Poem #23–October 2018

Dreams of choice.

Children dream of making cookies and being safe.

We look at the full moon and dream of the past.

The children look forward by choice to the fun ahead.

We remember when nothing was safe.

The children choose to dream of love surrounding them.

Claiming “practicalities”, we stay hyper-vigilant, knowing the past can reoccur.

A trip planned to go to the beach.

ALL dream of sand and Mother Ocean and peace.

And then one dream comes forth,

Demanding to be chosen above all others.

Be there.

Be free.

Abandon time, abandon “practicalities.”

Be there.

Choose love.

Choose to dream.

Fill souls and hearts

With peace, love, and safety.

Be there.  Be us.

And let the dreams be fulfilled–

To be remembered and held in the hearts forever and for always.

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Poem #22 — October 2018

Where does it begin?

Does it begin with bluster and crudeness?

Claiming to be “one of the common people”?

Does it begin with hate unleashed?

Does it begin with misogyny and racism?

It really doesn’t matter now, does it?

We sit in the throes of outrageous lies,

Open hatred and division,

The appeal to humankind’s “id”–

“I will take what I want, the world be damned!”

And what does it get those that follow that super basic id?

It feeds their anger, hatred, lies that they desire, want to see.

It wakens senses in those who see and are appalled.

The lies become moral issues, as do

misogyny, racism, hate, divisions nurtured.

But is a moral awakening enough?

Enough to stop the immorality brazenly touted?

NO.

It takes hearts and minds uniting in the moralities being profaned

By all legal means available–

Voting, protesting, speaking out and speaking up to quell immorality.

The issues of morality cannot be served simply with thoughts and prayers.

We are now a nation of warring souls;

sides must be taken.

Children must not become pawns to teach immigrant parents a lesson.

“Dems” must not be slandered and punished for their truths of morality.

We saw the rise of Hitler’s hate, Mussolini’s hate, MBS hate,

Putin’s hate, Kim’s hate–

We know the consequences of sitting idly by.

Morality is the issue now, not politics.

The suffering has started with children and spreads

because we do not stop it.

We have a choice.

It’s time to make that choice and go forward–

Or suffer the consequences.

No heavenly deity saved the masses murdered then

And will not now.

It is our choice.

 

Everything is Temporary

There’s a saying, backed by scripture, saying, “This, too, shall pass.”  That can be a lifeline when one is in the throes of pain, anguish, devastating loss.  It can also be the noose around the neck, getting tighter and tighter as the lifeline of waiting for it to pass.

In truth, all things pass.  All things change.  The only constant is energy and the matter surrounding it changing.  Today,  I write on a computer.  Tomorrow, what will I write on?

Today I can relieve someone’s suffering with a smile, a meal, a caring hug, with love.  Tomorrow, they will suffer again.  Alone.

Today I can rant and rave, make my voice heard at the inhumanity of humankind separating children from parents, held in a desert in tents by a lying, perverse government.  Tomorrow, the children face another day of loneliness and loss and more children  are thrust in with them, facing their loss and fear with loneliness.

So if everything is temporary, if everything changes, moves forwards and backwards, what do we do?  If everything  “…shall pass…”, why do anything?  Ah, the state of apathy descends in hopelessness and despair.

Eyes light up as the lottery is discussed among the people sitting at a table.  Visions of what one would do with such vast amounts of money.  Then how much would one actually wind up with.  Reality of taxes, human vultures wanting to hone in and share in another’s good fortune, chaos and life changes.  Philanthropy is thought of.  Doing good.  A shortcut to instant wealth, a shortcut to reach desires to help oneself and others.  But again, only temporary.  A temporary solution to temporary problems at hand.

In the long run, with life actually being a short, temporary stop by a human in a life-span allowed on earth, the temporary solution seems appealing.  If I donate all my lottery money to building, say, tiny homes for the homeless, I will not solve all their problems, but it will ease them.  If I donate all my money to feeding and evacuating the homeless and war-torn people of Yemen, it will only be a temporary fix to alleviate their suffering because other wars will be waged and they will once again be victims.  If I donate all my money to science to alleviate pain and disease and global warming, it will only be a temporary stop-gap to extend the lives of people and the life of the earth.

The noose tightens as I wait for the life-line of “This, too, shall pass,” to pass.  I do nothing.  So nothing changes that could change if I were active, attempting at least a temporary solution to the problems I feel tear my heart in pieces as I witness suffering and such great pain.  It is easier to tell myself my pain will pass and try to keep on, but I don’t want to foist that philosophy/truth(?) onto humankind I encounter.  I want their suffering to stop.

Some people challenge their anger to direct them to act in beneficial ways towards what they can have a true effect on, not just an affect.  In my case, the anger towards all of it–both what I can and cannot control or have power over–seems to unleash a brainstorming and a creativity that can change things.  My logic only extends so far.  My rational thinking gives way to passion, heartfelt empathy that seeks for solutions wherever they might come from.  No idea is too far-fetched, too wild, to be excluded.  After all, isn’t everything temporary anyway?

