Two Short Poems About Women's Rights

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Two Short Poems About Women's Rights

#1

Consciousness raising group
What a new concept
Had to check it out
I was shy though
Didn't like to talk in groups
But I bravely gave it a try

I forget how many women
All strangers to me
So many shared their soul
Stories of sexual assault
I would never have guessed
I had no stories to add.

But the group empowered me
Women had a voice
Women had a choice
Women were not 'girls'
Women could rise up
Women could be strong.

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#2

She hated that restroom signs
were labelled 'men' for men
and 'ladies' for women.
I never would have noticed that
but once I noticed I could not unsee.
And still to this day I notice
which word public restrooms use.
She fantasized removing the 'ladies' signs
I told her to bring a screwdriver
I told her I would keep watch.
She never did, is dead now,
but even forty years later
I still check restroom signage
and still think of her.

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Written for Sherry's prompt at What's Going On -- "Women's Rights Then and Now." 

You are Allowed to Love

 

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You are Allowed to Love

You are allowed to love your body, as it is today.  Not as taut as it once was.  Even the parts that you don't like to see in the mirror.  The wrinkles on your face and the flabby skin of your upper arms and legs and ass that you purposely don't choose to view.  Your wrinkled hands.  

Your body has lived a good life, still is.  There is nothing not to love.  Nothing to hide.  No shame. Your life today is a gift as it always has been.  You are beautiful just as you are.  Look at yourself in the mirror and smile.  You are allowed to love your body.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Mirrors

Dividing Lines

 

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Dividing Lines

We draw our circles smaller and smaller,
marking territory with invisible fences—
red versus blue, young versus old,
family member versus family member,
us versus them in endless variation.

The space between grows wider
while we shout across the chasm
words that never bridge the distance,
only echo back distorted.
or are unheard at all.

What we lose in the gap:
the neighbor who might have helped
carry groceries to the car,
a friend we might have made,
the conversation that could have
shifted everything slightly toward light.

Each wall we build
makes the world smaller,
makes us smaller,
until we forget
we all bleed the same red blood,
all need the same sun,
all breathe the same air,
all break and heal
in remarkably similar ways
all are looking for love.

The rifts we tend
become the graves
we dig for understanding,
burying what we might have learned,
keeping our differences alive,
and sometimes we wonder
if there is a possibility for change..

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Rift.

The Red Canoe Cap

 

The Red Canoe Cap Surrounded By Its "Siblings"

The Red Canoe Cap

In a Toronto shop window,
something yellow gold caught my eye—
above the brim a Red Canoe maple leaf
a simple baseball cap that promised
to hold more than just my wandering hair.

Three reasons pulled me toward the counter:
souvenir search, that tourist ache
for something interesting to carry home,
the honest pleasure of liking what I saw,

and most urgently, a practical way
to tame  the rebellious hair on my head.
I pulled the strap tight,
adjusted the fit until it held
my head like a second skin,
snug enough to defy
the conspiracy of wind and weather.

Since then, it has been my faithful companion—
across the Atlantic to Stockholm's cobblestones,
through Copenhagen's bicycle-lined streets,
along the beautiful lake shores of Door County.

This one hat has by now been joined by siblings:
such as Mads Nørgaardcaps from in different hues,
a growing family of cotton crowns
to match my moods and clothes,
a family of colorful brims standing guard
against the chaos above my ears.

What began as practicality
became my signature,
this curved shield that crowns me
wherever I go.

People know me now as
the woman who wears her caps,
but most do not know they are
not so much fashion as necessity,

as if my very thoughts
might scatter in the wind
without this simple anchor
keeping everything in place.

