The Last Things I Remember

source

The Last Things I'll Remember

The backyard lawn where I would lie out in the sun to tan,
with a book in my hand, a transistor radio blaring the
popular songs of the day, the warmth, slight breeze, summer

The clothesline, filled with sheets, towels, shirts, underwear,
pajamas, drying all day in the warm sun, bleaching, the smell
of fresh air baked into them, so crisp and clean, blowing.

The petunias and geraniums, my mother knees on the ground,
hands in the earth, planting and caring for them, weeds did 
not have a chance, watered with care, tended with love.

The lawnmowers, first a hand mower, my dad pushing,
then a power mower, orange, easier to use, sometimes I
would mow the lawn then, work I thought was fun.

The smell of leaves burning in fall, my dad made a
fire in fall, the flames dancing, the smell pungent, sky
dark overhead, my dad standing watch with a rake.

The front porch, sitting out on a warm summer night,
talking to neighbors who walked by, playing starlight
moonlight, watching fireflies dance, under the moon.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "The Last Things I Remember"

Twilight

photo taken by me

Twilight

Twilight.
Between day
and night.

Life moves the same way:
childhood,
youth,
adulthood,
and then this—
late adulthood,
the hour before dark.

This is where I am:
late twilight.
Wine in hand.
The sun easing down.
Still active.
Still tasting joy.
Still aware
the light is thinning.

Twilight is not night,
but it knows night is coming.
There is no stopping it,
no bargaining
with the horizon.

So—
cheese with the wine.
A quiet toast.
Not surrender,
but acknowledgment
of the dark ahead.

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

Silence

source

 Silence

Silence welcomes me home—
at last  my tired feet are up,
tea is warm in my hands.

Silence unsettles
when calls go unanswered,
when texts are not responded to.

Silence stings and hurts
when I speak to someone
and nothing comes back.

Silence deepens on Christmas Eve—
distant church bells drifting,
the world celebrates a birth.

Silence troubles me
when harm spreads
and so many say nothing.

Silence becomes worship
when I pause in stillness,
and offer thanks without words.

Silence settles at bedtime,
the noise of daytime  fading,
rest finally near.

This is written for Sumana's prompt "Silence" at What's Going On?

Two Poems on Loneliness

source

The Season Everyone Smiles Through

December arrives with its scripted cheer,
lights strung across streets and windows
decorations on doors and in yards
as if brightness alone could lift the heaviness
that settles this time of year.

I walk through stores where music insists
on joy I can’t find a way to feel,
its cheerfulness brushes against me
like a stranger who assumes we’re friends.
Everyone seems to be performing—
laughing a little too loudly,
talking about plans as though the season
still carries the magic it once did.

All around I see a hollow imitation—
ornaments hung because they always have been,
traditions kept out of habit rather than wonder.
I feel myself going through the motions,
as if the holiday is a play and I’m reciting lines
that no longer fit my mouth.

Sometimes I look at others
and wonder if they’re acting too,
if they have that same quiet thoughts,
that same suspicion that the season
has become something to endure
rather than celebrate.
But we all smile for photos,
wrap gifts and sing traditional songs,
and I can’t tell if I am the only one
who hears the silence beneath all the music.

I tell myself it’s just another year,
that I’ll step through it as I always do
like a doorway I didn’t choose—
but still must pass through—
hoping, without expecting,
that some small flicker might return
and I will feel real and alive again.

What's Missing?

In a crowded room, voices hum like bees,
words weaving around me, never through me.
I stand among others with a cup in my hand,
wondering how to enter a conversation
when nothing in me seems to match its flow.

Laughter rises, familiar and distant,
and I nod, smile, drift away in my mind—
a person among people, yet invisible—
hoping I at least look engaged
feeling the awkward quiet settle inside.

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

Resistance

 

source

Resistance

Resistance begins with a quiet mind
that rejects the media’s portrayals,
what they call truth (and isn’t),
simply refusing their story.

Resistance holds strong against despair,
enduring the flood of horrors
heard about each day,
with teeth clenched, arms folded.

