Tag: #Metaphor

American Promise

I created this image using AI

I do not want the old America back.

I do not want the old America

where hate simmered

like a hissing tea kettle

ready to blast a whistle

strong enough to tear

a silent house apart.

I do not want the old America

where arrogance celebrated

the genocidal parade

against the indigenous people

from whom we stole this land.

I do not want the old America

where each new wave of immigrants

is viewed as a less than human infestation

to be eradicated.

I do not want the old America

where people climb and stand

upon the backs of others

for greedy profiteering.

I do not want the old America

who will not acknowledge

its past mistakes.

I do not want an arrogant America,

believing freedom and greatness

are measured by the damage

caused when the twins

of cruelty and brutality

are loosed upon the land.

I want an America

who can stand up strong enough

in the face of ignorance, prejudice, and greed

and in truthful wisdom say,

“We had moments of greatness.

Fleeting moments washed away

by fears of weakness and scarcity,

pointless, needless fears.

We will be great by being

the promise we were meant to be.”

This is the America I want to see.

A Visit From The Deer

Image is my own

The deer came to greet me today.
A small hello
before going on their way–
Two does and a fuzzy coated fawn.
The leading doe stared at me,
Assessing me a threat or not.
Her head turned,
her elegant neck stretched toward me,
her eyes softened as she decided—
no need to run away.

Her stare continued.
For a moment, I sinned.
I coveted her innocence,
their understanding of the world,
these mountains here—

Yes, I know,
they know the twins,
cruelty and brutality,
in ways I can never understand.

But I envy their ignorance
of the cruelty and brutality
contained within humanity.

Ghost Cells

image_9740e2ab-f2d8-48f1-a95a-6eee4d6d75bc
Image courtesy of Hubspot.com (Katherine J. Wu)

Links to articles that inspired this piece listed at the end.











Time reaches across





cold decades of Decembers,





whispering of you





in me,





of me





in her,





of me





entwined





between





you and her





within those eight days





of December





containing





ghosts of ghost





cells





there dwells





somewhere





inside Time’s touch,





understanding.










https://r.search.yahoo.com/_ylt=Awr48w5gkDRptO4H7YRXNyoA;_ylu=Y29sbwNncTEEcG9zAzEEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3Ny/RV=2/RE=1766262112/RO=10/RU=https%3a%2f%2fwww.theatlantic.com%2fscience%2farchive%2f2024%2f01%2ffetal-maternal-cells-microchimerism%2f676996%2f/RK=2/RS=.hmJ5tDlCRabLTKKHGU._cfCiKE-





https://r.search.yahoo.com/_ylt=Awr48w5gkDRptO4H_4RXNyoA;_ylu=Y29sbwNncTEEcG9zAzcEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3Ny/RV=2/RE=1766262112/RO=10/RU=https%3a%2f%2fwww.newscientist.com%2farticle%2fmg26134751-100-cells-from-other-family-members-live-in-you-and-protect-your-health%2f/RK=2/RS=aeOmCjbh8vLOmKkmucoRm92XlVY-

	


	
	






	
	

		
Dust of a Nation
	


	

		

Right wing demonstrators at Texas State University










winds carried the dusty remains





of a nation across the land










burying bleeding women





in breeding graves





dug by their slave masters





who thought to teach them





of their homespun place





woven in a tapestry





of chains










the remains devoid





of time’s progressive thread





that once contained





something more





than the prison





of being named property






	


	
	






	
	

		
Times of Shattered Glass
	


	

		






Times of shattered glass 
herald the approaching dark
Crone of a world war.

At night, soldiers come 
children cry out, glass shards of fear 
crushed into their skin

If we do nothing--
slaves we become, breathing out 
blood drops of a dream,
emptied of promise
held within springtime blossoms
of “a more perfect union”


	


	
	






	
	

		
An Empty Nest
	


	

		

Image is AI generated





A barren tree stands tall and strong across the street.
I see it weekly on days I volunteer.
It’s naked limbs waving on windy days.
High up, in the crux where two branches meet,
sits a large, empty nest.  Too large for small Avian visitors.
Not a home for sparrows or finches, surely. 
Built by crows or grackles or large jays, perhaps--
The nest sits, stable and empty,
as if a child took a large dark brown Sharpie
and drew a circular blob
when asked to draw a bird’s nest 
on a page featuring an outline of a tree.