Written for "What's Going On" -- The Stories We Wear

A Few Things About Love

 

A Few Things About Love

I used to think that when love was over it was gone,
but that is wrong, wrong wrong.  Sometimes it resurfaces
at the strangest moments when you read an obituary
and find they died of cancer and you didn't even know,

or you discover they have died and you thought, of course,
an illness, but then you read it was suicide at a railroad
crossing you know well,  and you can't get that image
out of your mind.  And then you think of another who 

died of a lingering illness, and you watched firsthand
the deterioration month by month, day by day, lived with it. 
But that death at least was understandable and relatable
because all was visible and you knew, yes you knew, 

where the path would lead. Lately I cannot get death
out of my mind but know that even when love is past tense
it is never gone, and no matter how many years pass,
painful thoughts and memories will still surface in dreams.

Other times they appear in happy dreams, carefree and relaxed,
music playing loudly as we drive, hair blowing in the breeze, 
and I try to imagine that where they are on the other side
they have good dreams of me sometime,  and I smile.

****

(Please do me a favor..watch the video above.  I don't see how anyone could watch it and not identify with it in some way.)

*****

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Love Letter from the Afterlife."

Long Distance

 

Olive

Long Distance

We don’t share the same hometown anymore,
but I still reach for your voice—
crossing miles
that feel like moons and years.

You ask the same questions each time:
Any travel plans?
What book are you reading?
Anything new?

I answer again.
I mention a trip—
you won’t remember.
I name a book—
you write it down,
but won’t read it.

We reminisce sometimes—
about childhood,
about those years working at the same school.
Those talks feel like solid ground.

I tell you Olive stories.
You love them.
That makes me smile too.

Your laughter,
still bright, still certain,
makes the forgetting bearable.

So I call.
And I will keep calling.

Written for Susan's prompt "A Weekend With Friends" at What's Going On?

Questions

 

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Questions

I was asked:
Why do you write so many poems
when no one sees you and all your hard work?

And I answer:  Because the words found me, 
and I have to listen
What else am I to do?

I was asked:
But is there a bigger purpose than that?

And I answer: Because the sun is shining,
because everything grows.
What else am I to do?

I was asked: Do you really know anything
that important to share?

And I answer:  I know nothing.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Open Link

In These Uncertain Times

In These Uncertain Times

When the  ground shifts beneath us, 
when news breaks like glass, sharp and endless,
we scroll  through our phones continually, hoping,
chasing answers that will change by morning.

Though the world feels so fractured,
the sun never forgets to rise,
even when no one is watching.
Branches continue to reach for light.

And even as we think about our life—
a friend's laughter breaks the silence,
trees and grass keep greening after rain,
a cup of tea warms the hands like a promise.

We anchor ourselves in what endures:
the simple things, the special moments
kindness, breath, love, trust, faith, hope
the quiet hope that this is not the end.

Written for my prompt for What's Going On? -- "In These Uncertain Times"

What It Means to Be Human

 

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What It Means to Be Human

To wake each morning carrying yesterday's weight
and tomorrow's uncertainty,
to feel the pull of gravity in your mind
but celebrate the laughter in your heart.

We are the species that weeps at sunsets
then destroys the forests that create them,
who build cathedrals to honor the divine
then fight wars over whose god is real.

We are capable of unspeakable cruelty—
The deliberate wound, imprisonment of the innocent,
the way we can make and idolize monsters
created from our darkest reflections.

Yet watch us in our grocery stores,
strangers helping strangers reach the high shelf,
or see how we stop our cars
for a funeral procession of people we'll never know.

We are the only creatures who know we will die
and spend our lives forgetting it,
who can imagine tomorrow
and be paralyzed by its possibilities.

We are walking contradictions—
selfish and selfless,
wise and foolish,
creators and destroyers,

always becoming,
never quite arriving,
magnificently, tragically,
sometimes gloriously human.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? ---  "Being Human."

Rest

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 Rest

The mind is a restless tenant
that pays no rent,
keeps the lights on all night,
plays the same broken records
over and over.

Sleep becomes a negotiation
with thoughts that refuse
to clock out,
a wrestling match
with phantoms
that grow stronger
in the dark.

