Tag Archives: war

GAZA

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Shooting fish in a barrel

is not a noble act

No courage required.

No reasoned plan needed.

No applause sincerely given

to endorse fisherman’s creed

to take only what you need.

Fish have no ideology

written on their fins.

The fisherman cannot identify

which fish carries the tale

of Hamas attacks and hate.

Yet, all fish must share their fate?

Revenge, I understand,

in heated moments lost in pain.

But cold calculation

with no disassociation

between guilt and innocence

simply makes no sense.

But, when did war ever

protect the innocent ?

When did war ever set free

those who had no part

in hateful perfidy ?

Shooting fish is never pretty.

But, this ? This ?

Shooting fish in a barrel

with no chance of escape

can never be explained.

Find a way to peace

or take the gun away.

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Think

“Anyone who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices.” – Voltaire

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Campaign Music

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.

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PAIN

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Pain changes all.

It puckers lips which can no longer speak.

It furrows brows and narrows the view.

It buckles the knees, threatens our fall.

There is so much pain everywhere,

enough to spare, too much to bear.

Pain always wants out,

it erupts in a shout,

“Make it stop!”

“Stop!”

“Just stop!”

Does anyone hear?

Too many continue

to pour salt in the wound.

Too few seem to care.

Too many press fingers on spots

that pulse too hot

until pain explodes and we drop

to our knees as we plead,

“Make it stop!”

“Stop!”

“Just stop!”

Human angels run by

and try not to cry

as they sound the alarm

and beg to succeed

in stopping the harm.

U.N. food trucks are bombed.

Opposition leaders are killed.

Weather tells stories

to gain our attention.

The earth pleads as do we,

“Make it stop!”

“Stop!”

“Just stop!”

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NO WORDS

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My words are in hiding.

They went south

on orders by an enemy

in a language unknown

on internet connections silenced

on phones which could not be charged

written on leaflets

dropped from the sky

with the dumb bombs

which destroyed the words

where I reside

in hopeless desires

for peace, at first;

now, simply, not to die.

My words and I moved south

to promised safety.

My words and I could not speak

of what we saw 

along the way

south,

leaning on false promises.

Still, my words must hide

in shelters bombed 

despite the promise

despite the effort

carrying my words

which are my children,

silent, on my back.

Trapped, my words and I

with nowhere to go.

Without hope.

No one speaks words;

Only the bombs may speak,

with a language of their own.

A language no one understands.

One no one ever wants to hear. 

My words hide here.

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BUILDING BLOCKS

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Whose power fills the vein,

courses through the body politic,

amidst the loosening strain

by seeking peace and unity

to replace the the fearful rage

wrought by endless war ?

Culture is not the same

as power playing games

to win at any cost

what some fear they have lost.

What they have lost they took in theft.

No need to now feel bereft

of what one never owned.

Thieves have no honor it is clear.

Nor hesitation to build fear

by bullying, intimidation and threats.

Lies cannot heal the wounds,

nor close veins opened in regret

of what we failed to acknowledge

in a past we chose to skew.

Structures fall in blocks of despair

as we stand in quaking dread

of what might lie ahead.

Disaster and opportunity are well met

in the rubble which now settles about

our feet, and all we doubt.

Thoughts and feelings drift down

in the dust settling all around

thoughts tossed and set askew.

We are left choking on what we cannot see.

A pause is not amiss.

But, we cannot afford to wait

to rebuild a globe and create anew our fate,

and heal the hurts from falling debris

from hidden, hate-filled, fearful history

disclosed as walls and nations tumble.

Gather those who grieve the loss of democracy.

Clear the rubble, dust and minds

with a truer view of history

Dedicate such memory to better buildings.

This is humanity’s strength.

Not the structures of banks and governments;

but the blood flowing in the veins

in powerful resiliency to those who would suppress

truth and honesty.

The muscle and sinew of strong minds and hearts

whose only thought as worlds break apart

is how to build anew

a better, fairer, stronger structure

to protect both me and you.

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REMEMBER THAT THOU ART DUST

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Revenge is a dish

best served cold.

forgiveness is a feast

meant to feed us all.

When fear replaces hope,

and impulse thoughtfulness,

death becomes 

the boon companion

of he who wields the sword

to decapitate infants,

shoots the gun

to annihilate a people,

or sets the fire

to decimate a place.

There is no saving grace.

There is no promise of immortality

to be fulfilled in hateful commonplace. 

There is only disgrace.

Personal value, human value,

no longer take the stage,

nor takes a bow, by those enraged.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Forgiveness is a feast for all.

Where it can be found,

nor how,

I no longer know.

But search I must,

before we all turn to dust.

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CHARITY

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If I come to you in need

would you care for me?

Would you open your door?

Would you allow me in?

Would you lecture me on choices made?

Would you tell me I must not sin?

Would you point out the truth of my failures within?

Would you judge me or love me?

Is that even a choice?

Would you teach me or listen

to my oft’ silenced voice?

Human we both be;

Ill-mannered or worse occasionally.

At fault more often than we care to admit.

Would you invite me in and tell me just sit?

Would you open your door?

would you let me in?

Would fear turn your lock

and your heart harden to rock?

If I come to you in need

would you care for me?

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NIGHT SWEATS

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UKRAINIAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

AMERICAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

AFRICAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams lat night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

ASIAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

MID-EAST NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

EUROPEAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

War never ends now.

We don’t know how.

We hold on tight 

to what we do know.

Afraid to let go

during uncertain night

and awaken in hopeful daylight.

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PUBLISH OR PERISH

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON

Each morning, I awaken and write before my mind loses its irrationality and becomes reasonable, blocking out all creativity with the fear of not being perfect. I also face each new morning dreading what I will hear about Ukraine and its people. Recently, my niece has been pushing me to organize the stacks of poetry on the kitchen table and publish a book. She nags so well that I eventually agreed. Having no interest in, nor understanding of, how to format and upload a book I began exploring but was not self-motivated enough to accomplish much until I realized I could maybe help Ukrainians by publishing a book of poetry about the ongoing war with Russia. The photo above is of the book I recently published titled SLAVA UKRAINI, Poems forPeace. It is available for purchase on Amazon at $14.99. All profits from the sale of the book will go to World Food Kitchen Ukrainian effort.

My father and his 3 brothers operated a restaurant called The Center Cafe for 38 years. Returning home to small town Ohio after WWII, they realized no one would hire Italian immigrant men. So, like all immigrants and their children before them and after, they started their own business. Like any Italian worthy of the title they started a food business. The first and last thing visitors to our home had to do was “sit and eat.” So, I chose World Food Kitchen as the donee because I understand the healing power of food served with love and compassion.

I am now determined to improve my publishing skills and make more books. My niece is happy. And I hope I am able to help Ukrainians in my own small way. I hope it means fewer Ukrainians will perish under Russian onslaught. I encourage you to help Ukraine in whichever way you choose to do so. Slava Ukraini !

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