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~

we the people,
long have known
the write of
passages and poems,
whether bellwether,
envisionist or revisionist,
too oft have thought
this journey long,
and weight of hope and change
to another there belongs;
yet i subscribe
that we as scribes,
can right this ship,
not merely write it's wrongs;
for we it's pride
with hearts ascribe,
and note-by-note,
as carpenters and soldiers,
we its authors and its poets,
in words, in deeds,
writers, of a patriot’s song;
with deepest definition,
and inner soul reflection,
it's stanza, chorus, bridges,
we must lovingly inscribe.

~

*post script.

i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve.  we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!  

if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!!   if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!
10W

plants
in
the
driest
soil
always
have
the
d
e
e
p
e
s
t

**r­
o
o
t
s
Cheering myself up

---
Everything heavy
settles
accumulating
as I go about
my external life
like my inner one
doesn't exist

when the tide
recedes
on my knees
in the fetid mud
I will dredge
meaning from
the layers
.

My label was showing,
flipping out from behind the collar
of my non-U.S.A. made shirt
Sri Lanka I think,
but I can’t see the back of my neck from here

Perhaps that is why they stare or
maybe it is why they don’t?
Well, that's okay, I’m new here,
first time on this floor
(I pushed the wrong elevator button)

Fancy suits and low cut gowns,
hors d'oeuvres, champagne, noses held high,
some are long ones to look down or up at
“Bat in the cave! Oh, did I say that out loud?
Sorry lady, no I wouldn’t like any avocado"

Whispers, murmurs or just low talking,
there must be a hundred of them
I thread myself through the crowd
making my way to the podium where I speak,
“Hello I am a poet and I’d like to read you something”

A strong gust of wind races against my face,
not air from any open window,
but the breeze created by their mass exodus
as they head for the outdoor terrace
for a smoke or to spit on those below them

Then I saw her, standing in the middle of the room
all alone, staring up at me
Deep brown eyes, dark glistening hair
and a smile that out-beamed the overhead recessed light
“I’d like to hear your poem,” she said in a euphoric voice

I gazed upon her mesmerized, feeling my throat tighten,
sweat appeared on my forehead as I lifted
a slip of paper from my back pocket
I looked it over and looked over at her…again
Then, taking a deep breath muttered,

“I must apologize, for it has become obvious to me
there is no more beautiful poem than the one
standing before me at this very time
To read these words which I have penned
would only pale to this I find”

“Thank you, that is very sweet of you,
would you like to go for a walk in the park?
I’d much rather be outside than inside
and maybe you can read me some
of your wonderful poetry there?”

“I’d love to, but what about them?”
I asked motioning toward the crowd on the terrace
She picked up the tray of sliced avocado, some champagne
and slipped them out the door, then giggled,
“Those insiders will be just fine outside for a while”

As we headed down on the elevator
she leaned up and kissed me
and it was at that very moment, as my heart
was nearly beating out on my chest I knew,
(I had pushed the correct elevator button)
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