But there are moments—
the dog's gleeful walking
ahead of me on the sidewalk,
the rhythm of my feet
against concrete
for as long as I can,
or times of exercising
at the gym, that ground me
to something real.

In these blissful moments
the storm quiets,
the phantom disappears,
the tenant steps outside
for air.

Sometimes exhaustion
is the only key
that fits the lock—
muscles heavy with use,
bones settled deep
into my couch cushions,
consciousness slipping away
like water through fingers.

This is the gift
I never asked for:
rest that arrives
not through intention
but through the body's
wise rebellion,
the sweet surrender
of falling asleep
without trying,
without fighting,
without asking
permission
from the noise
inside my head.

Written for  Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Rest

Lilacs

 

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Lilacs

Purple clusters hang heavy in May air, while
a drowsy bee skitters through lavender blooms,
as a gentle spring wind carries their sweetness
through open windows and screen doors.

I cut a few long branches with kitchen shears,
the lilac's rich perfume fills every corner as it
spreads from a vase on the table like a blessing,
delicate and intrically beautiful before the petals fall.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Fragrance

-----------------

One of the fragrances I remember from my childhood was the fragrance of the lilac bush we had in our yard.  This poem captures the essence of my lilac memories.

Peace

 

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Peace

Why conrinue to pray for peace when
the world's people have prayed  for peace 
for decades, for centuries?  Nothing changes.
Wars of hatred persist, blood  continues
to flow, and so many innocent lives are lost.

Who hears our prayers? If someone
with the power to respond listens, why
do they heartlessly do nothing?  Is prayer
a futile exercise, a crying into the wind?
How can one respect an unresponsive god?

Why continue to pray for peace in wars
or send thoughts and prayers when lives are
lost to gun violence? Are all prayers merely
empty words, feeble and pointless recitation,
ignored by an impotent or uncaring god?  

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- Yearning for Peace

Grandmothers

Grandmothers

One I never met, gone before I was born,
the other blind, dressed always in black,
her hair pulled tight in its silver bun,
shoes that shuffled across the floor.

She sat in the same chair every visit,
hands folded in her lap, not saying much
never seeing my face though I stood close,
her world shaped by sound and touch.

My small hand guided her to the kitchen,
this task given to me like a gift, a way to help,
the weight of her trust in my five-year-old fingers,
leading her where she needed to go.

One morning my cousin waked me instead of Mother,
his words falling heavy in my bedroom:
"she's gone," and I cried and said to him,
"Why didn't she wait until I saw her?"

Other children had grandmothers who baked,
who taught them to sew and told stories,
while mine lived/ lives in the space between
what I remember and what I wish I could.

For Sherry's prompt at "What's Going On?"

This poem is totally true.  The only grandma I knew died when I was five or six. I wish I did have more grandma memories than this.  I have one photo somewhere, but I cannot find it.  Thus no photo.

Unbirthday Reflections

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Unbirthday Reflections

I always forget how old I am
The number slips away like water
Perhaps forgetting is its own mercy
A gentle shield against the counting

I prefer to think of unbirthdays
Those days when I am simply here
Not marking time's relentless passage
Just being, without the weight of years

The mirror shows a face I recognize
But in my mind I'm still that younger self
Who believed in endless tomorrows
Before I learned to fear the calendar

Birthdays make me inventory loss
The empty chairs at smaller tables
Voices that once sang my name
Now echoing only in memory

I don't need gifts wrapped in bright paper
Just take me somewhere warm and fed
Let's celebrate another year survived
Not the birthday, but the breathing still

The numbers whisper what I know
How few candles may be left to blow
But I'll choose forgetfulness tonight
And let tomorrow find me young

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Birthdays

Summer's Gift

 

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Summer's Gift

At noon the sun reaches its jackpot height
spills golden light across the lake
where children splash like wild animals
free from winter's grip at last

The radio plays old songs on the dock
while ice cream melts like silk
down sticky fingers that clutch wooden
popsicle sticks as hearts dream summer dreams

This season cures the madness
of gray February mornings
calls us outdoors to chase fireflies
and stay awake past reasonable hours

For Shay's Word Garden

The Pull of Two Loves

Olive and her leash!