Resistance pushes back against hopelessness,
eyes fixed on a flickering flame of hope.
It stands firm against giving up,
though some days make that hard.

Resistance looks toward an ending not yet visible,
noticing hairline cracks in the regime,
hoping the foundation will give way
while praying for a new dawn.

Written for Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- Resistance

---

Courage

Courage

Courage is a small thing
like going to work every day
when one is brown
and ICE is all around

Courage is a small thing
like standing near schools
with whistles to blow to warn
if ICE comes to call.

Courage is a small thing
like writing/speaking the truth
when so many bend the knee
rather than exposing lies.

Courage is being a survivor
and standing up proudly
demanding files be released
seeking justice.

Courage is six veterans
in Congress making a video 
explaining that service people
should not follow illegal orders.

Courage is doing something
either big or small 
even if only inside one's mind
which says I resist.

*******

Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On:  Words of Fearlessness or Courage

Alive

Alive

Sunlight spills through the forest,
Olive trots ahead, ecstatic,
the air full of pine and impending winter.

Red and gold of colorful autumn,
and then a sudden hush of snow,
the earth shifts its colors again.

Alive!

The highway winds ahead of me,
loud music fills my car,
and I sing my favorite songs.

A table  bright with what’s fresh,
tomatoes, berries, melon, bread,
and to drink - turmeric ginger tea.

Alive

A novel captures my mind,
pages turn one after another,
I am immersed in a new world.

An engrossing conversation drifts
from laughter to serious discussion,
the gathering leaves warmth behind.

Alive!

Each small, full moment
reminds me I am here,
breathing, awake, alert ---

ALIVE!

For Sumana's prompt for What's Going On?  -- What Makes You Feel Alive?

Black

Black

At first, it’s only the absence—
then the presence begins to breathe.
Sometimes rage, sometimes sadness,
the darkness of a black hole.

Wind tears the night apart;
sky turns heavy, metallic,
the color of fury before it breaks
as the world fades to dark.

In a room a dress hangs
between celebration and mourning.
the color that expresses everything—
formality, the grief, or perhaps
intentional understatement.

The unnamed man who would be king
keeps it in his chest like a weapon,
the darkness of a narcissistic soul.
He calls it vision,
but it stinks of rancid smoke
and pollutes the atmosphere.

There is sweetness as well --
a strand of licorice pulled between teeth,
melting slowly, coating the tongue,
staining the teeth,
bitterness covered with sugar
delicious.

My dog’s nose—
cool, shining—
presses into my palm,
as if to remind me
with her soulful ebony eyes
that darkness can love, too.

For my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Black or White"

Little Squirrel

source

Little Squirrel

Little squirrel,
you scamper on the pavement
scamper in the yard,
dash through the colorful leaves.

What are you doing, little fella,
in this month of the year
(no longer summer
but not yet winter)?
Are you still burying nuts
or are you finding those
that you already buried?

Perhaps you are just enjoying
a frolic for pleasure
like I do, as I walk my dog
who finds you quite intriguing
and would like to chase you,
as she chases the leaves,
until you are both tired.

I wonder, scampering friend, 
what my dog would do with you
if she caught you--
but worry not, little squirrel.
I will protect you from harm
(and not let her loose)
as you go about your business
of living freely and happily
in this world we all share.

This was written for Sherry's post at What's Going On? -- Kinship

What I Used to Know

source

What I Used to Know

I used to think I knew
there was an eternity—
a place without end,
a promise beyond the turning of years.

But those days are gone.
Now I wake to smaller hopes,
to mornings that ask only
that I make it through.

I no longer plan far ahead.
Next month feels like fog,
next year like a myth.

If forever exists,
I wonder what waits there—
who will be gathered,
who left behind,
and whether I will still
recognize myself.

There is so much to fear,
so much cruelty walking the earth.
If eternity is real,
let it not carry
the shadows of this world.

For now,
I keep my faith
no further than the sunrise,
and call it enough.

