They tiptoe around back,
velvet flanks broad,
flashes of cream tails,
not raised in alarm,
but wagging in whispers,
graceful necks dipping for moss
or lifting for leaves.
I nearly missed them,
these soft, silent, beauties.
Don’t you, too.
Keep an eye out for the
nearly silent beauty,
still nibbling away
at the underside of shade.
It’ll be what keeps us going,
keeps us lifted and searching,
ears twitching, feet pattering
toward goodness and mercy.
Find and follow the tender path.
There’s still softness to be found.
Something emerges through the darkness,
something bursting,
ripe and ready,
hatching open,
breaking free.
A natural,
inexorable need
to live and thrive
that cannot be contained.
The time for
escalation is now.
Don’t stop.
Breathe through the ugliness,
the pain, the wreckage,
the fear.
Stay strong.
Be of good courage and
Believe
in this consummation of love
rippling its way,
clawing its way
beneath the strawberry moon,
so fruitful.
Watch it
multiply.
Seems about right,
this new walking fad comes to light
during the apocalyptic second term
of a cult leader ready to burn
all semblance of normalcy,
of decency, of democracy—
his policy driven by bended knee
to the almighty dollar,
his minions donning loyalty collars,
lapping up his Kool-Aid
praising every tirade,
every military parade,
banishment of any aid,
both foreign and domestic
as they bow and genuflect.
You’ll know them by their
orange passion and flair,
their unabashed disdain -
insane rage - for the sage
value of any initiative,
or presumed derivative,
involving social diversity,
inclusion and equity,
and any sort of empathy.
They silence other voices,
take away choices,
arrest and deport,
rewrite history, report
falsities, deny science,
are completely defiant
of research,
disbelieving the experts
in favor of the perverts
of justice and truth
with their sawtooth
smiles and weaponized wiles.
They blaspheme and defame,
shame and blame the women
among us, denigrate the more-melanined
among us, belittle the neuro-divergent
among us, arrest the daring outspoken
among us, fire those who dare protest
among us, infiltrate the most sensitive
information about us.
Sheep carcasses are strewn
from Wall Street to the White House lawn,
as his followers applaud
the “gets worse before it gets better” lore.
Meanwhile the rich get richer and the poor
get whiplash trying to wrap their heads around
the crumbs tossed to the ground
from the wealthiest of these pockets,
holding onto the promise -- a return to greatness
to antiquatedness, to the adulterated-ness
of a lesser democracy, when liberty wasn’t free
for all of us.
Back to the times and crimes
and political climes
of bleeding women dying in back streets
and strange fruit hanging on southern trees.
But stories like these are lambasted,
then categorically blasted
from statue placards
and archival records,
from websites and libraries
naval academies,
elementary, middle and secondary schools
for everyone must follow his rules
or lose funding or worse
in this insanely alternate universe
we find ourselves in –
as impossible to comprehend
as me finding time to bend
60 minutes of walk time
at 6 in the morning or 6 at night
in my chaotic scene
of kids and work and chasing dreams.
As impossible to believe
as a nation that would take leave
of its senses to follow its leader/redeemer,
who loves wealth and self, is a schemer
a hyperbolic screamer,
a traitor, manipulator,
a tyrant,
aberrant
idiot, and absolute,
insufferable bore.
So Resist this anti-democracy,
anti-christ-like
blaspheming orange aberration,
I challenge you.
Resist him, I beg you.
Resist him – today.
for honeyed light,
and fuzzy blossoms,
warmer breezes,
brighter days
daffodil and
cricket whispers
Mary Oliver
songs of praise.
calmer seasons,
softer reasons,
searching, finding
helping ways,
words of wisdom,
sanguine answers,
Barbara Kingsolver
takeaways.
calm reserves
and ample courage,
understanding
of the mess,
fortitude
to band together,
Margaret Atwood
cleverness.
Mary Shelley’s
flip the monster,
Virginia Woolf’s
collective views,
Madeline Miller’s
new perspective,
Alice Walker’s
use the bruise.
Perkins Gilman’s
righteous anger,
Angelou’s
escape the cage,
Angela Carter’s
dark and twisty,
Hansberry’s
take center stage.
Women Writers
came before us,
Women Writers
writing still.
may we read them,
may we be them,
grab our quills,
exert free will.
do some damage.
wreak some carnage.
sound the gongs,
and right the wrongs.
strong solutions
and ablutions,
lead the way
to brighter days.
I’m oh-so-done with the darkness and gloom
so ready to disregard heralds of doom
for greener pastures, sweeter natures
softer scenes and lesser dangers.
But can I, should I, turn away,
pretend it’s not happening every day —
the fabric and flesh of American dreams
aren’t being gutted, torn loose at the seams?
So much vicious carnage, fresh blood every day,
pooling, congealing, while most look away.
I gawk and claw and scream at the trends,
try to wake neighbors, coworkers and friends;
but so few are listening, so lost in their role:
red-blooded Americans losing their soul
to their man and his crony who’s bleeding them dry
of things they would normally never abide:
like liberty, bank accounts, morals, good sense
how long will they sit and forget self defense —
(that right they hang hats on
campaigns on,
their money and more).
How long ‘til it becomes
an ironical right that
the blindly-following right
have hanged themselves —
and every last one of us –
on?
It’s February, and a finch couple
flits from branch to branch
between waxy camellia leaves,
plucking at blossoms, at twigs.
It’s early yet to feather a nest,
so maybe they’re searching for
aphids, simply sustaining
themselves in this long winter.
I, too, need sustaining
in this long, bleak winter
and turn to poetry to search
for truth, diversion, comfort,
calm, as entire branches of
our great nation are stripped
of softness. Too riddled,
we’re told, with corruption.
And while pruning keeps things
healthy, this is far from healthy —
all decency peeled and hacked
to feed and feather already
substantial nests.
And I am at a loss which way to lean
with my poems in this storm. To settle
in and steel myself against the cold
currents left after caring and kindness,
inclusion and liberty and justice for all
are gone. To write of soft feathered things
staying the course, perching in the soul,
and singing loudly for all to hear?
Or to steel myself with implements of war?
To load my poems with brimstone and
fire, flashes of anger, to sound the alarm,
to blast the eye and ear of friends,
neighbors, countrymen.
And whichever way I go… will anyone
listen? Will anyone care? As they
don’t seem to care anymore anyway.
postmodernfamilyblog 