Pace your hate, as you line up for the cause Of suppression. Homogenous populations, all the same, in tacky Red hats that Support a change to control the liberal masses And their ideology Of helpful compassion. They give to others what We don't have. Betrayed by life, we blame all of you who want to Continue Roosevelt's policy. Heard on Fox news, conflicted and wounded, Unmade in their beds. Giving a face globally of self-centered anger, A movement thought dead. Those who hate, have buried seed, seed from Eons hidden from light. Majority voters, liberal thinkers, compassionate Lovers of all, Who are these new oppressed? Your mother, father, sister, Brother, uncle, niece, aunt. All liberals want is a chance to be happy, to share, To be kind and considerate. This is a crime, signed by a swirly pen, by a old man With tangerine skin, gibbonlike,jumping up and down, Red hair dyed so that he cannot be old. A screamer, A bully wishing to be King of the swamp, the dark underbelly, anti-regulations Of protection. Our new leader, a sociopath, a leader of sociopaths, Of spies and lies. This is what the haters wanted. A chance to burn with Fire and fist. To force back into the box the godless, the "fairy", The rebel child. Force back into the box the librarian who allows that Filth on her shelf. Force back into the haze, our global responsibilities, The cost we should not Bear, and bare the back without brother, the bible Thumper in bunny clothes. Beware your hate, for you are a candle in the dark, Beware your match. Reason is a dangerous opponent on the battlefield, Where compassion Equals hope, hospitals, schools, wells, medical care, Where a bridge Is not too far, it pulls, tugs, pushes our knowledge Of others, like a kite. Beware the actor, the captain, the ship, who find Lie after lie And tattle to the world. Pace your hate, because I Will extinguish it.
A marching band, that Is where I spent the happy Hours of growing up. Finding the after beats, Honking on a horn of silver. Marching in Minnesota, California, Oregon, Las Vegas, all over Alaska, Maryland and Pennsylvania. I loved to march Watching those with battered Lips, lick them in quick attacks by the tongue Which would really rest On a concert stage with Carol Channing. Loved the changes in season And when we marched in the Chinese New Year's parade In San Francisco, and the Tuba players had firecrackers Tossed in the bell to Drive the evil spirits Of military service out. We marched at openings, Closings, and when we stood still, the world cheered. I loved to march wearing Orange and black, Green over green, Left foot, right foot, Straw foot, hay foot, Angles and diagonals Squares of precision. I always thought that The band would hold together Over time. But they marched Away, each to their own pace. I'm a victim of moonlit hair That pretends to color, Looking at the stars In a cold March night, And dreaming of the cadence Of drums, beating and beating And bb ee aa t i n g g g g As they march out of sight and sound Disappearing into time. I dream of marching into the stars Lit for all times If you would just look up. Can you hear the tune? The brass, woodwinds, And the percussive beat Of living a life. Percussion leading me In living every day With the guidance of The drum major pounding In my ears. Boom bah boom Bah, Boom. Then we rest.
Meaningless, all those hours you spent, Raising your voices, lifting your glasses To Cheer. It was meaningless, harboring that hatred, For a man's skin color and shouting The South shall rise again, everywhere, For their health is endangered while Their mouths run, compassion wins. Meaningless challenges the courts Rule: that the poor can be healthy, Rule: that insurance is a right If you pay for it, and you will pay For it, because we aren't grown up, Not enough that it matters, To hand our gratuitous illusionary cash Over to social programs. To a single system. Meaningless, the lack of tact To hammer over and over what the masses Refuse to understand, that they are part, The most important part, for they work at the Bottom of a triangle and seek to pull themselves From poverty. So they shouted, hated, hurt Made bleed when all they had to do was share. Meaningless, the first one hundred days, While apes jump up and down as the President Learns to color and write his name. Meaningless his statement of KING. I acknowledge no king, emperor, ruler, Whose hearing aid and heart are missing. Meaningless, caught in a box crayons Without benefit of a piece of paper That says "In pursuit of happiness." Scoffing, I bow to mediocrity, pretend I can understand...But I don't. It's all meaningless.
He was a turtle on the ocean run
When we first met. A slow moving walking
Armory filled with stories about
The good old days, until you wander
Into the waves and he glides away
Leaving his shadow on the sand as
Your gift to remember.
The picture of the turtle in this writing challenge is taken nose first. I included the link above so that you could visit it.
