Bigots have not spigots
Bigots have no spigots of charity They burn bias with threaded needles As a way of catching and trapping us God save all our souls from this evil contamination Of such wickedness and sadness. Let us stand on the streets together Tall and proud And read poetry with each other Hug and love with all our muster To share a shining nuance of the wonderful While this untenable world circumnavigates around in crippling blindness
Life Could Be A Weapon for Change
Life could be a weapon for us to change, to live even, To spread peach plenty about the shade, To drink frozen oleanders, To soften the pain of drone death and safe words. Say your speech to wake us from wanton laziness When in the near distance People implode in pain and panic, Sting entrenched pale in pus and puke. If half the world is jerking like that, We must not tell ourselves Christmas stories. Drink drunken words that crash shields Let your comfortable life quiver and unsettle. We may all then might maybe come together in a vast epic colloquy, as in Odysseus with Telemachus two great forces affirming the inchoate shape of that uncertainly love.
How we face the world
Quote here—add return / line break only if more than half-way across page. Make regular block when adding this. —Attribution (source)
Whenever tides spun avid Wherever it was inevitably dark Annie sang soft whisper memories, of what was said quiet in her parents bed. At first glance she was a small circumference in others views— one gentle cell dreaming. Her mind waters welled like the tides blood and Annie without knowing why searched in her gentle blue for Caleb a man all strenuous! he of the mind’s rough face His voice a rocket to Annie’s stillness Sometimes she even thought quiet like a night star, sometimes calm dreaming her intransitive wonders running. Caleb he burned too hot for her cool she felt in this soft black cave the souls, spirits of the balmy present, turning and turning Annie could not reach the off switch to silence restless Caleb burning. She tried turning off that switch To unwriggle his wrestling ongoing transitive chaos. And Annie bless her she said I want to slide not to possess to roam not to own Red periwinkles and blue hyenas The best.
Palm Sunday Passover
This great tide of solar beginnings Growth indivisible—beyond words Such reawakenings When we green ourselves Sun spices everything stronger A triumphant glare shows you and her and the world wallows with us all in now when life wells to a head. Plant blooms bloom more In a plethora of themselves A grand annual rejoicing When our faith strengthens In silent joy that all is what it is That we can be blooming now together.
How I Miss Him on Labor Day
My indomitable father was a man of unseen dreams In all his grey garb he looked so gentle Like a philosopher assembling life drifts. Life and injustice forced him to get rock taut Like those Herbeden’s nodes Marking his knuckles so beady. As a girl, to grow I had to challenge That certainty he held so tight Fear quiet there in his feeling And between us we gained Mutual lifelong soul respect. He would come to Grand Rapids and walk with his beret and cane in the Labor Day parade in honor of workers, of you and we, dignity and of his daughter, perennially late sleeping me.
©2022 Linda Chown
All rights reserved
…is a poet professor musician who now lives in Michigan although her past is coastal and international: Spain and California. Author of four books of poems and finishing her next book, Sunfishing, Linda is a life-long activist, sun-lover and dreamer. She was raised in an activist family from the start. A hopeless romantic, sometimes inequities everywhere drive her to despair and to writing action.