Blue

Heaven knows.

We lost the race,

Lost the blue ribbon

But looking up there was blue

In the sky to share,

 

Enough for all, I thought.

But they took their ball

And went home anyway,

I kept the sky to share with those

Who needed blue.

Whitewash

As a little girl,
She read a book where whitewashing was done on walls and fences.
She pretended to be Tom
Swishing and brushing to put a shine
Where the fence was between
The neighbors.
Swish, splash, she turned her head
Looking for missed spots in the surface.

As a woman,
She worked long hours for a firm
That asked her to clean up
After their long day of dealings,
So she bent over her computer
Editing the to and from
The up and down
She washed the pages clean of color
Transposed them into a harmless key.

As an ancient one,
She sat and snipped her luscious
Thread, using the rainbow
Stitching and splicing
Ribbons created of long colored
Memories that never
Were just as they were remembered.
She thought of her paint brushes,
Dry and gone, from when she ran out of white paint.


After School and the Bullies

She
Was Small
And filled with
Doubt.      Dread
Filled         Time in
Classes         Where she
Watched           Learned about
Why she               Felt so different
From the                 Other children who
Played with              Dolls, makeup and boys
While she                      Read about Asia and war
She stitched                     Herself into a painting
Dressed in                        Red laughing at the camera
Her book                                Children who Shared and went
Hungry                                     And while the playground ran then
Emptied until                            Only bullies were left to invite her upon
The slide                                           And they tipped her over the side to lay
Mocked. Waking                                 to the Dark, as they walked away laughing,

Formless and bloody in a puddle, next to the slide.

Please help in the fight against bullying on our playgrounds, in our schools and on the internet. Take a stand for those who are different. Thanks.

E is Not Empty

I won’t scribble you away,
Nor toss your soul.
Not leave you faceless
Alone,
Or tormented
By a blank page.
I see you
Trending,
Launching with joy
At your clutched letter.
A publisher
Of humanity
Wanting to find your
Joy, your footstep
That will take you into eternity
With other poets who await you.

(Written for a StormcloudKitten)

The Old Woman’s Song

trouble in trouble city,
we all know the words,
lifting our heads up,
watching the sky singing,
old songs which never die,
left my innocence behind,
brought my wisdom with my chair,
a book upon each knee,
trouble in trouble city,
will catch an ear pulling from me

 

@2016 AnnWJWhite

Music, Poetry, Prose and Changing Times

Music, poetry and writing are the methods of following change in the U.S. Music uses repetition, rhythm and where it helps, rhyme. Rhyme is difficult because it has to further the message without over simplifying it. The movement of the blues and jazz, of black hymns, of swing, put such energy into music of the common man that we needed the sixties events to sway us into all of the rock genres. We had radios. That’s nothing in today’s world but in the sixties and seventies TVs and radios became cost effective to own. It was a social revolution. The process of miniaturization was on the development tables. We had seat belts in cars. We didn’t have to rely on a newspaper that was out of date before it was printed. No, words of the doings of man seemed rocketed to us. And we sang songs and danced to welcome the changes.
At the time I was in college studying music performance in the 70s, there was a dispute over the role of modern music (as it’s now labeled). We studied the classics, progressive, gregorian chant, romantics, baroque, and folk music through the ages. Plus we had our own style emerging in direct response to our environment. The music of the sixties and seventies was so powerful that it swayed a huge portion of the population into a passionate response. There were messages that were so powerful they couldn’t be spoken with the same impact. We demonstrated, stood up for rights and believed we could achieve them. We saw West Side story on the TV with Leonard Bernstein conducting. We wept tears at a story that Shakespeare told so long ago put into our world where racism was real and the South was dangerous. Times changed quickly. Things that seemed my parents had always known suddenly exposed themselves for what they were, new and changing to meet the demands of the entire population of the U.S.When I graduated in 1975, Native Americans were about to be given the vote if they lived on so-called government “reservations.” In 1976, Title 9 came into being giving women a new outlet in sport. It was a real challenge. In 1977, I was in the last basic training class of only women. We wore the Woman’s Army Corps insignia all the way through basic, and it was retired with our graduation. Standards changed and people changed with them.

Poetry and music lyrics share similarities, and they both deviate in how they are used. The tools are there.  California Dreaming is said to have a simple set of lyrics, but the concept was new. The method of delivery was new. The fact that the idea was accessible was also something new. We’d seen and heard Elvis. He outlined the status quo for us. We saw John Wayne who was the ultimate macho man. We learned from the music that the Beach Boys sang. And there were many new lessons.  We didn’t have to stay in one place for the rest of our lives. We could travel and that concept brought on a period of extreme social change, and because of the Kennedy brothers being murdered, the image of Jackie’s son saluting the flag covered coffin, the tragic death of Martin Luther King Jr, the music we heard was portraying both sides of our society, good and ill.

