Poetry

Resurrection

When I moved the tin trough with the two flowerpots of forest green leaves from under the tree by the driveway to the table on the deck I hoped a resurrection of fuchsia flowers would cascade over the edges of the container within just a few days. In the beginning the small pink flowers had been thick and resolute under the tree in the pan next to the big pot of towering mixed greens and perky white impatience. But the rosy blooms didn’t stand a chance against the insatiable deer. The ravenous bands made short order of the blossoms, leaving behind a sea of unadorned spiny spinach colored leaves. My rescue came late and the bitten through stubs left thick brown islands in a sage sea. Weeks have passed since the emancipation with no sign of burgeoning buds. I worried the deer damage was immutable and the summer would wind down without a renaissance.

But this morning…a perfect tight bud. I’ve named it “my little pink hope” atop a sea of green rubble.

Closing Eyes

Her closing eyes resonated suffering, dismay, sadness and the deepest sense of empathy, The old white woman simultaneously revealed all those emotions along with an ocean’s depth of despair. She demonstrated each feeling in a slow deliberate closing when she listened to the account.

Immigration officers in flak jackets raided the mushroom house in the next town over. They took away eight terrified workers, foraging elbow deep in compost, in a handcuffed line. It was a different eight taken than the four who were sought.
In the panic and despair no one checked the warrant. Or checked for a warrant for that matter. Actual details were sketchy but of this it was clear. The owner had shuffled in the shadowy space, speaking noncommittal mumblings wondering who would grub tomorrow. And tomorrow wide-eyed brown children waited pointlessly for parents who were not coming home.

The old white woman absorbed the account in despair and submerged in a silent meditation for love.
And a silent prayer for empathy.
And she silently raged against all that’s gone missing in this callous cruel time.

Spring Bombs

A bud’s concise anticipatory life stops time
Bracing nature in fresh shades
Briefly hushing agitated hands
Pea, grass, apple, chartreuse
Or simply green
Capturing all the subtle variances
The bursting season’s allure
Unnoticed by terrified passersby
Hauling rigid earlobe hanging shoulders
Reflexively, uncontrollably elevated
Slowing, breathing, stretching, meditating
In pursuit of a clear mind
All attempts at calm fizzle
As enormous bombs explode
Without a plan
Is there a plan?
Clearly no considered plan
Or thoughtful musing
Where rational care is needed
We observe as helpless hostages
Of a locked-in nuclear staring contest
Teetering on hair-trigger volatility
Our country’s fate trapped in erratic hands
Stranded by hopeless fear
And knotted stomach loathing
Eerie prospects cloud our brains
Smothering springtime pleasure

Veneer

Immersed in siding
The skin of the house
Cement solid sheathing
Thin veneer wrap neatly
Obscuring all that hides
Below the surface
Framing tape caulk wrap
Holding the interior
From bursting out
Chimneys skylights dormers
Preventing the exterior
From dripping through
Windows Doors Vents
Leaking through the world

Hallowed Grounds

I spoke to Jefferson that night
Or to his statue to be precise
On my visit decades later
On the side of the lawn
Hidden by dark bushes
On the deep winter night
On those grounds I had loved
During those lonely years
Where the beauty of the place
Was my favorite part

“What do you think of him?
Avoiding his name
On the virtuous ground

Sadly the answer
From his frozen gaze
Or my own addled head
He’s not an intellect
Or a patriot
Not an inventor
Or builder of anything real
Not a writer
Or a man of conviction
Not a crusader for truth
Or a champion of honor
(There are no hallowed grounds in his future)

As I take in the place
Built for learning and legacy
I pray for our beautiful country
Cringing in his path

Eyelids Tight

Eyelids tight
Mountain pose
A prayer
Lingering longer than typical
Forever please
Or twenty minutes
Steaming streaming cleansing
Drenching tangled hair
Pouring over body gullies
Speeding down the hungry drain
A feckless defensive maneuver
Attempting to thwart the deluge
It is incessant
Their daily dose of deception
Lies flood our consciousness
Seep into our subconscious
Crashing waves of stress
Cutting battle scars through brains and psyches
We’re weak in the knees from the
Constant churn teeming endlessly
The mountain stands
So far
For now
Rinsed
Patient
Strong
Awaiting a righteous end

Hostages

We are all the Iran hostages now
In college a classmate’s father was one
We wore ribbons on our gowns at graduation
In solidarity with her sad face
Honestly we weren’t really paying attention
But when I woke today it was clear
Vivid dreams of dark halls
Windowless dim red-lit rooms
I followed a young soccer player
A beautiful girl barely an adult
Down a dingy hall with carpeted floor
Striding ahead of me backpack and
Ponytail and bare feet rushing to a plane
“The tan is gone from your feet.” I said
“Just two days ago they were deep brown”
She glanced dismissively in denial
Somehow in her tan’s disappearance I knew
Our lives have reset to a new normal
With alien ships hovering overhead
The anxious news a streaming obsession
A lifeline offering little hope
Chaos surrounds the bloviator
Like Pigpen’s dusty cloud bubble
We watch his grandiosity with the sound off
Wondering how to escape

Patriots

We boil over with dumbfounded outrage
Stumbling disoriented in our disbelief
Feeling blindly for reason in the absurd
Maze of bigoted hate devoid of decency
While Camus chuckles “I-told-you-so”

We convulse uncontrollable gushing tears
In disbelief as swift hateful actions spawn
Tsunami waves flooding our cherished values
Rampaging an unknown path of Un-American
Torture casually threatening our morality

We resist hate and division as patriots
Screaming loudly “inclusion and justice for all”
Crowding terminal prisons with stalwart
Intention roaring for decency stretching toward
Downtrodden refugees huddled, tired and poor

We deliver freshly born shaky legged protestors
Born out of need ascending steep escalator
Canals flooded with brave pink-hatted women
And men who tightly grab loving hands and kindness
Fresh-minted activists homemade signs held high

Thank You

Thank you, Beautiful Man
For giving so generously
Your love of Country
And us
My goodbye heart breaks
Tonight you send us off
Setting the tone
Rallying us again
To Responsibility
To Hope
To Citizenship
Inciting us to stand strong
For decency and love
Kindly you implore
Our Kindness
You may have been too good
For what we gave back
But you gave yourself anyway
Thank you, My President