Month: October 2023

Fence

Na'ama Yehuda Anecdotes of Life, Current events, Muse and Flow, Poetry, Reflections, Trauma and Development, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , 20 Comments

 

They built their house on the other side of the fence.

The far end of the bay.

To stay away.

Others aren’t like us, they’d say.

We’re better.

People don’t understand that

They’re nothing like us.

They built their house on the other side

Of the fence.

Taught their kids to hate

The Others

For not being

Like them.

For being

Less worthy.

Less than.

They build their house on the other side of

The fence.

The town gawked

First

Then shrugged

Then came to believe

That indeed

They were different,

Even dangerous

On the other side of

The fence.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Rowena Curtin

 

 

Not a Zero-Sum

Na'ama Yehuda Anecdotes of Life, Current events, Life and love, Meditations, Memoriam, Poetry, Reflections, Trauma and Development, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , 16 Comments
jose-a-thompson-VeeZz9sUaic-unsplash

(Photo: Jose A.Thompson on Unsplash)

 

Heartbreak is not a zero-sum game.

Pain is an and/and.

Destroying another is not a condition

Or proof

Or sign.

Being right or being wronged is not exclusive.

To anyone.

 

I will condemn

What should never

Be done.

 

I will not hate a People.

I will not celebrate harm.

I will not justify terrorism,

No matter the desired outcome,

Nor the hurting of children

In ‘payment’ for what someone has done.

 

I cannot see a space where rape or massacre,

Are ever, ever, a moral ground.

 

Heartbreak is not a zero-sum game.

Inflicted pain is not a battle won.

‘Collateral’ is not a term,

For anyone.

Babies aren’t worth less,

In another’s arms.

 

Granny Gray

Na'ama Yehuda Life and love, Muse and Flow, Reflections, Things Kids Say, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , 25 Comments

 

It was the hood that did it.

Toppled time.

She stood and stared. The store around her ebbed into a surf of sounds that no longer carried any meaning. The colors drained. Rainbow into monochrome.

Like the hood.

Devoid of dye. Just like Granny Gray’s.

Someone bumped against her arm, then tugged. A voice called. There must have been words. But they were drowned.

Like Granny Gray. When they had come for her.

Way back when. And in Greta’s dreams ever since she had taken on knitting.

“Like Granny Gray,” they said. “The child has the fingers. And the eyes.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Ted Strutz