The Pull of Two Loves

Olive brings me her leash
Eyes bright with trail dreams
While the book waits open
A bookmark marking its my place.

She pictures us walking
Through forest path and trail
I picture myself reading
In the perfect afternoon light

She nips a bit at my ankle
The story pulls me deeper
Fresh air calls through windows
The plot is at a crucial point.

I put on my walking boots
Then sit down with the book
I bookmark my place
Then stand at the door

Good little Olive waits patiently
The good book waits patiently
I want to be the person
Who gives both what they deserve

But here I sit with boots on
A book in my lap, leash by the door

Written for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Contradictiions"

Do You Hear the People Sing?

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Do You Hear the People Sing?

Do you hear the people sing
Their voices rising from the streets
Where anger transforms into action
And despair becomes determination

The drumbeat echoes in our chests
Matching the rhythm of our hearts
Each pulse a promise to our children
Each beat a vow we will not break

We gather words like weapons
Poetry sharp as any blade
Our phones become our battle cries
Our marches shake the ground we walk

In coffee shops and city streets
In letters to Congress late at night
In every vote cast with conviction
Democracy draws another breath

The drum keeps beating in the distance
Our hearts keep beating in reply
We will not let hope suffocate
Under the weight of what we've already lost

So raise your voices and let's join hands
March with whatever strength you own
Whether whispered or shouted loud
Let every song we sing become a stone

Do you hear the people sing

Written for my prompt "Do You Hear the People Sing?" at What's Going On?

No Time To Make Things Pretty

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No Time to Make Things Pretty

This is no time to make things pretty.
Accept things just as they are.
Forgive yourself for the paper airplane that doesn't fly,
the frozen blueberries you opened wrong,
the dirty dishes you made and left in the kitchen.

No, this is no time to make things pretty.
Sometimes dogs make a mess eating their food,
or you leave magazines strewn on the floor
Often the sandwich that tastes good isn't well formed
or laundry isn't immediately put away, 

No, this is no time to make things pretty.
Accept the anger you feel about the world
and the tears you cry that do no good.
You say what you later regret, cannot take back,
and you still haven't returned the call.

Just accept these things as they are.
Aim instead for a different kind of greatness.
Forgive yourself your failures, messes, humanity
Feel free to live with your imperfections
Admit them. Accept things as they are.

This is for Sherry's prompt at "What's Going On?"  -- This is No Time to Make Things Pretty

Lost in Thought

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Lost in Thought

I drift in and out of consciousness
like a flock of birds across the sky.
My daydream dressed in absinthe costumes
swirls like rainwater down a drain

The tornado of my thoughts carries me
past a lily pond where a horse drinks deeply.
Jazz notes float from a distant henhouse,
reality blurs at its gentle edges

How sweet to escape without moving,
to travel worlds within four walls,
my mind's eye seeing what isn't there,
creating universes in afternoon light.

Written for Shay's Word Garden

Reflections on Grief

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Reflections on Grief

These days I find myself forever grieving,
not for a death but for the way things were
a year ago, a month ago, even yesterday.

I used to look forward with hope 
to events in the next day, month, year,
to plan ahead with no dread in my heart.

Now I fear each tomorrow--
more hateful directives, more chaos
that will make living more worrisome for all.

Grief is my constant sleep partner,
inconsiderately waking me in the night,
its shackles weighing down my days.

I devise my own therapy--
exercise. music surrounding me, 
long walks with my dog,  a book, TV.

It saddens me to lose valuable time
searching for relief rather than savoring joy,
allowing grief to steal the light that remains.

