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We, the dogs and I, stopped and watched a mockingbird chase a hawk away from her nest. She did not stop. She did not hesitate. Her bravery knew no …
Force of Nature – Annette Kalandros
I’m honored to be featured on http://braveandreckless.com
We, the dogs and I, stopped and watched a mockingbird chase a hawk away from her nest. She did not stop. She did not hesitate. Her bravery knew no …
Force of Nature – Annette Kalandros
I’m honored to be featured on Braveandreckless.com
No doves live here. Only a sparrow stirs its wings, bristling against the chill of this grey misty morning of rainy cares. No peace found anywhere on…
No Doves live Here – Annette Kalandros
Fear and greed migrate
Cuts a burn path ‘cross land
point blame at blameless
Burning hate migrates
No history lesson learned
decade to decade
Did all Gods migrate?
leaving us to destruction
in abandonment?
Leaves tumble like years, never what they once were, drained, lost in their way, trembling in the cold chill of damp night air after a day of rain until the warmth of sunrise touches them. Delighting, the leaves find the strength to sigh. Were it in the realm of possibility, I’d collect each leaf, restore it to its spring beauty, bundle them into decades, and gift them to you. But it is a silly before coffee morning thought as we both know leaves like years cannot be reclaimed and restored and smile at the thought.
Let me go into the mountain’s depths away from the light. The sky holds nothing. Neither does the sea. Only the rock, the granite, the depths of mountain provides for me. The mountain carries me down and away, away from this light, protecting all it covers as I cover myself with my grandfather’s coal dust. I will carry this canary with me, if you think I must, as I travel deeper, ever deeper, into the mountain.
Pouring rain while the sun shone on a summer’s day… I will never forget that time, that moment, when I saw, without doubt, The Devil’s face, …
The Devil’s Face – Annette Kalandros
I’m honored to be featured on Braveandreckless.com
I have always had rose bushes. My mother’s rosebushes so overgrown, hedges really, filled with beautiful red blooms and thick inch long thorns, waiting for a chance to shred away skin. Then my own before I was twenty-two. White ones. Planted on either side of the front door of a house in Baltimore. I let a piece of me die in that house yet the roses thrived. Then, in Texas. Yes, roses there too. Puny things. No lush leaves. No huge blooms. Black spot, fungus, rot always a battle. Vine like branches, filled with thousands of razor slicing thorns, thirsting for my blood when I came near to fertilize or water or with pruning shears. But today, in the high mountain desert, I took a chainsaw to the rose bushes. Buzzed them down to nothing but nubs. Roses do not belong here in this dry terrain. Thorns and a waste of water, the price to pay for no real return. I placed their thick, disconnected thorn filled limbs into doubled up lawn bags, and their thorny weapons, still thirsting for a taste of blood, stabbed at me as I carried the bag of bundled limbs to the trash bin. Some, of the toxic smiling kind, might say, “Look to the blossoms Not the thorns.” Easy to say if you’ve never seen, never felt the shredding thorns can do. Thus, I remove the shredding beauty here in the mountain desert, choosing beauty of a better kind.
A scribe dips a sharpened quill into the red ink well, addressing the naked need for barbed wire fences of words to create barricades in red. Next, weaving starts. Words to cushion, Kevlar words, preventing of any element from penetrating and thus, creating need want desire-- For such things burn,,, dangerous when they trespass the Kevlar of red ink the Scribe fashions with her sharp quill— Words of arm’s length, only so far, no farther, Step back Back away Turn away Words of red to always protect-- Woven into blankets, vests, a house, never to be a home.
After listening to the rhetoric of various politicians, I believe times have grown ever more dangerous to democracy no matter how much those same politicians claim to be defending it. I’ve revised and retitled this piece which I first wrote and posted the night before the 2017 inaugural and titled If They Come. However, I owe a huge debt to Martin Niemöller (1892-1984) who wrote “First they came for…” Often this quote is mistakenly referred to as a poem. Niemöller often spoke of his own complicity with the Nazi regime in its early years by his inaction and not speaking out, especially when it came to the persecution of leftist political party members with whom he did not agree. However, after too many disagreements with Hilter’s policies, Niemöller was imprisoned on July 1st, 1937, and was not freed from the concentration camp until 1945. There are various versions of his famous quote as Niemöller changed the list of victims depending upon the audience to whom he spoke, but his message is clear: Silence and inaction equals complicity. If we are silent, we too are guilty. We must not be silent.
