Truth Hurts
From classroom to casket
an American journey
arrive on a school bus
depart on a gurney
As children lay dead
in Uvalde Texas
it’s hard to ignore
the obvious nexus
with unfettered access
to weapons of war
the number of dead
will continue to soar
We live in a land
of pierced hearts and sorrow
no shooting today?
just wait till tomorrow
In a fog of futility
explicably numb
we reach for our heartstrings
but there’s nothing to strum
I don’t know what to say anymore. I feel empty inside – bereft of hope – drowning in sorrow – swallowed in darkness.
My expectations of humanity obliterated – smashed into the ground under the butt of an AR-15 in the hands of apathetic, craven, and power-hungry lawmakers.
What does it say about our country that slaughtered elementary school children huddled in corners of classrooms, their bodies ripped open, their fragile bones splintered and shattered, their blood smeared on the floor and splattered on the walls, the final minutes of their lives filled with overwhelming fear and terror, and still US representatives refuse to even talk about gun legislation?
This happens over and over and over again. The next school shooting is right around the corner and yet we remain stuck, unable to do anything because the people we send to congress care more about their job than the safety of your children.
The river of apathy that runs through the halls of congress intensifies the futility and hopelessness we all feel for days after a school shooting.
Now we’ll go through the scripted responses from spineless and heartless Republican legislators – the lies about the threat to the second amendment, the outrageous claim that we need more guns to combat this violence, the blame it on mental illness argument.
We’ve heard these responses so many times that we can recite them almost word-for-word.
Until US representatives who oppose gun regulation get voted out or begin losing their loved ones to gun violence, situations like what played out in Uvalde, TX, and Buffalo, NY will happen repeatedly.
Would Republican lawmakers care enough to act if their child or loved one was struck down by a bullet from an AR-15?
Would Republican lawmakers care enough to act if they had to identify their child or loved one gruesomely and mortally wounded by a bullet from an AR-15?
Sadly, other people’s children and loved ones being mowed down in a hail of gunfire is not enough to get these people to act.
Vote. Them. Out.
To Parishioner Pelosi:
The archbishop has spoken
your soul is too broken
your communion with God is “Declined!”
No body of wafer
to keep your soul safer
no blood in that cup full of wine
To that tall-hatted dude out in Frisco
the one chanting “El Cuerpo de Christo”
we won’t bend to your will
or keep our mouth’s still
or dance to the beat of your disco
He’s condemning your views on abortion
and withholding God’s grace as extortion
his tactics aren’t bold
they’re petty and cold
we can see through the smoke and distortion
To the church that treats women like cattle
for the lines that you’ve drawn for this battle
It’s a badge (not a snub)
to be tossed from your club
we will march on New York and Seattle
Between the fence and fern
in the back of the yard
in the cool of the dirt
on the soft moss and sod
in a universe of silt
in a narrow never-glade
in a moistened black congruence
of oxygen and shade
A never-ending cycle
of reproductive violence
the natural machinations
of Darwinian compliance
Larvae, beetles, earthworms
black and orange ants
decomposing nutrients
a lifeblood for the plants
An invisible battle rages
steadfastly unforgiving
nature’s revolution
where the dead
support the living
From above this Earthly
netherworld
all that we discern
are the gently blowing leaves
and the softly dancing fern
It feels like the fabric that holds our society together gets more and more threadbare by the day.
Calamity fuels anxiety, and anxiety churns our ideas and emotions into a bitter black butter, clogging the arteries in our brain and preventing us from generating optimistic thoughts.
Hopelessness gathers on the horizon, settling in our collective consciousness.
War, disease, and apathy carry the day, leading humanity down a dark and twisting path, permanently away from light and hope.
But my dog doesn’t sense any of this.
My dog still greets me with smiling eyes and a wagging backside – the same way she did when life was good. She still strolls from the patio to the sun-warmed grass, shoulder-rolls onto the ground, and joyfully wiggles on her back.
Somedays, she’s the ray of light that sees me through tomorrow.
