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.
We’ve been told we are at war
With a virus, an invisible enemy
But our nominal president
Plays golf and tweets erratically
Swatting at Titleists
Swearing at journalists
Embarrassing most of us
While one hundred thousand Americans
And it’s not yet June.
I am invincible
My bare feet meet the cool brown earth
And I know.
Sidewalks are for lesser beings
Tender skinned novices
As for me, I will stride with confidence
Eschewing the easy path
Embracing the dangers
One toe at a time.
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.
My blog has a new follower:
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
I’m fairly certain the writer is daft
And I’d hate to hurt her
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.
Discover Prompts: Light
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.
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
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
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
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
For our sins.
(I do not miss those days.)