We knew more. We questioned our roles as women, becoming a stronger voice for the right to be more than in the past. Men had to choose an image that the TV wanted to suppress, macho or stupid were portrayed as the two options they had. The TV hyped Jackie Gleason and John Wayne. But there were strong elements there too ; The Smothers Brothers and Laugh In. Intelligence in both sides of our species. Only the messages mattered. I watched those “Commie Pinko Shows” with my parents and we loved to laugh at the mixture of music, jokes, skits and just plain fun. It was hard to believe that that was dissident thinking, it’s still hard for me to believe. It seemed like the John Stewart Daily Show, a representation of our world with humor.

My generation talked. My mother’s generation talked and we communicated. That was strange. For many many years when I needed a wise best friend, my mother was the one to turn to, she always had a song for an aching heart, a melody for an infant, a poem for a toddler. She’s still my best friend. But, I digress, we were talking about love and (deep breath) sex. That was new. We were talking about current events and we knew them because of the TV and radio. We talked about, sang about, and demanded social change. For a little while, things did change. It looked like the dreams of the 60s were coming true. I was all in favor of a nicer kinder world, like the one Stevie Wonder sang about. I loved his lyrics, music and optimism. I loved Peter Paul and Mary, and Janis Ian, Phoebe Snow, Shawn Phillips, the Who, and the what, where, and why.

Then came the period of the 80s and our social progression and ethics changed. We became more egocentric, the accumulation of things by adults became more intense. Money was the important thing. Do unto others before they do unto you. You saw the black rage at society with rap because of the inequities that life provided them, again with rhyme and a strong bass, words so powerful that they broke your heart, angered you, or made you sorrow. You had grunge begin in the white population in protest of materialism, surely there had to be more to life than this existence, and suicide took some of the best artists. You saw alcoholism appear strongly in music where it had been mostly in prose before that time. Drug addiction was still referred to with stealthy whispers, “Only that kind of person does drugs.”

Then the internet took off. We could afford computers at home that had more power in each case that the huge rooms of data banks from the past. They improved every day. Technology doubling itself, faster and faster. There was a rebooting of the seventies material in the 2000s, issues that had been laid aside, brought their messages back. It looks simplistic but it represents who and what we are today.

Poetry is complex with people finding a voice in a nearly forgotten format. It isn’t always clear in its message, it requires thought and the interpretation doesn’t guarantee that you understand what the author meant. But the reader’s message is equally valid. Old dusty professors will always come up with a different interpretation that those studying under them, twenty to forty years younger. Time changes our outlook. Music simplifies the message. Aaron Copland’s A Lincoln Portrait is straight forward and the music heightens the experience so you don’t forget the simple words. Puff the Magic Dragon was and is a story for the imagination of the young and old, not a drug message. Where have All the Flowers Gone is a song about the repetition of the mistakes that we repeat as a society. The Beach Boys was about having some fun and not becoming too serious to soon. “Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tack and they’re all made out of ticky tack and they all look just the same.” A protest about the loss of creativity and the sameness that felt forced upon us.

The audience and the message have to concur before fame occurs. We have something to say, audience needs to want it. Music and writing are two vehicles to send a message that will leave footprints long after we are gone. The amazing thing is that because of the internet, writing and music are marching around the world demanding to be read and heard. Cuba allowed some old English rockers to perform in Cuba and they wanted to go meet fans who could have been jailed for listening. They performed for free. Imagine that. Classical music is performed for free on the streets and plazas of the world. Day concerts of Beethoven, so that the music lives on. Bach is used to heighten our knowledge of math. So is Mozart. Wagner introduced a social message that helped bring on World War II and the quest for supremacy. What a powerful medium emerged! Tolkien took Wagner’s message and wrote a message of opposition and unity in the face of evil. There was a cartoon, Wizards, that took a cartoon audience through the message that Tolkien took four lengthy novels to write. Before Tolkien was Dickens with his eternal belief that we have to believe in the good of people, that good would overcome greed, that good people would be rewarded. There was Plath who suffered from severe bouts of depression, her poetry was part of her therapy. She needed meds. We all have a little bit of all who have come before and while poetry-blind as the times may be, I know a revolution of poets just waiting to emerge. Just check in on LinkedIn.

It isn’t the written word alone that is swaying thought, it’s the combination of music and attainable art, attainable word, dance, politics, social ills, and the acceptance of change. There is nothing simple about it. I find myself singing the damnedest things at strange moments. And behind all of the musicians, writers, politicians, do gooders and tyrants are the messages that the common human needs to hear to preserve their sense of self. There’s nothing simple about lyrics, only that when analyzed out of context and condemned as primary, elementary, simplistic, and even moronic, aren’t. But the analyst is a fool to think they can control the reception something gets. We’re evolving, and we demand the right to hear ourselves reflected in art.