I’m Calvin’s lonely cousin
the one without a friend
The darkly-quiet moody one
The one who couldn’t blend
I’m the smoker in the stairwell,
skipping school all day
the fall-between-the-crack-type-kid
the one who slips away
I’m the ink inside the headlines
the lead story on the news
The kid the network anchor says
was surely born to lose
I’m the details at eleven
a community in shock
I’m the often-bullied quirky kid
who lived just up the block
I’m a parent’s darkest nightmare
I’m my doctors deep concern
I’m the angst that no one seems to get
the match about to burn
I’m an issue in the social science
circles of the day
I’m the brush it underneath the rug
that never goes away
I see angels circling the sun
feathered wings and halos
golden and hand-spun
Frozen little angels
Circling the sun
bursting into rain drops
cleansing everyone
I’m…
View original post 99 more words
At first, it was difficult to brush aside the carnage.
We see the horror of war and empathize with those engulfed by it.
We get angry at the senselessness of it.
We get agitated that one man’s evil ambition can wreak havoc on millions of innocent people who just want to live their lives.
But as the war drags on, we’ll grow to accept it as part of the global landscape.
For Ukrainians, outrage and anger fuel their fight and their will to survive.
For Ukrainians, outrage is ammunition. Outrage is necessary.
But for us watching the war from a safe distance, in 3-minute segments on flat-screen TVs, maintaining the same level of outrage we felt initially is not sustainable. Not because we’re callous or ambivalent, but because that level of outrage interferes with our daily routine and our need to get on with our lives.
Humans are not wired to maintain a constant state of outrage when their environment does not merit it, or when their survival does not depend on it.
For those not directly impacted by war, extended outrage is an impediment. To move on with our lives, outrage gives way to a begrudging (and guilt-laden) acceptance of other people’s suffering.
In a way, turning off our outrage becomes a survival mechanism.
Putin understands this.
Putin is betting that the world will get tired of feeling outrage.
Putin knows that outrage has a short shelf-life and all he has to do for victory is wait us out.
We need sustainable outrage to stand up against the enemies of freedom and democracy.
Religious fanatics in red caps and black robes
Choice Appomattox and transvaginal probes
Beaten and raped, then told what to do
Stripped of your voice, no autonomous you
Back-alley midwives with buckets and hangers
Forced into action, like fierce Margret Sangers
Matt K and Sam A, don’t care what you think
Judge Thomas and Barrett drown Roe in the sink
Ejaculate holder, an object, a vessel
A fait accompli, with no room to wrestle
Your thoughts do not matter; just do what we say
Your handmaid’s dilemma, the American way
From pro-choice to no-voice, a Trump court of minions
Precedent killing abortion opinions
The fetus and soul are what matters the most
Your womanly role is to be a good host
“Sandi Beaches, nice to meet you.”
Across from you stands 5-feet seven inches of sunshine, splendidly packaged in twinkly eyes on a lightly freckled face, each freckle perfectly placed by one of God’s angels.
“Nice to meet you, Sandi,” you suck in your gut and shake her hand.
She turns and walks ahead, her hair bouncing playfully on tanned and toned shoulders as you stroll towards the front door of an overpriced, undersized 2-bedroom condo.
You struggle to not let your gaze drift southward.
Newly divorced, you’re looking for your own place for the first time in 30 years – “A fresh start,” you tell yourself, and Sandi’s listing seems to
fit the bill — at least on paper.
At 60, you’re done mowing lawns; your achy knees are a weekly testament to that. You’ve convinced yourself a monthly HOA is a small price to free you from that discomfort.
As you enter the condo, Sandi begins her pitch:
“In addition to the living area, we have 2 bedrooms (one with an ensuite) and a lovely eat-in kitchen leading to a cheery patio overlooking the backyard.”
Sandi’s lilting voice bounces softly off the walls of the empty condo, mixing with her perfume to form an intoxicating blend of scent and sound that hangs in the air for you to absorb.
You quietly inhale.
Ballerina-like, she spins and says, “feel free to walk about,” then heads onto the patio, taking out her phone and sitting down in one graceful motion.
You realize you’re barely a blip to her. A soon to be forgotten notation on her calendar.
You sigh.
This unexpected encounter with youthful exuberance brings a heightened awareness to your current station in life. It wasn’t that long ago when purpose and promise filled your days. Now, in the full grip of a midlife crisis, you grasp for what’s no longer there.
Your situation hits you like a two-by-four to the back of the head. You tour the unit numbly; you feel yourself move from room to room, seeing it all but noticing nothing.
You walk towards the patio where Sandi sits in the sun. “I’ll take it,” you say, not because you want it, but just to see her turn towards you and smile.
bendingtheneedle