Hold Your Ground

anthony-garand-7rehTDIfR8o-unsplash

Photo: Anthony Garand on Unsplash

 

When the truth flees the sphere

Of those who power corrupts

And the lies become leaders’ way

To disrupt,

It behooves us to hold strong

To not let those confound

As we keep our eyes on

A true moral ground:

To be firm

To be kind

To keep light

In our mind,

And to not get swept up

In the feverish flow

Of those who prefer we

Give up and

Let go

Of core truths

And the law,

And forget how

Foreshadowed

In wisdom galore

Founders sought separation

Of powers before

And checks out to balance

Against tyrannical war,

Predicting the day

When ambition to rule

Would rise in someone

Who’d attempt to befool

And try to prop

Lies for a flop

And our constitution

For corruption

To swap.

 

 

 

For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: Ground

 

 

Grounded

Photo: Sue Vincent

 

“Where did you find it?”

The boy’s face reflected his struggle: to tell the truth would be to admit he’d been doing what he oughtn’t, but to withhold the truth could mean that what needs to happen, won’t.

The woman waited. Integrity was best cultivated by one’s own appreciation of the internal equilibrium that is restored by accepting the inherent benefit of right versus wrong, and not by shaming or attempting to compel it via fear of punishment.

She knew, of course, that he’d been out of bed, and on a night when he’d already been grounded for breaking his sister’s carpentry project. All the more reason, she thought, to let him find a place to dig himself out of a hole of misdemeanors.

Some children tended to break rules all the time. Her son did not. Or at least not without what one could usually understand as good reason. That the nine-year-old had refused to say why he’d demolished Liz’s contraption, and that he did not argue when he’d been sent to his room, told her there was already more to the story than what he was willing to tell her.

The moment lingered. She let it stretch.

“Outside,” he said. He lifted his eyes to her, having crossed the Rubicon.

Displeased as she was that he broke curfew, she was proud of him for finding the courage to admit it.

“I see,” she nodded and raised an eyebrow in direction of his cupped hands.

“I had to save it.” Timidity was gone now that truth was set in motion. “Liz said she was going to put it in her new cage and keep it. But it is not a pet, and it is hurt and it cannot fly and something was going to come and eat it.”

The boy’s eyes were bright with tears of righteous defiance. “I don’t care if you ground me till I’m, like, a hundred. He needed help!”

The bird wriggled clumsily in the boy’s palms and the child’s young face crumbled in uncertainty. “But … um … before you send me to my room for forever, can you please please drive me to the vet?”

 

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto prompt

 

 

Whelm

castle guards SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

Be it under

Or over

Be it florid

Or plain

It is best to not whelm

With ill-deeds.

Just refrain.

 

 

Merriam-Webster’s word for June 8, 2018:

Whelm

This post continues the blogging challenge in which Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day, serves as inspiration a-la the “Daily Prompt.”

Want to join me? Feel free to link to this post on your blog, and/or post a link to your blogpost in the comment section below so others can enjoy it, too. Poetry, photography, short stories, anecdotes: Go for it!

For more visibility, tag your post with #WordOfDayNY, so your post can be searchable.

“Follow” me if you want to receive future prompts, or just pop in when you’re looking for inspiration. Here’s to the fun of writing and our ever-evolving blogging community!

 

Bubble Point

bubble point

Photo: Pinterest

 

When the time comes

To opine

Ethics

(And their current deep dearth),

Let it be known

There’s no option

For hiding in bubbles

Of privileged stealth.

Make it clear

There’s no air

And no vistas ahead

Till we muster the courage

To reclaim truth instead.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Tide Turn

slow low tide

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

May the tide turn

May the flow return

May the long days of summer

Calm the ongoing churn.

May the sun warm cold hearts

Give their minds better charts

May the surf’s ancient drummer

Pulse a path to new starts.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Do Not Con Cur

fight club2 OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

In most wretched times

When wrongdoers invade

Do not yourself turn

Echo chamber for knaves.

For the blight

Of untruth

And the stain

Of disdain

Can quite easily infect

Those who would not

Take heed from similar

To abstain.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Antidote

not a pet OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

There are whispers

In the Ether,

Toxic stories meant

For loss of hope.

They are phantoms.

Do not listen as

Malignant news

Grabs scope.

Find instead

The breath of valor.

Seek the children,

Help them cope.

Hold up truth,

Unfurl your kindness

To withstand

Slithery slopes.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Be Tender

dayviews.com

Photo: dayviews.com

 

Be tender as you tender views and voice perspectives.

Be tender as you offer paths that some refuse (or fear) to take.

Be tender as you formulate your retorts to invectives.

Be tender even as you know how much’s at stake.

Be tender as you tender truth

As you hold fast to honest, fair objectives.

Do not lose heart

Even as some lose moral compass

And attempt to stain integrity

As disrespect.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

In Plain Sight

 

His face gave him away.

Guilt wrote itself into every centimeter of his little visage. It colored his cheeks cherry and turned his lips downwards and his eyes up and away. He pressed his lips together to prevent admission. Tucked his hands deep into his pockets, one fist bulging in a telltale sign of something hidden.

Or not so well hidden.

I raised an eyebrow, more amusement than ire.

“I didn’t take anything,” he blurted.

My eyebrow climbed along with a corner of my mouth.

The four-year-old’s eyes darted down his arm, eyes magnetized by a conflicted conscience. “I don’t have anything in my hand …”

“I see …” I noted.

His looked up at me in alarm and the cherries on his cheeks bloomed beet.

“But …?” he examined the opaque fabric of his pants before exclaiming in half-question, half-fact: “Oh, you have magic eyes!?”

His little chest sighed and he pulled his hand out, candy clutched in guilty fingers. “I … I didn’t take it. … Uh … I only did … um … can I have one?”

 

dish-of-candy

 

For The Daily Post