Some matters press against the lining of my weary soul. Injustices and inequities abound.
See how the children grow, sweetly innocent, casting about for our undivided attention?
All that the summer child gains, proud accomplishments, another child holds greater
Grace within the sacred sphere. You ignored the offerings of the summer born,
Shrugged aside her efforts. Pierced my heart with your words. Sharp and condescending.
Since our most recent presidential election the word kleptocracy has gained popularity. I figured it had something to do with theft or thievery, but wanted to be certain.
Sure enough, Webster’s confirmed my suspicions:
I think I’ll try my hand at a poem.
Kleptocracy
There are foxes in the henhouse
See them slinking in the aisles?
Claiming our chickens as their own
While smirking their sly smiles.
There are wolves among the sheep
Camouflaged in off-white fleece,
Pay no attention to the bleating
As sharp teeth devour a tasty feast.
There are thieves in the capital
Snatching away our rights
Kleptocrats with no restraint
And they sleep well at night.
How awful is it that I’ve come across the word “feckless” in reading material pretty much my entire life but never bothered to look up its meaning. I relied on context to get close to the definition, but it’s being bandied about so much in our current political environment that I decided to pin it down and see what Mr. Webster says.
Can I build a poem around it? It’s worth a try.
Feckless
Feckless, rhymes with reckless, but given a choice I’d rather be the latter
At least reckless implies action, foolhardy though it may be
While feckless, ah, that milquetoast adjective, describes a dearth of
Initiative, a failure of character. In a word, Congress.
My heart’s been walking in soul sucking mud, the kind that pulls my shoes right off
As I slog through the muck from point a to point b. Bare feet carry gamely on, step by sticky
Step. Pick up my shoes and brace myself against gravity’s ultimate challenge. Falling
Face first into the mire is a real possibility. I’ve been here before. It’s not pretty.
I heart you
Sounds oddly
Painful
Like, I hit you,
or
I smite you.
St. Valentine was
Martyred,
Though, so
I reckon
I heart you
Is fitting.
I’ve never used the word “calumny.” To be honest I wasn’t sure what it meant. Thank goodness for Google!
I’m trying now to craft a poem around this word “calumny” that popped into my mind apropos of nothing. Words do that to me sometimes.
CALUMNY
Calumny, she said to me, ended my career. I’d arisen from nothing, no pedigree, no expertise,
With tears in my eyes I begged her to explain her downfall. Did calumny cause you
Pain? I asked. Was it akin to a canker sore or a bunion? She laughed ruefully. No, it was much worse.
You see I’d trusted someone and they smeared my name. Made me the fool of their wicked game.
And just like that, my reputation was beyond repair. I didn’t laugh, but still perplexed. Calumny
Isn’t a physical malady? It sounds like a blow to the gut. Again, she smiled. Close, but no cigar.
He stood inside the circle of light, hat in hand, a glorious fedora.
She stumbled in the dark, caught her heel on a paving stone, stifled a giggle.
Crickets and frogs and hoot owls witnessed their coming together.
He dropped his hat, she kicked off her shoes, their lips met unerringly.
“This feels like a movie,” she whispered.
“You feel like a tree,” he sighed.
“CUT!” Called the director. “For the hundredth time, its dream. ‘You feel like a dream!’ Sheesh, it’s gonna be a long night.”
Childhood memories of swimming embossed on black and white slides on a Kodak carousel
Projector. Mom posed in sepia tones next to lipsticked friends showing long legs and
Shy facade. Burgeoning freedom from tired stereotypes of the matronly figure.
My beautiful mother, cigarette in hand, defied the trope. Once divorced, then
Remarried,
Tall and curvaceous with a smile for the ages, yet too self-concious to
swim in
Public. Every time I don my lycra swimsuit I see her in my mind. Gorgeous, like me.
He always knew where to find me, beneath the stairs with a novel in my hand.
The question was always the same, Whatcha reading? I instantly responded, A book,
Knowing he’d chuckle at my lame predictability. Back then we kept love in our pockets
Like wrapped peppermints to be savored after a spicy meal. Cool reminders of everything
Important. Kiss me now, I thought. While my breath is sweet and you are laughing at my joke.
If tomorrow booted goons came to silence my free speech,
If in the night I found myself imprisoned for my beliefs,
The saddest thing would not be my arrest, but that
Friends like you would sit by and say, Well she did bring it on herself.
Oh, you might wring your hands when the executioner comes,
And you might pray for my poor soul’s repose,
But the saddest thing is you’ve watched democracy poisoned
And opened wide for the bringer of death’s dose.
With every measure this fool in charge claims greatness
A sleight of hand meant to convince and confuse
So when my body is hanged in the virtual square,
It’s your gullibility that’s tightened the noose.
And the saddest things are the memories of you with fierce ideals
Now turning a blind eye to injustices in a quest for the status quo
Those protest songs traded now for hymns of the prosperity gospel
Nothing like an evangelical sermon and a gaudy mummer’s show.
Praying for Eyebrowz 