Source information courtesy of Holocaust Encyclopedia
They’ve come before. Remember history. Remember the millions, the thousands, the hundreds-- totaling seventeen million. And yet, always, they come. Different times, different places. Always leaving behind traces of their strange bitter fruit. They are poised, preparing, ready to come. Some of us remember, state the parallels, recite the historical, are laughed at as the hysterical. The majority, sigh and say– They come not in his name for they wear not the robes of the arcane, burning crosses straight, painting crosses twisted. Some forget, leaving voices unraised. Some simply care not, since they come not for them. Yet, we must remember-- Since, in the end, they are coming for us all. Darkness imprisoned for years revels and romps now freed from sanctions, freed from society’s guilty tears. They are coming for the immigrant ones to part them from jobs no one else will do, leaving a river filled with razor wire and shouting, “Build a wall. Build a wall.” I will raise my voice, “Build it around me as well. For I, too, believed the words inscribed upon Liberty.” They are coming for all the women who do not walk 72 steps behind, chaining them to males who must approve. I will raise my voice, “I will not walk into yesterday. I will not let you make any daughter a handmaid.” They are coming for the Jewish ones, pinning yellow stars, creating gas chambers, I will raise my voice, “Take me with them too. For I too, am a Jew.” They are coming for the Muslim ones, planning to kill the Geneva Refugee, with their unproven facts, shouting, “Terrorist. Jihadist.” I will raise my voice, “Take me with them too. For I also pray to the God of Abraham.” They are coming for the darker ones, with ropes and whips and epithets from the past, shouting, “White Power, White Power.” I will raise my voice, “Bring enough to kill me too. For I have the same red blood as my siblings you seek to kill.” They are coming for the transgender and queer ones, with fists and broken bottles and shouts of “Freak.” I will raise my voice, “Beat me as well. For I am sure to upset you by the bathroom I plan to use.” They are coming for those who love differently with researched plans of electric shock to convert, all therapeutic to change, of course, or with hands dripping violence and shouts of every demeaning word we ever heard. I will raise my voice, “Beat me. Take my rights so recently given, though long denied. Never will I lose my dignity again in silence. For I hid among shadows much too long. Now, I, too, live in the sun, Proud of who I love, and I will not go away. I remember we are neighbors, each of us, brothers and sisters in God’s eyes.” When you come for one, you came for us all. All you deem different, dangerous to your thinking, we make you uncomfortable, but we give you something-- Someone, something to blame. But after you have come for us all, bound and bloodied us as best you can, taught your school children the different are to blame, worthy of nothing but your hate, allow our resistance, without striking, without killing, no sling shot will we need to shatter the crystal facade of patriotism you fashioned to cleverly hide away your destruction of democracy and all your injustices. Then the world will see the monster of fear and greed you are and your destruction of democracy. On the day of God’s light, perhaps you will look beyond skin, beyond abilities and disabilities, beyond roads to God and ways of worship, beyond gender and orientations, beyond your own fears and needs, and then see the human heart is born with weakness in hate and greed with strength in justice and love all in equal portions. What will matter most, when each heart lies dissected, splayed open, bare, before its maker, is which portion we allowed to atrophy and die, and which we sought to exercise, strengthen and increase in size.
I forged this armor with my blood and bone like smelted metal from years of saved up pocket change and the woven hip length hair from my nearly shaved head when I was twenty-two and have worn it since. The strength of this armor-- Unparalleled. The weight of it made me strong, yet it weighs heavy after all these years. I cannot begin to count the scratches, the dents, the pockmark scars of battle wounds. That much is very true. My armor is far from new. Yes, I should have replaced it a time or two. It’s been steadfast, a friend, truer than any lover ever has been, yes. My shield, I can barely lift. My arm and body weary from the weight of shield and armor— The sword? I laid it down a little while ago when I finished forever the battles with myself, you see. Yet the armor, the shield have protected me, though they weigh heavy, and I am weary. Forgive me, forgive me that my fingers tremble at the buckles. For when the weight of this armor falls, you would be the first to truly know me at all. —
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