Migration of Another Kind

photo courtesy of Pexels.com
https://amanpan.blog/2023/11/21/moonwashed-weekly-prompt-migrate/



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?

The Leaves

Photo by Mak_ jp on Pexels.com
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.






Away From the Light

Photo by Stephanie Klepacki on Unsplash

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.

The Devil’s Face – Annette Kalandros

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

Rose Bushes

Photo by Anna Romanova on Pexels.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.

The Scribe

Courtesy of depositphoto.com
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2023/11/11/weekend-writing-prompt-337-scribe/
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.

They Are Coming

Hermann Otto Hoyer, In the Beginning Was the Word, 1937. United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of US Army Center of Military History.

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.


Armor

image courtesy of openart.com


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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