Written for What's Going On? -- Susan's prompt is Grief.

The Coming Ruin

 

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The Coming Ruin

Crowds gather in protests almost weekly,
their faces show their worry and fear.
The foundations of democracy we trusted
now shake and tremble beneath our feet.

At night immigrant parents hug children,
so many demonized for seeking sanctuary.
We were once a nation with arms open,
now we're building walls of fear and hate.

Military decisions made by Fox News hands
that never understood consequence or truth.
The guardians of the safety of the nation
guided by dangerous incompetence.

The President sneers in his rooms of gold,
as the ordinary people helplessly suffer.
Oligarchs whisper in power's ear,
work out self-serving deals behind closed doors.

Our education, was the envy of the world
dismantled piece by methodical piece.
The ladder that lifted generations
now has its scientists fleeing abroad.

Words once free now carry cost,
each syllable weighted with risk.
The privilege of speaking truth
becomes a dangerous act of courage.

In homes across the nation,
sleepless nights multiply, smiles forced.
Anxiety creeps into everyday moments,
a wrecking ball to people's mental health.

At grocery stores, prices climb,
eggs more expensive than before.
Tariffs make necessary items more expensive
to provide tax cuts for the most wealthy.

Public health is guided by a science denier.
Vaccines—miracles of modern medicine—
rejected by incompetents tasked with protection,
leaving us all vulnerable, feeling unsafe.

The Constitution, once honored and treasured,
words fading with each passing day.
Its wisdom and warnings ignored, stamped on,
purposely misinterpreted by those with power.

We taught our children to look forward,
to believe tomorrow brings better days.
Now we avert our eyes from the horizon,
as we helplessly watch darkness approach.

Is this the final chapter of our story,
the closing of a grand experiment?
I hate to think, but fear, that it is.
I'd like to find a shread of hope.

Written for Sumana's prompt "Ruin" at What's Going On?

World in Upheaval

 

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World in Upheaval

Whole nations tremble like tulips in storm winds,
their borders redrawn by those who seek power
The elegant structures we built lie fractured
by  the evil ones who sleep comfortably in beds of red.

Ivy-covered universities crumble like bricks,
traditions once sacred now questioned, forbidden.
The glittering promise of democracy flickers—
a candle flame that is growing dimmer each day.

We all stand witness to history's cruel turning,
watch as maps are redrawn with different names.
The world aches for its former stability, sanity, 
but each new day arrives with uncertain light.

Written for Shay's Word List - Sharon Olds

Waking to Peace

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Waking to Peace

In my dream the world exhaled,
breathing a collective sigh of relief
as weapons fell silent in Gaza and Ukraine.
Earth celebrated the absence of explosions.

Children played in streets once emptied by fear,
their laughter a new anthem of joy,
their hands linked across the differences
that adults had once made mountains of.

At borders, closed gates swung open
as the United States remembered its promise,
still carried in people's hearts: "Give me your tired,
your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free."

The fears of tomorrow lifted from shoulders
like a heavy coat removed after winter.
People walked taller, looked longer at sunsets,
smiled, remembered how to breathe deeply again.

Democracy stood renewed,
not as a fortress under siege
but as a garden tended by many hands,
roots deepening, strengthening with each season.

I woke with tears on my pillow,
not knowing if they were joy or grief,
the dream so vivid I could taste it—
that world we keep reaching for, reaching.....

Written for my prompt "Waking to Peace" at What's Going On?

Poetry Is...

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Poetry Is....

Poetry is finally coming up with
an idea after struggling to 
find one forever.

Poetry is putting your thoughts
into socially accepted words
but still being honest.

Poetry is finding a way to write
about a subject you have
nothing to say about.

Poetry is letting words flow first
and then discovering what
meaning emerges later.

Poetry is reaching for depth
when you don't know
what you want to say.

Poetry is finding fresh perspective
on a subject you've turned over
in countless poems before.

