Photo: Patrick Smith on Unsplash
He claims crises are never his doing.
He says none of what’s broken
Can be.
Not the harm.
Not the scams.
Not the spread of corruption,
Or growing alarm.
It is all others’
Fault.
Everyone else
Is bad.
If there’s pain
It’s the doing of fools
Who complain
And fake hardships besides.
Obdurate,
He mocks all
Who point out
Lies he told.
To him every word
From his mouth
Is pure gold.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Obdurate in 72 words
Photo: Rene Bernal on Unsplash
We are,
All the colors
Of this earth,
Broken into
Pieces of
Humanity and
Mixed together
To make into
A kaleidoscope
Of hope.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Kaleidoscope in 23 words
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Enslaved persons cutting sugar cane on the Island of Antigua, 1823, (The British Library)
She fed them well so
They would
Sleep,
And silently
She gave the slip,
To all she knew
Yet did not sweep
Away the bite
Of whip.
She fled,
So the child in
Her belly’s keep,
Would not writhe, helpless,
In another person’s
Grip.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: slip
(Note: Dedicated to all who suffered and still suffer under the yoke of injustice, discrimination, racism, and pretense. We can do better than this. We must do better than this.)
Photo: Valario Davis on Unsplash
“So how do you,” he asked,
“Know good
From bad?”
“By the heart,” she replied.
“By the actions that
Build
And prop up,
And the words that
Support
And patch the
Cracked places
Inside broken parts.”
“And how,” he pressed,
“Do you know what
Just needs
Giving up?”
“By the soul,”
She patted the warm place
On her lap.
“For breath
Matters,
And hope
Matters,
And kindness
Is superior to any
Pass-by-night
Emperors
Full of promises
Of might,
Touted
For our good
But seeped in
Falsehood meant
To bring on
Plight.”
He shuddered
And she stroked his wet cheek
And held a cool
Palm to his brow.
“Now sleep,
And let spirits
Of light,
Hold back the bad
And
Fill your cup
With good
Till the world grows
Up.”
Photo: Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash
The least of hardship was when
She broke her toe,
Age nine,
Her youngest brother
Then a mewling newborn
In her arms.
She’d been pacing
Through the night
To let Mother
Recover some.
Ever the intrepid
Elder child,
Rose missed but
A step,
Taped her toes,
And walked on
Till the morn.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Intrepid in 52 words
Photo: Amitai Asif
There is water
For the thirsty
Even
In the desert,
Where heart and hand
Were put to work
With foresight of what
Must be done,
To hold
What would otherwise
Be lost
To shifting sands
And blazing sun.
For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Manmade
Photo: Sven Brandsma on Unsplash
He reports first thing in the morning.
He reports again every night.
There’s little that could dissuade him
From being absolutely forthright.
He records every scene with a flourish.
His voice reflects every sight,
As with journalist’s flair
He spells data in ample delight.
He would not be distracted from telling,
The minutia has got to be tight.
After all, he is in potty training
And to him no discharging is trite.
Photo: Javardh on Unsplash
“If it rains,” she said.
“It pours,” he answered.
They laughed and touched palms
Over glass.
The barriers that divide
Not keeping them
Apart.
“And when it shines,” she said,
“It glories,” he responded.
She grinned and then the corners
Of her lips
Shook and her palm pressed
Again
Toward his
And her eyes unleashed a
Downpour of
Longing.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered.
“I’m almost ready
For the transplant.
My cells will welcome yours
Into my own.
As they had
In the womb.
It is like coming home.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Downpour in 88 words
Photo: Karen Forte
They’ll return
To the sky
To the bluffs
To the forests.
They’ll return
To true pride
To the strength
And the chorus,
Of the way
Things can be
When the truth
One can see
And the powers
Of we,
Will refuse to
Agree
To deceits of those
Pretending
To celebrate
Being free.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Return
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