The Heretic’s Stash

When our bridges are burned, when our world is but ash

And we stand like statues in the noise of the crash,

 

Will we rebel, will we cry foul!? Will we lash

Out in fury, our screams a knife’s gash

 

That cuts to the quick, leaves wounds raw and fresh?

In a litter of nothing, a heretic’s stash

 

Will I rise up alone and alone raise my glass

To drink of the blood, the wine a pure wash?

 

Will I stumble out in wild frenzied dash,

Storm against evil, with dripping sword clash,

 

Call out to the enemy, “Here! Let me pass!”

And blindly then burn, and turn into the ash?

 

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Bloodroot

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Virgin-white blooms beseech light

Slender stems of blood

Suck sustenance from darkness

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On The Table

The jam pot from Japan,
a banana dish made in 1899,
a basket of red-handled flatware and cloth napkins,
salt and pepper shakers shaped like little ducks,
checkered pottery tray with two small syrup dispensers–
one for honey, one for maple syrup–
and a green glass vase of daffodils.
You picked them for me yesterday
when you thought the cold would kill them.
You carried them in,
cradled in your rough bricklayer’s hands,
chose the pretty vase,
put them on the table,
and turned to watch
the pleasure light my eyes.

with thanks to Virginia DeBolt for the prompt

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Too Soon the Rose

Remember when you crushed the rose

between your fingers until the petals stained your hands

soft and red, delicious the scent

that filled the air between us. Bruised

petals drifted, spent

confetti of the celebration of us.

 

Wilted, rain-washed to dirty white,

too soon the rose

was trampled under the heavy tread

of everyday, and we never saw  the forgotten bits

wash down into the drains.

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We Rise

We rise

Like a phoenix from the ashes

we rise and we speak

with signs and marches and pink hats and microphones

many voices with one voice

we rise and we will be heard

from sea to shining sea

 

We speak for the young who fear for their lives

for the teachers whose brave hearts tremble

for the elderly who see their future dark with want

for the immigrants who cannot freely speak

for the black man who must always watch his back

for black mothers who grieve each murdered son

for women harassed and humiliated at work

for workers whose security is taken, piece by piece

for the poor, the handicapped,

for all who cannot or dare not speak for themselves

 

We will not back down

We are not afraid

Together we are strong

Together our voices rise as one, together we stand

So that this nation shall have

a new birth of freedom

and that government of the people,

by the people, for the people,

shall not perish from this earth

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Fireside

A fire and a dog,

golden brandy in crystal,

evening’s small comforts.

 

 

 

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Days Like Champagne

Some days are like champagne

light and bubbly and fleeting;

others like the cheapest wine,

dark, bitter and and soon forgotten.

And then there are the days

like this one, aged with remembrance,

rolled around in our minds

over and over again to savor the richness

of layered goodness.

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