Winds ripple wind chimes sing I sit basking in autumn sun.
Winds howl news spews discordance I cringe in easy chair.
Storm breaks Covid strikes hard I blink in disbelief.
Where is the calm as sirens scream cross seas? God help us all.
I am usually a Pollyanna…..but these times can test our frame of mind and make us feel the gloom and doom. I choose to write out my feelings. It is a way to rid me of those I do not want to harbor. Having done that, I now shall smile with hope. May we all somehow do our part to brush away the storms that seem to surround us these days; and pray for those who are caught up in them and suffering in these times.
I am a product of white privilege. I hula-hooped and pogo-sticked through youth scholarshipped through college on the debate team married, bought a house, and had two children. We had two dogs who roamed our big back yard. a vegetable garden and raspberry bushes. Our kids had good friends, played board games took music lessons, learned to drive, went to high school swing choir competitions. They went to college, married, bought a house, and had kids who took music lessons and walked to school. None of us had the proverbial picket fence, but sure seemed we had everything else. I had no idea there was a Green Book.
At seventy-three, I am appalled, frightened, and petrified for this country. I applaud all who take a knee and decry the knee that pressed, without mercy, on George Floyd’s neck – 8 minutes and 15 seconds of deliberate hell. I decry the lack of justice for Breonna Taylor. I decry the narcissistic occupant whose utter disregard for science, truth, the environment, the letter of the law, sacrifices made by our armed forces, has decimated the moral fiber of this country, left us with 200,000 lives lost to Covid. And the number grows. Yet people follow this self-centered prat, gather in enclosed spaces no masks, no social distance, cheer on this person masquerading as our president. The occupant who doesn’t give a rip about them ~ except to keep him in power. I write, I speak, I donate to senate contests, and I WILL VOTE. I maintain hope in the good. That is my protest.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where today Grace asks us to consider protest poetry.
Clown me, please. Paint a smile on my face and give me huge clodhoppers. Stomp with me through muck and lies. This bulbous red nose? Not from weeping. It toots raucously – my exclamation point to your inane arguments. Living in this three-ring circus it’s the only way to survive. Clown me, please.
You are depressing us
with your despicable views
untruths, divisive directives.
Can you step back from yourself,
walk in the shoes of those you call others?
Can you listen rather than spew incoherently?
The world watches as you blunder defiantly.
Can we pull a rabbit out of the hat?
Where is Tink when we need her magic?
Forever young, forever healthy fairy dust.
Sadly, we see the tied-together scarves
stuffed up the pretender’s sleeve.
Musical chairs it’s not.
The chairs are disappearing too fast.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dverse, the virtual pub for poets where today the prompt word is “magic.” Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
The angry eyes do frighten me.
The mane, his crown, doth cause great fear,
and I recoil, my wish to flee.
The angry ayes do frighten me,
my voice, once loud, drowned out. His glee.
The king now rules, his roar severe.
The angry eyes do frighten me.
the main, his crown, doth cause great fear.
Poetry form is a TRIOLET, suggested by Frank who hosts Meet the Bar today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. A TRIOLET = 8 lines with iambic pentameter and an abaaabab rhyme scheme. If that’s not enough of a poetic sodoku for you: the 1st, 4th, and 7th lines must be the same; and the 2nd and 8th lines must be the same.
PHOTO taken yesterday at the incredible San Diego Zoo Safari Park. Yes, the lion was that close to me….but there was glass between us!
Oh dear sweet child
and parents too,
listen to what I say
and do as squirrels do.
Spring time they play,
summers they work.
Winter time’s rest
is always the best
because gathered nuts
gifted by trees,
are stored for later
so they won’t freeze.
The lesson to this bushy tale,
my sweet and darling little dear,
is live like the squirrel
and there’s nothing to fear.
Enjoy all the good times
but work hard too.
Talents used wisely
make blessings accrue.
Amaya is hosting Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We are to create a child’s nursery rhyme motivated by one of several Franz Kafka (modernist German writer) quotations provided in the challenge, remembering that children like rhythm and rhyme.
The Kafka quotation that motivates this Bushy Tale is “God gives the nuts, but he does not crack them.” Photo at Pixabay.com