Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human
Beyond words and photos
In these past years, hurts, disappointments, confusion, resistance, loss, e.e. cummings‘ poem says it best:
let it go – the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go
let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go
they were born
to go
let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear
so comes love
This, my dear, is the greatest
challenge
to being alive:
to witness injustice in the world
and not allow it
to consume
our light.
~Thich Nhat Hanh~
Art enables us to find ourselves and
lose ourselves at the same time.
Thomas Merton
Art benches
OBRIGADA
What if the first word we learned
in another language
was not toilet, how much,
or even where, but instead
thank you;
would we see past lines of experience,
the stumbling of innocence,
broken teeth, exquisite eyes,
to each person’s essence,
the miracle of existence,
and be grateful for a form
that could say gracias, dhanyavaad,
tak, xìe xìe, spasibo, danke, shokran?
Thank you to the editors of Marin Poetry Center Anthology VI for first publishing “Obrigada.”
If I had an hour to solve a problem and my life depended on the solution, I would spend the first 55 minutes determining the proper question to ask, for once I know the proper question, I could solve the problem in less than five minutes.
LIVING ON THE STREETS I never chose to be here Amid concrete and cheap booze— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. I hear the wailing ricochet of children Held within this hell of rolling veins. No, they never, never chose to be here. Limbs stiffened from cold sidewalks trap me As pustules grow and lice feed on my skin— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. Violence is not televised on streets; instead, it jeers at battered Skulls and broken bones—we’re easy prey for kids. No, I never chose to be here. Whiskey holds back cold and memories that leer of oboe played Amidst the smoke, thighs wrapping mine through dawn. Now, I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. With deafened ears and eyes averted, you comment on My stench as you dart into the restaurant; I never chose to be here— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years.
Thank you to the editors of Mediphors: A Literary Journal of the Health Professions for first publishing this poem.
Oxfam‘s January 14, 2024 report, Inequality Inc., explores the disparity between the uber-wealthy and the rest of society.
Since 2020, five billion people have become poorer, while the world’s five richest men have more than doubled their fortunes—at a rate of $14 million per hour.
This election is not about Harris, Trump or an individual issue. It’s about what the United States of America represents, for us and the world; how it provides for its citizens and the environment; how we care not only for the living and those who have sacrificed for this country, but also for those who will follow, which one could interpret in line with the Native American-Iroquois law: “In our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations.”
This election is not about the next four years or a party; but instead, whether we choose that “all…are created equal…with certain unalienable rights…life, liberty and… happiness,” not merely as pursuit, but experienced (as described in this Emory U. article), or if we want something different for our nation.
Each vote matters, which is why so many have literally sacrificed or died to protect this right for every eligible citizen.
I broke
something today,
and I realized I should break
something once a week
to remind me
how fragile life is.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 