of my heart,
we bumble to and fro.
of my heart,
we bumble to and fro.
dark night's moonbeams.
White lions came from stars,
sent by the Sun.
We are too blind to see
For my sister, who has always had horses, and whose heart is large enough to withstand the heartbreak and give them the very best possible lives while they are with her.
This is for the people fighting for their lives
and their freedoms in Ukraine, and for those
watching death and destruction on their tv screen
with tears rolling down their cheeks.
May the bombs stop raining down.
This is for the starving wolves and whales and bears,
whose habitat has been replaced with ours, because
we feel more important; and this is for old growth
forests, being clearcut, humankind too unaware
to realize that we will breathe less and less
until there is no breath left, once the lungs
of our planet are all gone.
And this is for those who turn off the news because
"it's just too much," and they'd rather
not be uncomfortable.
This is for those suffering from racism, hatred,
being "Other-ed", when we all have human hearts,
and dreams, and simply want to live.
And love who we love.
And this is for those who step up and speak out
when there is a wrong to right, and for those who run
towards danger to help others, when the rest of us
hang back or turn away. This is for democracy.
May we never have to live under its opposite.
This is for the young woman and her dog
who went out for a walk yesterday morning
along the creek turned to a raging river, and,
when one of them fell in and the other tried
to save it, they both got swept away.
This is for those who don't realize that,
in any second, all we know and have and love
can disappear just that fast.
This is for the knowledge that we bear
of all that is so wrong, for the pain we carry
in our hearts for all the suffering we impose
on each other and the world's other creatures.
This is for hope that somehow, against all odds,
some of us can turn this around, slow the pace
of planetary collapse, and of the melting poles,
protect the last of the trees, assist the starving animals,
make room in our lives, and on the earth,
for every other being.
This is for the spark of humanity in every human breast,
that it be kindled and catch flame, and spread,
a wildfire of the spirit, across the land.
This is for hope, because a poet's pen
can't sing its song of peace
Inspired by Shake the Dust by Anis Mojgani
Sharing with earthweal's open link.
In the world of my childhood, they said, instead,
"Lord willing and the creek don't rise," with
wry smiles and a shrug that suggested
the water was already rising. It was inevitable.
My grandma pinned laundry on the line,
her eldest son just home from the war
with no visible wounds, but deafened,
and with a look in his eyes that said he had
seen things he would never want us to know,
so he would never tell.
I sang for him once and he got up and left the room,
moved, my grandma said, by my hopefulness
in a life where dreams were all the hope I had.
We are still hoping: that the war will end
before Ukraine is entirely rubble; that governments
will finally legislate gun control; that mass shootings
will end; that, globally, we will slow
the climate crisis enough to give us
time to change.
But hope is a fragile thing that wavers
in the light of all we know. Coastlines and riverbanks
are flooding; the poles are melting; whales
are swimming through a warming, toxic sea.
Yet "Insha'Allah," we chant, the war will end;
the world will continue on in a better way;
there will be a livable planet left for
Inspired by Insha'Allah by Danusha Lameris at Wild Writing