Written for Sherry's prompt at "What's Going On?" -- Poetry Is.......

 

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Seeds of Tomorrow

Deep in the soil, seeds nestle unseen,
Draw strength from earth's bounty.
They patiently wait for spring's touch
Converting light to life, water to wonder.
What begins as a speck, fragile and small,
Reaches toward the sky with determination,
Fulfilling the promise inside its core.

So too, the hope we carry inside ourselves —
A seed planted in the garden of our hearts.
It needs the nourishment of kindness,
The sunlight of small victories (we pray) ,
The steady rain of persistence (let it be so).
When tended with care and faith (we try to have),
It grows into the tomorrow we hope to imagine.

Written for Susan's prompt "Seed" at What's Going On?

In April

 

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April

April is one of those months
that can go either way
sort of like life these days
but we always hope for
new life
rebirth of hope
a new dream
as we welcome green grass
we pray that the worst
is behind us for a time
and we can once again
dance in spring rain.

For Sumana's prompr at What's Going On? -- "In April"

I Hope When It Happens

 

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I Hope When It Happens

I hope when it happens I have time to say
oh this is how it is happening.

I am not sure that I will though as I
have a feeling it will happen when it
is unexpected.

I hope when it happens I have time
to say I love you one more time.

I am not sure that I will though as I
don't know where I will be and if you
will be there.

I hope when it happens I will feel I have
made something pretty with my life.

I am not sure that I have but there is
nothing wrong with hoping even about
something like that.

I hope when it happens I have time to say
oh this is how it ends....... or begins.

---------

This is a poem I wrote in 2021 (with a few revisions), but never shared it here.  I quite like it.

For "What's Going On?" Open Link

Saltwater

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Saltwater

Saltwater rises on distant shores,
salty tears roll down my cheeks.
climate regulations fade like footprints in sand,
and polluting smokestacks reclaim the skies.

The data they cruelly choose to ignore
the warnings they maliciously brush aside
as ice shelves crumble into the deep
and habitats shrink and die.

Once-pristine rivers turn toxic and brown
places where otters and fish no longer play
ancient forests fall silent, one by one
as creatures lose their homes of yesterday.

Policies abolished with greedy hands
treaties reduced to unreclaimable ash
as saltwater floods the coastal towns
salty tears  proclaim my grief.

For Sherry's prompt "Saltwater and Whales" at What's Going On?

Tourist in My Dream

Basilique du Sacre Coeur

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Tourist in My Dream

Last night I dreamt of walking the narrow streets of Paris
a scarf around my neck and ribbon in my hair

visiting Montmarte to contemplate the artists
painting golden visions of the Basilique du Sacre Coeur
and when I had fully indulged my artistic passion

I relaxed with a sweet treat and cappuchino 
enjoying the sights and sounds of people walking by
while writing a letter to someone I wished I knew.

For Shay's Word Garden

Equinox

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Equinox

The equinox arrives as freedom's flame is perceptively waning,
and the sun casts shadows longer and darker than before.
Disheartened crowds gather beneath turbulent, stormy skies, as 
green shoots of resistance try to find cracks in the pavement.

Promises of a bright future are ripped from collective memory,
as a chilly silence replaces what was once spoken freely.
Even scampering robins now choose their tunes with caution,
their melodies now carrying notes of shared sadness.

As we humans walk together under a barely sunny sky,
the perfect balance of day and night mourns our despair
as liberty tilts toward darkness at this March equinox.
How will we stand firm against the frightening tide?

Written for Susan's prompt "Equinox" at What's Going On?

March Transitions

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March Transitions

The fox knows by instinct
what humans cannot know
the hidden arrival of spring
beneath cold, mute soil.

The sky shifts in seconds,
clouds act out dramas
with no ticket required,
nature's private art.

Funny how weeds emerge
before prized blooms,
ribbons of green awaken
from their naked sleep.

