Shadows Cast

Monday Morning Musings:

“Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see.”

–Fortune Cookie Wisdom

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moon music whispers

a lust for life—and light

in the darkness.

Ask—does the sky ache above

seeing death below?

There, like the shadow

that lies black beneath the rose.

***

The power of her voice in song–

now only her shadow sings–

caught on video and audio, sing along–

to “A Natural Woman,” it brings—

memories of a president’s tears,

as now a nation fears

the future filled with tweeting jeers.

 

He and they try to destroy the press

but those of us who cherish thought

protest. We need the freedom to express

ourselves without duress.

Though the shadow ones know—some are bought—

some are complacent, some complicit–

elicit the illicit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We sit outside, it’s still summer hot

though autumn hovers in the shadows

and we begin to think ahead, no, perhaps not—

there’s still time to sip wine, dip our toes

into pools or walk a sandy beach

and reach. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for love. Seek time with friends

fight the shadows, that lurk around us

and yes, we can’t know how it ends

hate is around, and it’s been ever thus.

It’s a fine line we walk

but we must talk

 

about the hate we see, it’s been freed

no longer do they lurk in the dark

the white-robed shadows proclaim their creed

of white supremacy–they bark

and parade in the open to dog whistles from above

and we must spark the light, the dove–

 

she flies somewhere high, beyond this rainy sky

where we walk through puddles on cobblestones

the air scented with summer flowers, and all the whys

float through the air, and do we care about the bones

that lie beneath us

the souls that flit above us

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the shadowed world, we cannot see

we shine a light, where is the door,

where is the key?

In the before,

we look for the after

and the in-between

is still to be seen.

 

There is no moral, this is no fable

but disaster can come suddenly, coffee spilled

across the table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A recap of my week. Aretha Franklin died, the nation’s press fought back against 45’s attacks, we drank wine, and we saw the movie BlackkKlansman. Trailer here.

Counting Chickens, NaPoWriMo, Day 13

Count it all–

their accounts

of no account

when actions speak

much louder than bombastic words–

reactions to polls and money–

but the interest accrues

while we are bruised.

Then come choices

so, choose—

or believe fake news.

Ready?

Set.

Go–

put on your boots,

there’s muck to rake,

and much at stake,

and much to count,

a HUGE amount.

So, raise your feet,

slop through the fetid tweets.

Where does it end–

well, how much does truth bend?

Or, is truth a sword?

Then thrust and parry, stab and swoop,

count all the chickens in the coop

and when you truly know their number,

then at last,

you can slumber.

 

José Maria Sousa de Moura Girão (1840/1916), “My First Egg,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wasn’t sure what to do with today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, “to write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended,” so, I just started, and this is what happened.