of sea level and altitude
Forgive me, I ramble,
telling you of life at sea level--
where a steady pour of hours stream,
and minutes bead against the windowpanes
as the seconds mist into fog--
decades of earth and rock liquify--
A mottled mix of flowing colors and viscosities
defiant and devoid of any beauty
to ease a slippery sharp-edged flow
carving out an emptiness
within this near ghost of a soul
waiting in unacknowledged darkness,
while asking for a way to the light—
before waking in the softness
of morning at altitude.
They are coming – Annette Kalandros
They’ve come before. Remember history. Remember the millions, the thousands, the hundreds– totaling seventeen million. And yet, always, they come. …
They are coming – Annette Kalandros
Awake and Pretty Much Sober – Annette Kalandros
I’m awake and pretty much sober. Yet I do not wish to be sober. I want to swirlmy anger in my mouth, letting its tannins coat my tongue until my …
Awake and Pretty Much Sober – Annette Kalandros
My daughter, Mine – Annette Kalandros
My daughter, mine, though you live thousands of miles away sleep safe, my daughter mine. Though you live where a man caresses a weapon of war …
My daughter, Mine – Annette Kalandros
Genesis
Genesis 2:7 “Then the LORD God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature.”
winds carried the dust
of freedom across the land
burying women
in the breeding graves
dug out by their slave masters
who thought to teach them
of their homespun place
lacking all memory’s whispers
of knowing freedom
or knowing a child
must leave the body, take breath
before God believes
it contains all elements
of life and humanity.
Honored to be featured on Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen today
To Longfellow
snow on the mountains
defiant of the warm sun
rests, sugar sprinkled—
—as I stand warming
in this brilliant sunlight bath,
the cross of snow melts—
no longer seeking
refuge upon my still chest,
where feeling returns.
The End of the Grand Romance
Nonsense things of twisted rhetoric
hang around the neck of a nation.
Words braided into twisted doctrines
of red and black and white.
Hatred fought so long ago
blended into now
with a new pandemic
in the wake
of aberrant dreams.
Here where truth once
swayed and danced,
offering humanity
a grand romance
of belief in a thing
the world had never seen--
Golden rules made real.
We knew our daughters and sons
would serve as the sacrificial lambs
to keep our rules golden
for all generations to be free.
Though freedom be washed
in the blood of our lambs,
we still believed
in the grand romance--
And oh, how we did dance
For over two hundred years.
Then the roped nonsense came,
tarnished the shine of our romance,
interrupted the rhythm of our dance.
The twisted rhetoric strangled us
as a new sickness spread.
No ease given; no treatment sought.
Pockets lined with gold
more important than golden lives.
Hatred and apathy listened
to the new prophet,
who said they were right--
Everything wrong was
the fault of others:
The poor in spirit are just lazy.
Those who mourn make excuses.
The meek are just weak.
Those wanting righteousness want it all free.
The pure in heart want to give your gold away.
The peacemakers don’t want us to be strong.
Then the new prophet claimed he was the persecuted one,
promising vengeance for his own sake.
His apostles believed his sermons,
proclaiming him their chosen one.
Order is all,
He said.
Law is all,
He said.
He would teach them
by putting all people
in their rightful place.
Justice lay raped,
bloody, raw,
beaten and gassed,
in the streets
as his disciples cheered
while the petty false prophet smirked,
holding a Holy book.
Re-forge the chain of Liberty’s shackle,
he ordered.
Then Truth
stopped swaying,
stopped dancing,
offered us nothing,
flames of romance dying.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 