What is it about a national flag
draped over shoulders,
tied at the neck
or wrapped like a toga
that makes me cross the road?
Why do I suspect it covers anger?
Why do I hear a shout of challenge,
rather than a song of honour?
Was it too many urban marches?
Flying London bricks?
And cracked skulls?
Let's put flags beyond reach
on flag poles,
and preferably not at half mast.

Laced with ribbons of moonlight
Bangladesh a touched dream at first light.
Land of my father, my mother
sweeter than nectar.
Purer than the driven snow
brighter than raw gold.
Gazing stars’ bumped up bottom
down the untouched moon.

Men and the six seasons
living in one loving fold
our one fertile sweet home!
O Allah rank our martyrs our heroes
up high in paradise in bloom
brought Bangladesh freedom abloom!

Punters cumulus clouds fly
eyes on the sky blue  
on a spur hanging low tune into wild coo.
Picture independent Bangladesh
step in on the morning rug
rolls out outside the sun
walk through, the moon is inside!
Bask in, take your time
when the twilight adds a shadow
the beauty spot on your broad daylight
escape to more serendipitous discovery.
Eye on the stars or tuberoses on the ground
our free land is inspiring, beautiful even in the dark.

Laughs free from a tulip glass  
across the land, air and the water
upon the reed flute stirred river
flowing downstream to the hilt
from a deep-delved foundation out of reach
her raised high flag flies
over the pivotal banyan trees.

Every flap of our ‘the sun in the green’ shaped flag,
the light of heaven on the evergreen earth!
Ah, sways in the chalice of every flower
on the land cheers beyond the warm South
whispers to our hearts and makes us feel proud.

Finding seed in fibers needed for the humming bird robe.
Thread twisted so,
fine fine fine,
sof-ein
my point in the twisting tale

The book my culture arose from
knowing any rose is a rose.
thank you, Gert,

this book, the book, our culture- global
post
the elec'ric link to steam and steel
and cotton picking
through
assembly line guns, before automobiles, by Ford.

Yes, as an aside, who saw
- pause the prosody, break the lines
- goto .7 speed
- or bullet speed if you know the idea
As handspinners, we indulge our senses with each new yarn that is spun.

From <https://spinoffmagazine.com/a-practical-guide-to-ginning-cotton-by-hand/>

As handspinners,
we indulge our senses
with each new yarn that is spun.
We are entranced and soothed
as our eyes watch the twist travel through the fiber.
We fluff, stretch,
and tug it into every possible yarn configuration
and enjoy that therapeutic zen
that comes with it.
Ginning your own cotton by hand
adds another layer
of bliss
to the spinning experience.

At a glance,
we just pluck seeds
from a nest
of fiber.
You’ll want
to work methodically
in order
to save time and leave your fiber
as lofty
as possible after ginning.
Understanding how the seeds are organized
within a cotton boll and using the best technique
for the variety
of cotton that you have makes the handginning process go much easier.

I did errands today
and I was confused

Something was wrong, astray
I mused

I settled into the evening quiet
And my disquieted soul shouted

"The flags were not at half staff"
As the West Wing staff and Cabinet was trimmed by half

Yesterday, Congress was sieged by riff-raff
45 egged them on

Congress counted the Electoral votes
but our troubles are not all gone

Today, I needed to see that flag half-mast
My grief begged for a symbol against the bombast

And yet the flag waved, full staff, as if nothing and no one mattered
And no one has said a word

i’m still looking for the version of america that was taught to us in school.

the america where the flag that stands
stands for everyone’s freedom,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

the america where those who protect and serve
protect and serve everyone,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

the america where all are welcomed
and we welcome everyone with open arms,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

but i guess this is only the america that lives inside my head.
the america that never existed.
where “everyone is free”
yet everyone whose skin isn’t made of porcelain is seen as a felon, a ‘bad man’, a walking disease, a theft...
as an inferior.
and the stars and the stripes that so gloriously fly
even in the darkest of nights
no longer stand for freedom.
because this “freedom” only applies to those whose skin is made of porcelain.

what makes the porcelain people so different than those whose skin is made of velvet?
when the version of america where that question is answered exists, take me there
because
no one is free, until everyone is free.

I look at you like you hung the moon

If I’m not touching on you, kissing you, playing with your hair,
If I’m not ******* or ******* you,
You look at me like a burden, an annoyance

An itch you can’t seem to scratch
A bug that just won’t go away
A blister rubbing against your shoe

You like me best as a pretty picture on the wall
Smiling until you call for me
Obeying and loving every second of it

Even when you look at me like that

You hung the moon