I haven’t said anything

George Floyd was murdered in broad daylight by an officer of the law with witnesses standing near, yet I haven’t said anything here.

People are protesting in the streets, still I’ve stayed home, safe in my little world, pleading age and fear of contracting a virus.

Friends are hurting, at each other’s throats, but I’ve not written a word. That’s my privilege and my shame.

Instead, I’m listening. Learning. Taking notes. My whiteness is my shield and my weakness in matters of color.

I know this, though, black lives matter, and even if I don’t know what else to do or say. I’ll keep saying those three words.

Black Lives Matter.

When I Feel Sad

When I feel sad I might curl up in a ball and sob

Or apply mascara and go out for lunch

I might dance around the room with abandon

Or sit by myself in a corner, when I feel sad.

There’s no telling what I’ll do when the self pity lands

And my thoughts go to dark places. But I won’t do that.

Don’t worry. I’m not sad.

Peace, people.

I “Like” My Own Posts

My blog has a new follower:

Me.

I “like” my own posts,

But I haven’t gone overboard

With praise for my writing.

That would be pure vanity.

Neither have I critiqued it

Negatively, though.

I’m fairly certain the writer is daft

And I’d hate to hurt her

Feelings.

Light

If it’s always darkest before the dawn, then is the opposite true?

Before the dark sets in, is that when the light shines brightest?

Maybe we’d notice then, and make ready.

But then we’d always be wondering, is this it? Is this the brightest light? How could anything be brighter? We must be doomed.

Or maybe we’d just celebrate the light.

Peace, people.

Discover Prompts: Light

The Things We Touch

Door knobs and counter tops,

Paper money and coins,

Credit card scanners and screens,

Gas pump handles, a lover’s face,

Our phones, our eyes, our hair,

Children’s little noses, dogs’ ears,

Cats, when they’ll let us,

Faucets and tables,

Light switches and silverware,

Steering wheels and guitar strings,

The panic button, if we aren’t careful.

Sculpture in Venice tackles the topic of climate change

Peace, people.

A Different Drummer

When I march, it’s to a different beat, three quarter time, more a waltz than a Sousa piece

Oompah pah, oompah pah, the carousel goes ‘round and ‘round. One, two, three, again and again

White horses on poles, the occasional sleigh, me, trying to catch the brass ring on the downbeat

Hanging on for dear life, even though I’ll go ‘round more than once. It’s not at all like real life.

If I Were a Writer

If I were a writer

I’d dredge up the dirt

The stuff that stifles dreams

And makes everyone cringe,

The grit that scours my heart.

I’d lay my soul bare

Grieve publicly

Take the blame.

Instead, I’m just a wannabe

Writing about nothing that matters

Where no one gets hurt.

Especially not me.

Statue of Sorrow by T.J. Fowler

The Dust

I know a thing or two about dust

A Texas panhandle childhood taught me its sting on the playground

Grit-filled eyes and sandblasted legs

Days of dust

And tumbling weeds

When gray choked skies obscured and

Scouring winds grew teeth

I thought that was how the whole world worked

Nature’s castigation

For our sins.

(I do not miss those days.)