Belarussian Hymn (after Valzhna Mort)
We are children of mothers who did not
receive enough love from their mothers
and could not tell us how it was, only
how it felt, and it felt too hard to tell.
We are children of mothers and we are
mothers of children who cannot tell us
how it was, but only how it felt, and from
such crumbs we must construct a life.
We are children who can yet be transformed
by love who yearn for stories
to tell us who we are, a hymn we sing
each voice blended like a choir
making room for other voices,
knowing we are all children of mothers,
knowing nothing was said to us,
knowing everything was said.
Ginny Sullivan
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Ties that bind
Melodies ride the strings of the cello –
waves of sound, wafting and weaving
like the light tumbling through branches
or sliding through windows to kiss the cat,
who hears the harmonies riding on sunbeams,
who sends out her own prelude through vibrations
that tickle tired fingers gently lounging in the soft fur,
surging electric rays of energy up into heart and mind
like the movement of skaters writing love poems on ice
witnessed by sightless spectators aware only of the sound
rippling across frozen tundra, as the steel cuts swirls and circles
like yarn tossed across the floor, as children play growing games
which cut the strings of aprons and hearts leaving behind whispers –
memories of melodies that rode upon the strings of the master’s cello.
© 2020 Linda M. Rhinehart Neas
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Inspired by “Lot’s Wife” by Wislava Szymborska
Torment
Being falsely accused,
having people make assumptions
about motivation.
Certainly a toxic brew,
setting up a tragedy.
Lot’s wife has not had her fair hearing,
and perhaps her husband ought to
be seen as flawed.
Yes, she turned around and
disobeyed instructions,
and became a pillar of salt.
Perhaps she was so moved by those human
feelings we tend to value most highly.
Imagine the pain of leaving children
and dear friends behind
to be destroyed.
How should she have carried such a burden?
There are pains that exceed the heart’s tolerance.
Think of the good times,
her loves and pleasures of friendship and family.
All this to be lost, cast aside, ignored, and destroyed?
Is not a crucial part of being human,
caring for others?
If she had turned her back
on all that was important in her heart,
what would she tell herself, her children
and friends in the future?
Could she look them in the eye?
Could they trust her?
Could she look in the mirror every morning?
Perhaps her husband deserves questioning,
and she was shocked and dismayed
by his callousness and disregard for humanity.
Would she truly want to travel life at his side in
times of trouble and conflict?
All this demonstrating how confusing life can be,
then and now.
Paul Redstone
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Who Are We?
We pay more than $12 billion a year
in Social Security taxes
but are not eligible to receive retirement benefits.
We pay some $4 billion more in Medicare taxes
than we withdraw each year.
We pay our fair share of income and sales taxes.
We do not take your jobs;
We are willing to do the menial work
most of you don’t want.
Without us, more companies
would move operations overseas
and import foreign goods.
Without us, who would
pick your fruit and vegetables?
flip your burgers?
mow your lawns and rake your leaves?
clean your homes and hotel rooms?
wipe the asses of your elderly?
We are often paid below legal minimums
and sometimes go unpaid.
We cannot afford clean, safe housing.
Many of our babies are snatched from mothers
and put in cages, with paltry health care
and inadequate records
that would make family reunification possible.
In some states, our children cannot attend public schools
and cannot afford college
making self-sufficiency all but impossible.
We commit fewer crimes than others
including theft, murder and DUIs.
In fact, because our numbers are about
twice as high as official estimates,
our crime rate is half what’s reported.
We rarely report crimes committed against us
for fear of deportation.
Yet you call us illegal?
Jayne A. Pearl
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Wake to Find
In my dreams I can fly
wake to find
a new family
I am loved
No vodka slamming
into ice and orange
glass sweats night
empties
eyes redden tempers
do the same
Instead
good morning’s that sing
toast cut into triangles
bedtime stories ear music
how was your day?
kiss your forehead
and leave a light on
Dreams come again
feet on the ground toes in the sand
heart and
pockets full sea glass
smooth cool
blue brown green
No red
Never red
Cassie Platt
Make Your Soul Grow
There are so many questions in life
Feasting words and smiles,
Mired with hoops of ignorance
And loops of mis-/dis-information
That run simultaneously
In deep and wide murky rivers.
Ask whose whip cracked the soup bowl
And for what wrong doing.
Why is it a crime to look for a better life
Believing in the future of your children?
Why do we ask questions of moral codes
That hang in the divided, shifty hemispheric air?
What do we expect for an answer when the shifty
Air moves to answer contrarily?
A blemished bowl wants to be mended knowing
That the healed scar adds another layer of skin
And strong enough to examine the life
Ready to shape into a new adventure.
The scarred bowl wading through attributes–
Success/defeat–big and small
Makes your soul grow till the last minute
As long as you know where your coat hangs.
Yenna Yi