Activism

Why are the American youth all stressed?
Someone, somewhere said they're oppressed
so every one of them now think it best

all day, every day, to get that off their chest...

There is no silence like the silence

There is no silence like the silence
    of books in the early morning 

      when no one else is around:

It's a yearning silence

    like that of slowly opening doors.

        What is on the other side?

Sometimes it is the vast silence

    of alien worlds and sometimes

        the gentle silence of sleeping children.

At times, it is a jagged silence

    caught on the indrawn breath

        before a scream.

The silence of some books

    is made of the pauses

       in rhythm.

The silence of love, of loss,

    of hate, of consequence, of justice,

        of numbers, of philosophy, of planets...

There is no silence like the yearning

    of books in the early morning

        before anyone has opened them

looking for light.

Kyiv at Night

Through the window, I watch the lights.

Flares of brilliance--the skyline changes

under the footsteps of approaching giants.

No enlightenment, this, no celebration,

and certainly no brawling gods. This

is the hubris of men who barter peace

for power and make speeches

as warbirds scream above the lifted cries

of children.

Sons

 I remember the day I realized my love
no longer comforted you--

inside that day was a hundred yesterdays--

when I held you, both of us crying,

in the hospital as they fit your newborn arm with an IV,

and your tiny face with a cannula--

when I lay beside you in your bed, 

rubbing your eight-year-old feet, fevered and blistered,

so you could sleep through until morning--

when I stood, with electricity in my spine

demanding of bullies in the park what gave them two faces;

one to smile at your baby brother in his stroller

and one to mock you by the ball field,

thinking you alone and unprotected--

I remember those hundred yesterdays and wonder:

did my love ever comfort you?

Or only me?

Young woman, grow

Young woman, grow powerful.
I do not mean become bombastic

bitter or blindly impassioned.

Rather, grow reasoned and persuasive.

Become dauntless, with your head 

unbowed, resourceful.

Raise children, or gardens,

or bridges, or monuments to knowledge.

Raze impediments or the very hills

if they do not echo 

with the voices of those who cherish

grace and speak

love. Young woman, grow

old and straight-backed as a lighthouse,

wise as time, and impervious 

as mountains.

Where Need Meets Love

 I love things I don't need:

colorful umbrellas and countless pairs of socks
too many cardigans, too many cups of coffee
ice cream, salty potato chips
small glass jars and tiny seed beads
shiny copper wire, wind up toys
red microfiber flats that pinch my feet 
and balls of super-soft yarn I don't even know how to knit
I love so many things that I don't really need.

I need things I don't love:
blood pressure medicine and beets
plastic, so many things packaged in plastic
car insurance and fossil fuels
computers, social media
the job that requires social media and what passes for "news" on the internet
money from the job that needs social media and the internet
to pay for all the plastic and fossil fuels and insurance
I need many things I really don't love.

Where love and need meet is where truth happens:
lively flame and its living heat
wise trees, serene shade
cleansing rain and clean flowing water
wild wind and calm breath
innocent children, cynical adults
families made up of twos and threes and communities
different and alike, teeming with thoughts and emotions
making truth where need meets love.

This poem was written and published in September, 2020 and a certain search engine monopoly which shall not be named deemed it "dangerous," slapped a glaring red warning page on it asking anyone clicking the link whether they wanted to proceed to such a clearly volatile website, and informed me that "phishing was involved," which it in no way was. To skirt this issue, I have unpublished and republished it here. I am unsure whether I should be furious with the absurd torpedoing of a poetry blog that certainly qualifies as obscure or if I should be flattered to have been deemed dangerous by the powers that be. 

With the petals of summer my companion

I put flowers on the table--

pink and lilac, fuchsia, orange

with the wine-colored mats

and the lemon sugar cookie candle.

With the petals of summer my companion

and the scent of sugar in the air

early in the morning nestling warm, creamy coffee,

surely the anxiousness cannot creep in.

Surely the anxiousness cannot creep in...