our vote grows in volume
as word drops form streams
and create new rivers of dreams
that flow within oceans so strong
their freedom carries us along
to new and better shores
where right overcomes wrongs.
Words fall like rain, again and again.
Dance in the rain and play
on the way to election 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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