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Archive for November, 2024

The greatness of a community is most accurately measured 
by the compassionate actions of its members. Coretta Scott King




Earth Dwellers

We walk together,
as if our feet were bare,
our lives open to one another.
My life and yours, shared.
The rocks between our toes,
the small grains of sand,
the sun, the rain,
the everyday, the sublime.
We are a part of it all.
And I am grateful.

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GRANDCHILD NUMBER THREE

Truth lifts the heart like water refreshes thirst. (Rumi)

Black and white image
a face an arm within a blurred arc a girl
her parents with their big blue eyes
envision bright blue charm progressing
within that growing face

Grandma decides
she’ll be a blonde like Mommy
with her keen insight
earn an MBA like Daddy
or perhaps discover a cure for disease
challenge the world of sports

but truth appears on the film
a flaw or so it would seem
the twenty-first chromosome triples instead of doubles
one surgery promised at birth
a second four months later

the first will strike her gut the second her heart
Baby’s body develops within Mommy
as Baby’s outside world
grasps truth embraces it
small hands double jointed
blue eyes maybe that seek observe
belong to a spirit as sacred as any in
a world dubbed normal

as Baby’s parents and grandparents and friends
open their own guts
allowing no room for anything less
than wonder

and it arrives within her spirit

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I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costume party and I attended with my real face. (Franz Kafka)


WE CALL IT VISION

Sometimes poetry speaks truth better than lines of fact. The first haiku carries 5, 7, 5 syllables. The next five lines, a tanka, delivers truth in 5, 7, 5, 7, 5 syllables.




SCENE OF THE HANGING OF BLACK MEN

” I don’t see color,”
says a white man to lynchings
as he leaves the room.



COMMUNITY

The flower sees bees
coming and opens petals.
Possibilities.
Plant and insect share alike.
Even as the stem stands still.









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Trick or Treat

“Grandmas are moms with lots of frosting.” – author unknown


I cough with late October allergies,
and Ella holds her ears.
My sensitive granddaughter hurts when I do.
Empathy lives in her being.


So, I choose to play, even as I wheeze.
And beg a second puff of inhaler to work. Now.


“I will be okay,” I say
“My medicine is power, just like your smile.

And the silent music of clear breath
returns to my lungs.


“Halloween magic,” she says,
handing me a reusable grocery bag,
a plastic box of snacks in her lap.


“What’s your costume?” she asks.
“I am an apple,” I answer. “A squirrel

took a bite out of me.

“Got any apple bandages?

She giggles and waits
for my next pretend character.


I arrive as a mouse and ask
if she has any cats?
Another smile as I peek inside
her pretend home.


“What’s your costume?” her eager voice asks
as I become a fish with three eyes,
whose third orb roams in every direction.
I complain. “This middle eye. It won’t behave.


Then, as a cod, I ask Ella
if she wants to share a worm.
“It hasn’t been dead long.”
“Ooh” is a sufficient response.


My imaginative turn entertains too well.
She lets me remain permanent

trick-or-treater.

And my six-foot circled path
along our living room rug mimics a triathlon.


I want to rest,
stare at nothing, disappear
into self-imposed limbo.


But Ella has had two open-heart surgeries.
She carries a tripled twenty-first chromosome.
Down syndrome matches an up personality.


It has sharpened
her awareness of struggle,
life’s balance at a cost.


Ella hugs the box of treats.
She is ready for another round.

Another imaginary personality appears,
a spider with nine legs.
I ask for a Halloween treat.
“Anything is fine.
I have nine appendages to open it.

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