People are different. Color, ethnicity, gender, religious beliefs, language, citizenship, culture.
Gather them all in one place, in concentric circles facing each other, holding hands. Each circle defined by a trait.
Note: circles have no beginning or end. He who joined first disappears. She who joined last disappears. All are integral to their circle.
Herein lies a truth of geometric principle. Concentric circles differ in radii but have the same center point. And what is that same center point?
As Maya Angelou famously wrote, “We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.” The center point is our humanity.
Sadly however, truth is not constructed reality when the builder is a demolitionist.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today I am hosting: go to https://dversepoets.com to see the prompt this poem is motivated by.
Center stage, porch light blazing, oohed and aahed at by passersby. Bright eyes lit from within. But candle burns, continually drips. Insides shrivel, eyes begin to droop. Carved in grin begins to sneer.
Inevitably the brouhaha ends crowds thin, candle burns out. Orange flesh sags, collapses from within. Maggots begin to appear. You should have known, pumpkins do rot.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse so we can post any one poem of our choosing. No required topic, form or length.
Never planned to join the circus, although there is a hereditary tendency. My Uncle Bob ran away to the circus, several times. But he always came back.
Never planned to join the circus, but what a circus we’re living in now! Twenty-four-seven news cycle, clown leading buffoons under the big top.
Never planned to join the circus, but it’s tempting to become an escape artist. I’d lose myself in romance novels and Netflix, or any kind of my own-made cocoon.
Uncle Bob, if you’re anywhere out there, somewhere in the cosmos, help us find our way back home again. Just like you always did.
Kim is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to write a poem “that starts with a surprising hook, which can be one to three lines, but must develop into a fully-fledged poem.”
A bit of explanation: in a few years, I’ll become an octogenarian. I actually did have an Uncle Bob, who every time his wife became pregnant, ran away to the circus. Absolutely true – he had four children so he ran away four times! But he always came back- well before they were born. He was a wonderful uncle and as my childhood memories recall, had a lot of fun with his kids.
PS: here in the U.S., this is no time for any of us to be escape artists. It’s time to speak out, stand up, and resist!
Hell is empty and all the devils are here. There is a man among us who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, leading others who listen blindly. His words, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing that is truth.
What is past is prologue. Poets shouldst therefore heed the Bard, his timeless words meaningful yet today. There have been many great men that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them. But how is one to label this man as great? Perhaps in the way of Satan’s greatness controlling some, luring others. After all, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. Oh what men will dare to do! Let no such man be trusted.
What of those who follow, whose integrity be lost? Lawless are they that make their wills their law. There’s small choice in rotten apples.
In these chaotic times, what is our fate, my friends? It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. For each of us can add to the light, hold our candle high in windows across the land. One will become many, and many become a multitude. In light’s refraction, his rabid followers stagger. They shall greet fear in their mirror. Positions no longer secure as multitudes greet them shouting “SHAME”. Truthtellers stand in solidarity, voices raised, we cannot be ignored. THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!
The Bard penned: And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale. Loud enough, persistent enough, we must be the solution. Hands that right the scales of Justice. We must take control of the tale. Destiny be in our hands.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril hosts and asks us to consider fate. She suggests we could, for example, consider Frost’s or Shakespeare’s words on fate. I’ve chosen to refer to the Bard himself, within my poem. All of the bolded lines are quotations from Shakespeare. Let the Bard speak to you in these chaotic times!
All images except the scales of Justice are from recent demonstrations I’ve participated in. The scales of Justice image is from Pixabay.com
. . . on the precipice, fulcrum loaded, solar eclipse of political moves. Millions watch across the globe piece by piece, light diminishes. Cold suffocating hot air engulfs a nation as vitriol spews. Lies repeated hold strong
Sleep marred by days of nightmares. Innocents assaulted, banished. Aid rescinded, innocents die. What power are my words when thousands follow blindly refusing to call the man what he is.
User and abuser of people. Expunger of honest history repeating tenets of horrific history. One-armed salutes multiply behind closed doors. We live now in a darkly evil tunnel.
Humans hammer on its cold metal walls scream warnings sadly unheeded. Spineless creatures grovel in the muck lick the boot, kiss the ring, subservient to an orange tyrant who redefines the words “bully pulpit”.
Poem created and published * the day after Harvard refused to capitulate to Trump’s demands for federal oversight on admissions, curriculum, faculty hires, and general University policies
* on the day Trump retaliated by freezing $2 billion of federal funds from Harvard including critical research grants to Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston Children’s Hospital, Brigham-Women’s Hospital, Dana-Farber Cancer Insstitute and Beth Israel Deaconess Mecial Center (all affiliated with Harvard Medical School).
*one day after Trump defied the Supreme Court’s order announcing in a press conference while meeting with the President of El Salvadore, that he would not ask for the release of Kilmar Abrego Garcia from an El Salvadore prison, even though his administration admitted his abduction and imprisonment there was an “administrative error”.
*and at least one month after Trump cancelled 5800 USAID contracts including some related to polio, HIV, tuberculosis, and malaria clinics in African countries. “People will die,” said Dr. Catherine Kyobutungi, executive director of the African Population and Health Research Center, “but we will never know [how many] because even the programs to count the dead are cut.”
A flamboyance followed the out-of-control antics of the most orange one. They dumbly stood on one leg seemingly unable to stand on their own two feet.
Conspiracies exploded in numbers as zookeepers looked on aghast. These animals were becoming a colony, a clan, a bloat on the community, a herd of blind cows.
Behaviorists know otters may romp, crocadiles bask, and zebras dazzle. But humans who gaggle, needlessly creating a pandemonium, deliberately crashing the order of things that’s dangerous to every zoo in the world.
All zoo keepers must issue a warning: Beware the squeal of a muskrat in cahoots with a flamboyance. Remember the movie “The Birds” – they gather precariously on a high wire, the murder creating the cacophony. We cannot let them succeed.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is April Fool’s Day and in keeping with the date, Melissa asks us to write a poem that is partially a lie and partially the truth. She suggests a 60% to 40% ratio.
Not sure about my percentages….but suffice it to say, my poem is not about a zoo. There is much truth here however. Note the use of actual names for groups of animals. Flamboyance:a group of flamingos (who are orange and often stand on one foot) Conspiracy: a group of lemurs Colony: a group of ants Clan: a group of hyenas Bloat: a group of hippos Herd of cows Romp: a group of otters Bask: a group of crocodiles Dazzle: a group of zebras Gaggle of geese Pandemonium: a group of parrots and finally, a Murder is a group of crows.
Carousel? Too genteel. Merry go-round? Definitely not.
Music profoundly distorted. Charged, dissonant, cacophonous. Maniac spraypainted stallion, nostrils flared, madly races. Those in front? He pushes on. Crazed, dazed followers? Cold steel pole spines pierce once-feeling hearts. They gallop blindly in his tracks. Up. Down. Up. Down. Round and round. Reality beyond ignored, blurred by gullibility and greed. Hands reach out to slow the pace. Severed bloody limbs litter ground.
Where is the carousel beloved by all, once built by craftsmen’s hands? What happened to the rules? Timed tickets. All can ride. Adults protect the way for young. Old-timer carnival buskers grow hoarse. Clown make-up drips real tears. And here we are.
Written for Open Link Night (OLN) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Bjorn in Stockholm, Sweden is hosting, inviting folks to post one poem of their choosing. He also provides an optional prompt. Photo from Pixabay.com
lillian the home poet 