We humans crash through days
while animals pause,
alert to cricket songs
in the quiet of evening.

Written for Shay's Word Garden

 

Beauty

 

Beauty

How many years of beauty do I have left?
Not that I ever considered myself beautiful
but when I look back at photos of myself
over the years I do see beauty there but

I did not recognize my beauty at the time.
I always compared myself to others
and found myself to fall short in beauty.
Now I realize I was wrong.  I was beautiful.

I am beautiful.  We all are.  But often
it is easier to see others' beauty and to
negate one's own.  This is going to stop now.
How many years of beauty do I have left?

As many years of beauty as years to live.

Shared for Sumana's prompt "Beauty" at What's Going On?

One of Today's Heroes

One of Today's Heroes

Governor Janet Mills was asked
whether her state would comply with
executive orders banning transgender
women from participating in sports.

She answered that she was complying
with state and federal laws.
She was told she better do it or 
he would withhold  money from Maine.

Her state's autonomy threatened,
she answered with words sharp
as winter wind,"See you in court!"
Her voice carried no tremor of doubt.

***

In these days of darkness and fear

we look for anchors of courage

for those willing to take a stand

who refuse to bend a knee.

These moments mark our path forward

and hopefully a chorus will form

and with greater and greater momentum

people will resist the threatening storm.

Written for my prompt "Heroes" at What's Going On?

Here is the news story on which this poem was based:
https://www.cnn.com/2025/02/22/us/maine-trans-athletes-trump/index.html

Who, Just Who?

Who, Just Who?

Who has the audacity to speak up
with voice as loud as a cardinal's call
to erase the lies spread by the yappy one?

Who will claw back the curtain of ignorance,
expose the sissy-ass traitors to humanity,
then exile them to the deepest, darkest sea?

Who,  dear children, just who, will it be?

Written for Shay's Word Garden List

In These Times of Darkness

 

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In These Times of Darkness

In these times of darkness we must find ways to collect light,
open our windows, be sure that trees don't block the sun,
stay away from dark clouds that are so prevalent in our world.

Without light there is no hope.  Without light the darkness rules.
We must hold each others' hands with eyes facing skyward as we chant
hopeful psalms to fend off the dark, but often I wonder if it is enough.

How it is possible to keep faith in God and humanity in these dark days?
Can we find enough light somehow to mend our world?
In these times of darkness, can we find ways to collect light?

For Sherry's prompt "The Dark" at What's Going On?

Such is Life

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Such is Life

Life is filled with messiness -
even our dreams are now rough
no longer is there a handsome prince
more likely a brutal wind and jagged ice
or stones we can no longer throw.

A specter says drink to the future
bask in the fruits of your labor 
but get your ducks in a row now
while you still can and then
try to forget what you didn't know

For Shay's Word List

Angels

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Angels

Where are the angels when you need them?
Sometimes when I consider the absurdity of life
I imagine one of them as my protector
and no matter how many rockets he launches
and no matter what his blueprint for evil
I will somehow be safe in my bubble
speaking my own nervous dialect
not ready for an  inscription to be written
on my tombstone quite yet.
Angel, please show yourself!

Written for Shay's Word Garden

 

Light

 

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Light

If you want light to flood your body you must
open yourself up to all that gives light.
Some days it will be only the sun.

Other times it will be a poem you read
or even a poem you write. Light comes
from outside and from within.

Light washes down and washes away,
Light helps you see what you need to see
even if you don't want to see it,

Light is not judgmental, kind or unkind,
may discover what you have looked for
or what you didn't want to know.

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For Susan't prompt "Light" at What's Going On?