Its emptiness captures me.  Mirrors me.
It stood, providing shelter for the young
growing there.
Now, abandoned by the young
it once sheltered,
the adult birds, no longer of use,
have abandoned it as well--
Each having traveled on their way.
Yet the nest survives--
Empty,
except for the glue of memory
attaching it to the tree--
As I am emptied
of the young
I once sheltered.


	


	
	






	
	

		
Let The Horsemen Ride
	


	

		

(Revised from 2016 on the eve of our 2024 election)





Image courtesy of https://rose-of-god.fandom.com/wiki/Four_Horsemen_of_the_Apocalypse





The captain of industry gleefully looks to history
As a populous forgets all the tales of prophecy
While writhing in the seduction of blame and lies.

Thus, all the best in humanity is left behind.
Firing squads, internment camps, and torture now promised.
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.

The angry populous forgets
The path of anger makes the “world blind.”
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.

The sun dons a robe of sackcloth, grieving.
The ocean’s rasping last breath,
As the moon’s face rained blood tears,
Turning rivers red.

Yes, the captain bellowed, “Let the horsemen ride.”

	


	
	






	
	

		
Laughter of Crows
	


	

		

Image courtesy of https://www.israelhayom.com/2024/09/01/hostages-death-in-captivity-announced-by-families/





Six bodies,
Six bodies—

Fifteen minutes later,
six bodies forgotten
in the collected dust
of memory upon the world.

Six souls passed away,
imprisoned from the light of God.
The sky shrinks away 
from the edge of earth
as the six join 1139.

I did not know any of them.
Not one soul.
I did not have a friend, a neighbor, 
a brother, a sister,
a father, a mother, a cousin,
an aunt, an uncle, 
no son, no daughter
among them.
But I mourn them,
as if I knew them,
as if they were family.
I feel the empty spot 
they left upon leaving the world.

You ask me why I feel their loss so…
My answer—because I am human.
In return, I ask…Why do you not feel it so?
 
No answers found 
in the mocking caw of crows
who laugh at humanity.


	


	
	






	
	

		
Of Belonging
	


	

		


Credit: K. Kunte, Harvard University





The swallowtail paid a visit this morning, 
a flutter of striped wings,
tipped itself in hello 
as we sipped coffee 
and looked up from our morning paper. 

We smiled at the swallowtail then each other. 
You swear it is the transformed caterpillar 
we rescued from certain death 
as it hung from the dog’s lip
and then tenderly placed 
in safety on the gourd vine leaves
growing by the wood pile.

I do not know. It could very well be.
It is beautiful in its flight.
Its morning joyful greeting of belonging,
of having found its place.

These mornings are life here with you.

	


	
	






	
	

		
The Song of The Mountains
	


	

		

img_8986





Image is my own





Sitting here in New Mexico and looking at these mountains, I wonder if my mother ever heard the mountains of Appalachia sing as I do these.





The mountains sing their history--
of when they knew only tranquility
in the land of their ancient salt seas,
when the sun could not touch them,
when they were virgin still--
safe from the rough hands of the wind,
long before the rise of humanity.

Their song holds the rhythms,
the bars, the layers of the time before--
before an angry molten core,
containing not a single drop of mercy,
drove them from their ancient, peaceful home,
forcing them to be refugees in the kingdom
of sun and wind.

Their song holds the rhythms
of all they grieve
in witnessing humanity’s rise,
dripping in eternal inhumanity.

At the feet of the mountains, the lilacs,
nourished by snow melt tears,
bow their heads and dance in the rhythms
of the mountains’ song—
A dance of homage
to such ancient ones.








https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wITB_k8gX78&list=OLAK5uy_nKHcHbv67IP6facZWpq6ZwAhVrhAxMwQg&index=5