No No No

When I said, “Do something.” I never meant to endorse violence against policemen. I watched Raw Story tonight, just a few minutes ago, and Dallas blew up tonight. A group of riflemen, technically homemade assassins, found an elevated site and 11 shot and 4 killed officers who were just on peacekeeping. This was a lawful assembly but someone decided to shot back.

Now I watch the news and am impressed by the behavior of both the protesters and police. No one wanted violence when they put together a night of peaceful protest.

Do something legal. Don’t take the law into your own hands.

It’s that TIME again.

It’s that time again, where if you are not actively angered that people in this country are being targeted by cops (professional police??),  because of their color, race, religion, sexual orientation than you are seriously confused. This is war, brought on good black citizens with permits and nice cars driving with daughters and mothers and aunts. They are being killed and when it gets to court, well, “it was a mixed race jury, what can anyone do?” So they die, people say “Oh, so sorry.” or “Surely they must have done something to antagonize the “Professional” law keepers?” All of the question marks are extended again and people scream racism and go home to dinner where they don’t turn their TVs on until their show, because it’s just too much. Yeah, I’m white. I’m angry. I’m so angry I’ve already started letter writing. My mother is so angry she’s sent money to the ACLU and the Southern Poverty Law Center and sends it every month out of her pension because it is important. And nothing the two of us can do will stop these executions without the rest of our citizens acting. We started yelling in Ferguson, Alexandria, Prince Georges County, New York, Kentucky, Baltimore, DC, Alexandria, Florida, and many more places, and nothing changes. People just give it a week or two and it starts all over.

Oh dear, I see a pattern here. I’ve taught patterns to kids. Kids see the patterns. I’m supposed to tell them that the police are the good guys and girls. Guess what. I can’t do that any more. It only takes one bad cop to kill the reputation of all the hard working ones. I know there are good cops, I celebrate them. I want to see them act against those who don’t follow our laws. But I can’t tell kids to trust someone who could very well killing them. I tell them, do what the cops say. Put your hands up. Don’t move until you’re told. I don’t want any children or men or women having to be told not to trust. But we can’t trust, not if this trait continues.

Want to know why black neighbors aren’t talking as much with their white neighbors? Read the news. Look at the video on the computers. What do they see? BENGAZHI. Four people died doing their jobs. More die overseas in Afghanistan all the time. People are bombing people because of religion, color, and guess what? It’s okay as long as it is overseas and not close.

It’s not okay, folks. We’re supposed to be one of the best countries in the world. But we don’t have safety, or happiness, or equal education, or the ability to earn a solid income. We don’t have people protecting our elders, or teens, or battered wives. We just keep encouraging people like, yes, I will say his name, TRUMP who encourages people to hate and fear and not trust and to be violent and never take responsibility. We are exposed to stupid nonsense, politicized nonsense, we’re told the world isn’t our fault, that someone else is responsible. Wrong. We celebrate ignorance and think it’s funny.

It’s the people who don’t respond, oh, they might care, but they don’t do anything to change the world. My hat goes out to the black population who take to the streets. My hat goes out to the others, like my son, who won’t put up with others being hurt. My heart goes out to anyone with a phone who records these things and keeps the pressure up on a Republican congress that wants someone else to be in charge. Our neighbor’s lives are being ruined. WHY?

Just help do something, and make sure no one forgets. I’ve used my big brush and labeled us all. I rarely if ever use this brush, but I’m angry and hurt. And saying sorry doesn’t fix things, neither does praying.

Squamish

Here again is a lovely post about words and people. It’s from Sesquiotic.wordpress.com

sesquiotic's avatarSesquiotica

On a scale from squamous to squeamish, how would you rate Squamish?

Do you know where it is? Or what it is, even?

For me, Squamish is where you can buy Whistler day passes at a discount and get your coffee on the way there. For at least one person I know, it’s where Quest University is. For a lot of people, it’s the midpoint between Vancouver and Whistler: It’s at the north end of Howe Sound on the Sea to Sky Highway.

But what makes it stand out is not Howe Sound but how it sounds. It doesn’t have the V-neck verve of Vancouver or the crisp sifflation of Whistler. It has the sounds of squat and squeamish and qualms and a balance of the scaly words squamous and desquamation and such like. And it sounds so wishy-washy at the end, not firmly squam but just squam

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Revolutionary Scenes from Jerusalem Mills

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These are just a few of the reenacts of both the British forces and Colonial Forces. My mother drove us out there so that we could meet the people who were acting out one of the units that we had an ancestor in. He didn’t survive the war, but he had a wife and children who did. He was part of Washington’s bodyguard. They are the gentlemen with horses in the green coats.

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