Wisconsin Winter

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Wisconsin Winter

Winter screams across bare ground this year, so different from winters past when snow blanketed everything in pristine and peaceful white. This year we face bitter days where wind cuts sharp and deep, and what little snow falls melts too quickly into earth, becoming only a memory.  The brown-green grass lies visible and fragile, much of it stomped down. (Will it rise again in spring?) The skeletal trees stand watch over their domain along the forest path I often walk. Dark branches seem to be etched against a colorless, cheerless sky. They keep their vigil over the woods-living animals that still make their way through these overcast days  and manage to survive - the stealthy coyote, white-tailed deer, quick rabbits and squirrels, night-roaming raccoons, and others. Though my willing pup pulls at her leash when I walk, I  turn away more often from our familiar forest path, more quickly head for home, a refuge from the world. The unforgiving brown of winter without snow's mercy weighs heavy on my spirit. It has been a brutal winter in so many ways. For so many days.

Bare branches reaching
into pale winter morning—
the wind's bitter song

This was written for Sherry's prompt "Landscapes" at What's Going On?

 

Untitled

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Untitled

So often they lose their voice
as they move toward the grave
what used to be their story
becomes others' story to tell
they sit bundled with quilts on the sofa
wonder when last they were kissed
lost in songs of the past
life has turned into a bizarre joke
but they will mask their sorrows
as they seek to die with grace.

Written for Shay's Word Garden List

Eve of Destruction

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Eve of Destruction

The whole country is exploding
Tensions high and fear imploding
Our polarized nation is torn apart
And this is only just a start.

Criminals have control of the land
They claim to be God's right hand
Support the rich, disregard the poor
Threaten land grabs, plan for war.

But you tell me we are not
on the Eve of Destruction.

They don't believe in climate change
Don't want to work across the page
More oil wells is the answer to greed
Electric cars they try to impede.

The richest wants to control the sphere
Make all countries tremble in fear
Their greed respects no sanctity
They want to control all land and sea.

But you tell me we are not
on the Eve of Destruction.

They mock science with damnation
dismiss Covid as pure fabrication
Bird flu is of minimal concern
Vaccinations something to spurn.

They want to keep women under control
First their bodies and then their soul
their voices silenced, freedoms banned
Their rights erased with one command.

But you tell me we are not
on the Eve of Destruction.

Written for my prompt "Eve of Destruction" at What's Going On?

Today As It Is

Today as It Is

I am absent from life today
there is an ominous chill to the air
while I was napping life changed
the shriek of the owl was ominous
I should have paid attention.

I don't know if I will ever return
the slippery slope leads to damnation
perhaps we need a ceremonial salute
or a somber cello tune playing
to signify it is not a dream.

Gone is the golden age I guess
we never thought it would come
my gaze now is a fixed stare
smiles are forced or few
yabber-yabber consumes my day.

For Shay's Word Garden Word List

In My Deepest January

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In My Deepest January

In my deepest January
when nightmare shadows expose
democracy's shattered, broken heart
I struggle already to remember that
more peaceful, carefree times existed.

The world I knew seems to have
vanished like ash scattered by wind,
as rage and fear fill the streets,
truth hidden by the mist of deception,
and we wonder whose voices to trust.

The television screams with endless stories,
as I use it for both information and ecape.
Dogs rest beside me, untroubled, calm,
remind me of a lost innocent time that
existed an eternity of only two months ago.

I realize now  that I have had a good life,
have memories enough for two lifetimes.
I never thought I'd be one who would 
yearn so strongly for the good old days, 
but now regret they have passed forever.

I cannot yet see beyond this darkness.
As I search for hope, I cannot find its light.
January stretches, never ending, before me,
longer than any winter I have known.
I fear tomorrow's path leads us to our doom.

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This is written for two prompts this week:
Shay's Word List
Sherry's prompt "In My Deepest January" at What's Going On?
Why?  This week I am struggling with both creativity and time.
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Sharing a few pictures of Olive, who is now 8 months old, for cuteness and smiles.
She was just spayed last week and is wearing  human 6-month-old onesie on these very recent pictures so she doesn't lick her sutures (rather than the 'cone of shame.'). She actually does not mind the onesie at all!