The average life span of a human is roughly 70+ years, minus car accidents, drive-by shootings, death by police, death by journalistic writing, alcoholics behind the wheel, cancer–you get the picture.  That’s pretty temporary when you look back to celebrate Christmas, or think about Alexander the Great.  Who would have thought Plato and Socrates would have words of meaning today?  Temporary, short lives in a changing world that carry influence today to those willing and able to read their words.  Temporary humans still offering temporary respite to those who would learn from the past and its temporary status.

Humanity, each generation, is temporary.  History, in each segment, is a temporary lesson.  The arts are temporary in each period of time.  But lessons learned remain for those willing to try to implement them in the present.  We are at a point that will be remembered beyond us as one whether we either sat on our hands to wait for this to pass or we helped actively to get it to pass.  And quickly.

I think that this becomes a striking point for me, here and now, as I realize my temporary stay in this time and life is statistically running out of time for waiting for anything to pass without my either rolling over and waiting–or pushing it out of the way.  I have never had the patience to wait for something to pass.  I may outwardly seem to be able to wait, but inwardly there is no rest until things change.  My greatest flaw is lack of patience turning to despair over things not changing for what I consider the better.

I want to see people better off than they are.  I want to see cold, mean hearts extricated from leadership.  I want to see hate die to love.  I want to see unity in saving the earth and its creatures–all its creatures.  It can happen.  Things change all the time.  I choose to be part of the change, however temporary, that creates a better life for others.  And if I get ridiculed, thought of as idealistic and childish, so be it.  After all–

this too shall pass.

 

Poem #21 — October 2018

A suicide note from a 7 year old–

“…daddy keeps touching me…getting on top of me…”

A generation before, at 3, her mother begs–

“…please don’t make me play games with daddy and grandpa…”

Another generation before, her grandmother begs,

“…please, mama, daddy is raping me…”

Yet another generation removed, her great grandmother

Hides, but says nothing as she is molested.

The perpetrators cry woeful tears, and speak,

“How can you believe her?  Why are you accusing me?”

Then comes anger,

“I’m a fine upstanding man!  I love my daughters!

How dare you believe her?  She’s slandering me!  Lying!”

A man walks away.  Smiling.  He wins.

The president laughs and mocks the victim.

A senator says it was only attempted rape, not actual rape.

A win?

The seven year old never forgot the violation,

her mother, her grandmother, her great grandmother never forgot.

The woman brave enough to reopen wounds never forgot.

Losers?

And some men, some boys, wince in pain as they watch,

listen, and remain silent.

There are no winners–

EVERYONE LOSES

Poem #20– October 2018

How much can you take, Mother Ocean?

You take our troubles, our woes, our pain–

drown them in your depths–

give us cleansing peace.

Then we dump our garbage,

our man-made poisons and plastics into you.

How much more can you take, Mother Ocean?

You give life,  a never endingness.

You give creatures and plants and food for these.

We coat them with pollutants,

strangle them with our waste.

How much can you take, Mother Ocean?

We love you,

we cry for you;

we want to help, but hurt you more and more.

How much can you take, Mother Ocean?

Poem #19–October 2018

The voice drones on.

Ahhh- the mind is free to wander,

welcomed into realms of a reality

the speaker knows not–droning on.

A remembered earlier conversation–

historical novel in the works.

Does the person realize the ennui provoked?

Provoking the mind to wander again.

Sadly, reality is not in this place.

Murdered journalists, caged children,

voter suppression, mad and insane leaders;

the reality while voices drone on.

Give the mind the meat it needs!

Give suggestions, solutions, actions to take;

left to the wandering mind

parameters will not long hold.

Poem #18–October 2018

I watch little hands pass a pencil back and forth.

“Draw here!  No here!  You can do it!  Try!”

Tongue following pencil to help it along.

“Yay!  Now my turn!” as the next tiny fist takes the pencil.

Total concentration, engrossed in the task–

I watch and admire the tenacity that it must be just right.

My mind wanders to another place.

Little children without someone to care, locked away,

in tent shelters, among strangers, crying alone

because parents, caretakers were trying to get them to freedom.

“Look!  Look!” I am commanded and smile at the passionate art

drawn with the passion of purest love.

“Fantastic guys!”

“Oh, but we aren’t through!” and the pencil passes hands again.

The children in front of me, here, are so grateful for love

and kindness from a “mama” gained by mutual adoption.

Who will love the children who did have mamas but were wrenched from them?

How many mamas weep for their children lost to them

When all they wanted to do was keep them safe–and loved?

Exhausted, happy voices say, “What do you think, now?  Is it good enough?”

I smile at their hopeful faces watching mine, fake serious scrutiny,

then, “She’ll absolutely LOVE it!”

They dance and hug each other in sheer joy.

I hug them with a new love and realization that in a tent in the desert,

No one is hugging children that so need their mamas.

I turn away as the little ones here dance off with their treasure,

And I cry for the children who have no love except love remembered

in another time, another place.

My country betrayed them,

Betrays all our hearts.

Sending love to you sweet children…

Someday you will be free and loved

Or we will all be caged with you.