Vanish from here, unworthy thoughts, Unburnished deeds, sad misconceptions. Vanish from here manipulative words, Harsh judges, unspoken times. Bring instead the laughter of children Raised on streets that cater to their steps, That cherish and rejoice in potential. Bring back the souls wrongfully taken, Before they were ripened by age and wisdom. Vanish from here, bitter pursing lips That refuse to speak what needs saying. Vanish here, and in your place, leave Society growing in flourishing in common cause.
You think it dusty from the surface? Try here under the centuries, waiting, Waiting for a moment when I return Made from the elements you so insult With filth and dusty growth. Wait until I arise, here from the Bench of waiting, competing, hiding. I am dirt dignified, a dragon born.
Your base accusations thrown Up into the light, then fired Off one by one where others Out of the loop mock and destroy. You should have called, asked While listening, looked again For the rainbow's wraps between us Where we had left them, uninterpreted. Instead, you rose, phoenix-like voice Raised, accusing me of stealing Your opinions, inflating your ego, Stealing away your personality. Baseless, I thought, until I couldn't Find a way between us with a flashlight. I couldn't find the boxes of photos I Had left in hiding, the photos of pain. I looked for the boxes of joy, missing The ominous spaces, the boxes of sorrow Which had been sealed by us both. What dark Adjustments were made by you without me? Now we step like opposing forces armed To the teeth, with no base to function from As the war begins. Why? Some blame time Which was never my friend. Is it over?
Challenges are fun. This type of challenge is one of my favorites. Give me a word list and I’ll make you a poem. So here are the five words I have to use: broke, bridge, judge, story, lake.
A haiku using 17 syllables in either sentence or three line format.
Judged by a lake of Bridged stories, heroes gain truth, broke foes gain but naught. Broke of common truth, Before the judge, man swims 'neath lakes of false stories. Sometimes changing the form of a word gives it more power. Judged, the lake bridged by Lies, these storied villains broke Are redeemed by truth. Then of course shapes can influence the words used: broken lake that carries the the judged Bridge past their stories. Sometimes free verse works best for me: I was the daughter of a coffee pot and a lake of tears. Judged by no one but myself, I swam an ocean of grounds, Lay upon black beaches of grounds, Bridged the distance between a story Explaining my tardiness, Or a trip to visit my secret garden of regrets, I would chose instead a broken biscuit With a dab of butter and jam. Or you can assign me a form that is required in its fierceness. A Cinquain which requires a five-lined poem using first 2, the 4, then 6, then 8, then 2 syllable format: Broken? Our Justice gone? Finding the judge asleep, Under a lake of lies, bridged by Stories. Or perhaps you prefer a Nonet? At the top, a lake of storied lies told to a judge with eyes Closed and clouded. How to find A bridge to open heart And mind. Broke the soul That pushes lies, Hidden by A poet's Eyes. Well, maybe not that one as much. But with a different structure. At the top, A lake of storied lies Told to a judge with tired eyes. How to find a bridge between What is said and what they mean? Broke the soul that pushes Past the line that Formed of truth At last. Anyway, those were five words rolling around a challenge...
When we bought our house, new and shiny, with places that had nothing to fill them, I bought an album called Childhood Remembered. The songs were truly inspirational, sung not by human throats but by instruments, some electric and some orchestral, some a blend of it all. It was the Cello’s Song that rang through the house, echoing in time. I played it after school, before breakfast, in the middle of the night. I played it to write poetry, to get my daughter to write. I took the album to school.
My students would listen to it after being outside at lunch time. Their heads would be on their desks, and at the end of the song, the heads would come up and they would write. Oh, it inspired such fiction about fantastical voyages, heroes, villains, and the resolution of time.
It was magical, the way a tune would blossom under the treatment it was given. The theme was majestic, but asked questions. On its own, it would have haunted me. But then given a delicate background of electric piano and pulsating flute, clarinet, electric voicing. Filling slowly, adding more harmony, more of the rich voices of strings. Increasing the volume until the song overwhelmed and the listener had to just sit listening, nothing else was possible. The sound of horns arrives, notifying the listener that life is a beating moving process. Then moving back into obscurity. Cello argues soothingly. It’s best to just listen to it. Close your eyes and open your imagination. A song is a wave, needing nothing but its allure and one must listen well, for the wave may soon vanish in the distance taking our dreams with.
In every building, there is a castle waiting to happen. The lucky one’s make it.