Posted in diversity, multiculturalism, women trailblazers

Women Leading, All Colors, All Races

Northern snowbanks are
shaking
mother earth is quaking
continuous warnings
mudslides, floods
and fires
while Washington keeps pumping out liars.

Hush hush now children
we’ll hold you tight with our hugs
don’t look now babies
lest marauders grab you from us,
those robed and slick-suited thugs.

Hush hush now children
listen while we shield you as best we can
under the inky dark and starlit night
a band of SHEros approaches, we scan
the globe from celestial heights,
we are here, the goddess clan
we emerge with impenetrable force,

our warriors beside us. We are the colors of all races

we are the faces of all faces

we are red, yellow, black, and white

we are women and we are leading the fight.

Posted in body image for women, current events

Screams Loudly at Hollow Wimps

The man they vote for

sloshes his words like

a lushy wimp who enjoys his beer.

The dull continuation of another lumpy privileged protagonist whose time has expired,

whose salty tears no longer contain any seed of rehabilitation;

empty as the impotent reflection of Narcissus’ dried up well.

Get those rusty coat hangers, boys.
You’ll need them to protect yourselves from
the ghosts of unwanted babies crying in your nightmares.

They scream more loudly than orphans ripped from their parents

and placed in privately funded cages.

They scream more loudly than your fear
of dark-skinned rebels lurking in the
basement
of your souls.

Posted in death and dying, memoir, Writing for healing

They Don’t Tell You

in the background the usual
misogyny
rattles around like the crusty rickety
and impetuous
drunk hanging out at the corner bar bragging to his seaside pals.

mama had warned you about stranger danger
but forgot the part
where your own sister
won’t call you to report
that Linda May had passed away
a month ago.

they don’t tell you
and never did speak
directly
except when the iron was hot
and the blue cold ribbon of one-upping
was theirs to display
and cheer.

Posted in current events

Indictments!

So, we are not insane, it’s the House Republicans and their bedmates,

mental bugs, winning parasites

funded by the enemy

in a tortured game of kidnapping children

incited by gluttonous mouths unable to

fill their bloated, cash-gorged stomachs–

funded  by taxpayer reality tv

and we’re told that a murderous bare-chested rider is the easiest one

according to a bottom-feeding tyrannical clown.

We are not insane.

We see.

 

Posted in Uncategorized

Murmurs

The air in the room felt

as if someone had recently rushed off

and left particles of tiny colors.

Was it excitement or the staggering buzz of

a lover’s quarrel?

***************************************************

And it helps if you fkng know how to spell “murmurs.”  I crack myself up. I changed it. But, in light of the weird crap that’s going on, I forgive myself.

 

Posted in inspirational, memoir, stream of consciousness writing

Surroundings

 

 

 

On walls

through windows

within the molecules of mental constructs

my vocabulary is

delicious, tormented, peaceful, moody, changing and constant,

dreadful

boring

predictable.

I pack a suitcase and fly to Michigan

to see my oldest living relative on my mother’s side who,

at 97, gives me a gift of conversation;

she

tells me again

how my mother was one of the nicest people she’d ever met.

Then later mentions that she wasn’t such a good cook

and that smoking almost killed her.

I can only feel conflicted

but this time

in my mid-60’s mind, it’s all ok now

really, truly

something is healed.

When I am alone on adventure

the muses never fail to inspire

so when I see

the river rushing, winding,

threatening to overflow…

just like my view of life

motivated by surroundings,

the rapid water is a

savior of sorts,

like a psalm or a poem, words to remember.

 

Journal prompt: write about what motivates you. In your journal, add descriptions of who, how, what, where, when…and why.

 

Posted in inspirational, poetry

Whisper

In the dream
the ancestors showed me
the scene.
An owl looking west
perched above
in the woods.
There’s more, the dream is bold.

A whispered tale
for
me
only, in my solace, in the turning darkness,

my usual forays in hallways and destinations

trying to find my room

then the scene

changes reflecting internal visions.

You will know.
Your guide is near.

This time you waited outside.

Posted in current events, satire, stream of consciousness writing

Dribbles and Momentos

I’m writing stream of consciousness to keep my blogging energy alive.

This Friday the 13th has been windy, eerie, howling and haunting, like the song “Ill Wind.”  I can’t stop thinking about Syria and the horrors of war juxtaposed to the constant dribble (or should I say drip, drip, drip) of some asinine details of the US president’s sex life. People are salivating in anticipation of former FBI director Comey’s book, one I would re-title  A Higher “Royalty,” pun intended. But hey, freedom of the press and freedom of profits and all that. Who am I to judge? I’m just a lowly home-maker/artist/scribbler gone wild.

Mad housewife pitch: Bully politician fires tall FBI career guy who doesn’t protect efficient career woman on verge of becoming first female president after being proven innocent of scandal. Career guy dishes dirt on politician.

So this new memoir promises to divulge juicy facts that we’re tired of but can’t turn away from, after inundation with compassion fatigue for everything. High school students, staff, and families with PTSD from school shootings, unarmed black youth shot to death on camera at the rate of dozens per week or something like it. Food stamps cut. Elderly in assisted living rents raised $150 per month. Teachers on strike, that sort of thing.

Yet, back to the memoir: many of us still shaking our heads about why Comey seems to sabotage Hillary Clinton right before the election. It looks like men just can’t stand to think that women are capable of leading. They are so insecure about their manhood. Or their lack of melanin? What is it? That’s about to change, fellas. What has really happened is that when you mess up, we take over. Nothing personal, but have you forgotten Mother Nature always bats last? Or has the last word? Or, hell hath no fury like a woman denied her paycheck, her right to vote, and control over her own body.

Sheesh. I wasn’t going to go into a political tirade. Maybe I need to let go and just be myself. Yes. That will work. Because there are plenty like me and we vote.

Spring is here, except in North Dakota. The hum of cheering crowds at baseball games become a vapid lullaby for our national sign-carrying distress.

The only respite to the backdrop of war anxiety and talk of chemical weapons is remembering the glow of hope that some super hero can deliver. Scanned scenes of babies brought to you by major news corporations vying for power overwhelms the senses. It’s all too much, it’s all too flipping efficient, like a self- driving car crashing into someone out for an evening stroll. Cut. Oh well. Move on to the next story.

So the past few weeks have whizzed by like a flash of lightning. Some of our dearest relatives came to visit so I put aside current projects for a moment. For whatever it’s worth, dear readers, if you are a diarist or note-taker, be proud. In the age of Instagram and sell-your-private-info-for megabucks social media, a hand written story or messy paragraph on a scratch pad might be a treasure someone will cherish after you are long gone. Heck, your notes might even have historical relevance or be romantic inspirations.

I have mementos that mean more to me than my car. Well, not quite, but almost. I have my grandfather’s treatment plans for his patients, my other grandfather’s post cards to my mother. I have poems I wrote as a five year old. Recipes found tucked inside a library discard book that may have been untouched for years.

 

physician treatment plan for arthritis circa 1922

 

That’s all I have right now.  It’s a diversion from what I’d planned to share but that’s the life of journal-writer.  It’s all beyond my control and as you know, moms and grandmas are often accused of being control freaks. 🙂

Next time I will get to the stories.

Journal prompt: Write whatever is on the top of your head or coming out your ears. Be as dry, sarcastic or as moody as you want.