--------

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Eternal/Unchanging"

---

The Time of Covid

source

The Time of Covid

The book I tried to read, monotony
washing clothes, an order for pickup
a quick walk with the dog, gray skies
gray mind, new gray corduroy pants
sameness, stillness, frustration

impatience, writing, Netflix
deleting emails, covid cases climb
housebound, mask-bound, boosted
bitter cold, bitter mind, biting my tongue
people dying, democracy dying, loss of faith

the chilling cold, the boredom of the day
sameness of the day, same old same old
sadness, deeper, longer, bleaker
no respite, no escape, no change
the book I failed to read, monotony.

****

A Short Addendum

2022 peaceful times
Cocooned in my home
trapped but somewhat safe

Only today mattered
tomorrow was a question
would fear ever end?

2025 when I write this
tomorrow is still a question
will fear ever end?

For my prompt at What's Going On? -- "The Days We Stayed Apart"

The Quiet Watchers

 

The Quiet Watchers

Two small sentinels on the back of a couch,
Their ears like sails, catching every sound—
Eyes glimmering with a gentle question,
As if they know something I don’t.
Sunlight slants across their coats,
Black and white like ink on parchment,
Still and soft, yet so awake. Alive!

Behind them, blossoms fall silently.
Petals paused in their pink descent—
A world in bloom, framed by the glass
As life unfolds just out of reach.
The room hums with a hush
Only the heart can hear.

And now, they are gone.
Their warmth only memory
Their gaze now immortal
In this canvas of stillness.
The artist too has stepped
Beyond the edge of the frame,
Brush laid down, breath stilled,
Leaving me this moment captured.

I stand here now,
Looking at the ones
Who once watched me
with their intense eyes...
And shed a quiet tear.

O brief lives,
O bright sparks,
O joy curled in small bodies—
You remind me:
The couch was your throne,
The day was once infinity,
And life… a quiet, beautiful blink.

So let's love now, live now, 
Sit in the sun while we can.
Watch the world bloom.
And when the moment comes,
That we too must leave, 
Let it come gently,
Like this.

An Ekphrastic poem for Sumana's prompt at "What's Going On?"

(This poem is about the painting of my beloved pets Tulip (my heart dog) and Violet (my first toy fox terrier) done by commission by Tasmanian artist Nyra Aherne. Both the dogs and the artist are deceased. The picture hangs in my living room.)

In the Forest

 

Source

In the Forest

In the forest, Jane listened—
every leaf, every call a lesson.
She said the world is never empty,
only waiting for eyes to see.
Her life: to save Mother Nature,
and teach us to care,
so no heart grows bored or blind.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On?  -- "A Message from Jane Goodall"

So Tired

source

So Tired

I am so tired of
the news
the evil
the hatred
the lies
the greed
the uncaring
the intimidation
the suffering
the fear
of what will
happen tomorrow.

****

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

Simple as That

Olive with her beloved Lambchop

 

Simple as That

Dog has her treasure
a simple one
that makes her happy

Lambchop is her
prized possession
she keeps it near

Happiness is often
simple as that!

Written for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Creating an Image

My White Treasure

 

My White Treasure

In pristine white, you gleam and shine,

dear Honda CRV, you're mine.

No car before has claimed my heart

the way you have, right from the start.

I park you far from crowded spaces,

protect you from scratches and traces.

Every two weeks, a careful wash,

your spotless beauty makes me gush.

I vacuum your mats with gentle care,

and dust your dashboard everywhere.

White like fresh snow, pure and bright,

you fill my drives with such delight.

Your backup camera guides my way

(I'm terrible at reverse, I'll say).

Your heated seats take away winter's chill,

the steering wheel, warmer still.

Through Apple Maps, we find our way,

while music plays—different each day--

melodies through your speakers clear,

or podcasts that I love to hear.

Of all the cars I've loved before,

you've opened up a special door.

My hybrid treasure, white and true,

there's never been a car like you.

Written for my prompt at "What's Going On?"  -- Through the Windshield

Two Short Poems About Women's Rights

Source

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.

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

#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.

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

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

You are Allowed to Love

 

source

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

 

source

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

 

source

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

 

source

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

source

 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

 

source

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

 

source

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

source

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

 

source

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?

source

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

source

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

source

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

source

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

 

source

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?