…to the people,
I’m going tell you something
you may not want to hear.
You may honestly agree with me,
but you’ll find yourself in the minority.

Because there are people
out there who will tell you
that everyone deserves the best,
everyone deserves a chance,
everyone deserves to be treated fairly,
but they draw a line, and when that line
reaches their pocketbook,
you watch them flip.
I’m not talkin’ a coin toss.
No way is it 50/50.
Given the chance, they’ll flip.

I want this.
I want that.
I want the latest toy.
They want what they want,
as soon as they want it,
and as many times as they want it,
usually at the expense of someone else.

To give them what they want,
the companies sent production overseas,
and with it went the jobs,
many of them good paying
union jobs. But that’s okay,
because people don’t want others
to have what they don’t have,
whether it’s the latest toy,
job protection,
fair treatment,
or decent wages.
So, all they have to hear is “union,”
and what they hear is “high prices.”

Now, this didn’t happen overnight.
It may be going on right now,
but it’s been going on for a lonnng time.

At one time, unions in this country
were strong, but then purchasing power
transferred power to the corporations,
and all that went out the window.
And people think they got what they wanted.

So when you say you want more power,
you already gave it away.

This is a response to Poetic: Allen Ginsburg and the Beat Generation, the prompt from Sanaa at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to write a poem in the style of the Beat Generation – although this probably is a rant as much as anything else.

Graphic source: cleanpng

Winged Vigilance ~ quadrille

Winged Vigilance

Floating sixty feet from your sycamore perch,
I sit against the bank, marveling
at the beauty captured by my lens.
Camera stowed, I drift beneath your stately form.
Your white head turns to track my progress
before you take wing, satisfied with my intent.

 This is my response to Quadrille #161: Staying on Track, the prompt from Merril at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use a form of the word track in a 44-word poem (excluding title),
with no required meter or rhyme.

 When I originally responded with Winged Sentinel earlier this afternoon, I got so carried away with the image in my mind that I completely forgot that it’s supposed to be quadrille. I hope I’ve captured the same imagery with this version.

Winged Sentinel

Winged Sentinel

Watching as I approach
from a thousand feet away

Now sixty feet distant as I pause
upstream from your sycamore perch

Forty feet above the water, head turned
as you gaze down at me, curious

Camera stowed, I paddle from the bank,
drift slowly beneath your stately form

White head turns to track my progress
before you take wing, satisfied with my intent

 I originally wrote this as a response to Quadrille #161: Staying on Track, the prompt
from Merril at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use a form of the word track
in a 44-word poem (excluding title), with no required meter or rhyme.
It’s not — in fact, it’s 63 words.
I totally forgot that it’s supposed to be a quadrille.

Memories on the Downslope

Memories on the Downslope

It was winter, early 1966.
Do you remember where?
Of course you would,
but you’re no longer here to say.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania.
A grandparents’ farm, family friends.
We camped there several times,
but for that visit we stayed in the farmhouse.

All for a fun day of sledding for the kids.
Why shouldn’t a dad join in?
Diving onto that wood and metal glider
you raced down the hill, unstoppable.

Until you found the one bare spot
on that long slope of a farm field.
The sled came to a dead halt,
but you rocketed forward.

We found your metal frame glasses coated
with blood from the gash in your brow.
Just like that, the cold seeped into all of us,
so we went inside while you were taped up.

But the day was early, so once our bones
were warmed by hot chocolate
we loaded up the grandparents’ van,
ten of us packed into a ’64 Econoline.

We headed for an old logging road,
snow covered and perfect for sledding.
Of course, you were more than content
to let the kids have all the fun.

This is my response to Twiglet #298 – a bare hill.

Shared with OpenLinkNight #324 at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.

Image – Lightning Guider sled

Mindless Direction ~ ekphrastric poetry

Mindless Direction

There was no order,
only madness.
Windows became doors,
doors became less.

A house divided,
claimed by a mass
that claimed to represent
the masses, became a shell.

No murmuration, this.
An uproar, a swarm
flocked to relight
a star totally eclipsed.

Their order a chaos,
disjointed, disorganized
yet contrived as rebellion,
brought only more darkness.

Disarray their purpose,
they took to flight,
dispersed, scattered,
their damage done.

murmuration – the flocking behavior of starlings
United States Capitol Attack – January 6, 2021

This poem is my response to The strange houses of Lee Madgwick, the prompt from Sarah at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to find inspiration in one of four surreal images of various structures. I chose “The Murmuration at No. 57.” More of the art of Lee Madgwick can be found here.

Open Secret

Open Secret

The sky leans in
to whisper in my ear.

It speaks of clouds
that dance in the wind,
of rainbows that dance
within a misty canyon.

Heard even above the roar
of a mighty cataract, it speaks
of blue water that returns
the favor of the sky,

of a river that knows
my return is inevitable
when it flows through me
even when I am away.

The sky shares with me
what is a secret to no one.

This is my response to earthweal weekly challenge: AN ATMOSPHERIC RIVER ROARS AT US
and is inspired by Twiglet #293 – the sky leans.

The last leg of our recent trip took us to western New York to visit with family, and, of course, the Niagara River. Parking on the American side of the river, we walked across the Rainbow Bridge in Niagara Falls to view the falls from the Canadian side, which is always a delight.

New Day

New Day

First break of light, senses keen
for any trace of change,
I greet the day, eager
to meet any challenge, knowing
what I face will not daunt me.
Each day is a new beginning.
No hurdle is too great,
this morning or any morning.

This is my response to #Quadrille #158: Morning Has Broken, the prompt from Linda Lee Lyberg at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use a form of the word morning in a 44-word poem (excluding title), with no required meter or rhyme.

For My Benefit

For My Benefit

Would I be that person again?
Am I not, still?
You speak, perhaps to me.
I am here, yet I was there,
then. But this is now.

Separation. Time.
Analog or digital, there is familiarity
in all you say, all you do.

The fourth wall cannot prevent
memories from surfacing
as I watch them unfold before me.

Starting this weekend, I’ll be away for a couple of weeks, traveling. My writing in the past week has been limited by a particular preparation for the trip. I have more than 50 hours of home videos on VHS tape, some from as far back as 1990, that I am converting to digital. I hope to share some of that with my children when I see them at a family gathering that will be a part of this trip.

Hopefully, 3,00 miles behind the wheel will provide some inspiration.

Shared with OpenLink LIVE at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.

Fourth Wall

Ode to Last Flight

Ode to Last Flight

Don’t think we don’t appreciate
the fare that’s offered. We do
queue up from time to time,
but food trucks really aren’t
our thing. We’re here for the beer,
and you do know how to brew.
Few craft brewers bother
to have a dark beer on tap,
favoring IPAs, but your selection
is the best. It’s about time
we had a quality brewery in town,
so your fare is just fine with me.
We’ll take a flight of your finest.

This is my response Poetics: At the restaurant…,
the prompt from Merril at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.