Tag: blog

Privilege


Of course his racism affects, or will affect, all of us in some way. Only time will tell how deeply.

Stand up, speak up, don’t let the bullies win.

Who Did You Become?

On 11/9/2016
Who did you become?
A boaster, bragger
instant tagger
c’mon can’t we get
along?
Or a nervous wreck
jumping at shadows
bad dreams of
four long
years to come?
a silenced nightmare
holding back
salty tears of
frustrated
rage,
or an anointer,
bring it on,
free the monster
from his
cage.


Heavy Metals

like lead, Pb and J
feet dragging between
two pieces of white bread
mercury rising
density be damned,
but what about
bismuth, you wonder,
good old eighty-three.

Studly’s New Toy

Studly Doright thought I should share photos of his new toy. It’s a ’72 model 350 Yamaha R5, a two cylinder, two stroke. He bought it for himself and then told me it was his birthday present from me. That’s how you cut out the middle man. Or middle woman, in this case.


It needs a bit of TLC, so I’ll be supervising the work. I do have a stake in the thing, after all.

Peace, people.

Snapshot #57

Studly Doright came home from work this afternoon and dropped this packet into my lap. I’m calling this, “Instant Mood Lifter!”

The Rake or the Leaf

I’ve been a rake
Forcing fallen leaves into crisp piles
Mounds of gold and rust
Scooped into brown bags and left beside autumn’s curbs.

No amount of diligence
Insures the capitulation of every frond
Some will take flight
In frantic whorls, escaping thus from gravity’s laws.

As an implement of control
My sense of failure knows no limits
In my future guise
I will cling to the oak tree immune to
season’s demands.

Snapshot #56

I looked over at my Indiana Jones action figure before getting into bed last night. He said, “Damn, Girl, I Like Those Pink Pajamas.”

Finding Ropes

hanging in there,
or hanging up
twisting strands
in idle thought
hemp or nylon
hangman’s choice
to succor those
without a voice

decisive action
in tying knots
warm salt tears
obscure the plot
neither painless
nor a graceful act
release the hatch
reduce the slack

You Don’t Get to Decide

In response to one of my Facebook posts about the increasing number of hate crimes committed since Trump’s electoral college win of the election:

I obscured the friend’s name to protect her privacy. I’ve known her since kindergarten and we’ve managed to remain friends even though we are on opposite ends of the political spectrum.

The thing is, I’ve gotten several comments like this, and my first thought is, how dare they?

I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone to get over something they’re feeling intensely. Maybe I’ve thought the words, but I would never presume to tell them that they don’t have the right to grieve or to feel something.

After my mother’s funeral, after everyone except my dad, my brothers and their wives, along with my husband and I had left the church Daddy pulled us all together in a massive hug and told us he loved us. As we all sobbed he reminded us to always tell our spouses that we loved them. We took a private moment to grieve as a family.

Later I received pointed criticism from someone outside my immediate family. Apparently it was inexcusable that we’d kept everyone waiting for a few extra minutes. You know what? Screw them. 

That time was a part of our grieving and part of the way we found the strength to move on. My family doesn’t always speak about its deepest feelings, and to have denied my dad that moment with us would have been a terrible mistake. 

No one gets to decide how I grieve. No one. Not a Facebook friend, not a family member, not a co-worker, not a smug acquaintance. I’ll be ok, but today, I’m still grieving. So back off. Seriously.

Peace? Yes, peace, people.