I walk along the windy streets
fallen leaves sweep across my boots
the suns warmth is getting weaker
I wrap my sweater a bit tighter round me
The transition of the season reflected
in the early dying light and fading flowers
Lost in the sounds of what I hear, wind blowing
pieces of oak leaf crunching beneath each step
destination unknown lost in my thoughts
as I walk along these windy streets
Thoughts of you how you love this time of change
pumpkins orangey hue, shafts of wheat colored stalks
the scent of rich red apples.
I miss you most this time of year when I can’t stop
thinking of my love for you as I walk these windy streets.
© Copyright 2018, All Rights Reserved
As a straight white woman of privilege. I declare that until the Russian Agent is removed from OUR White House by any means: I am a Muslim, I am Black, I am Brown, I am LGBTQ, I am poor, I am an Immigrant, I am a Refugee, I am an American
How do you ask forgiveness when you
don’t believe you were entirely wrong
when the other won’t meet, talk with you
when the other claims “I won’t say because
I respect you” and walks away, without saying
what they believe you did or said something
when all their life they have held an underlying anger
toward you and refused to discuss what or why?
When you know you have spoken hurtful words
cutting words because you yourself were hurting by
the others words and actions
How do you forgive yourself?
Lawrence Ferlinghetti decades ago wrote and it gives me chills to read it today:
“Pity the nation whose people are sheep,
and whose shepherds mislead them.
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars, whose sages are silenced,
and whose bigots haunt the airwaves.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice,
except to praise conquerors and acclaim the bully as hero
and aims to rule the world with force and by torture.
Pity the nation that knows no other language but its own
and no other culture but its own.
Pity the nation whose breath is money
and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed.
Pity the nation — oh, pity the people who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away.
My country, tears of thee, sweet land of liberty.”
― Lawrence Ferlinghetti
When do we realize how old we have become
Is it when we see the deep lines etched on our face
the dullness of hearing and eyesight
When the once ramrod spine begins to shrink
Is it when we feel our strength begin to wane
When each limb becomes stiff each chore
becomes harder due to the pain
In our youth, we failed to see how it would be
We believed the hype of”Golden Years”
Now we weep for the past our hearts stirred
by the melancholy of past years.
We live each day, long days
leaving us to wonder where did it go
Why are we left in this last stage of life
that seems to linger as we become numb,
frozen, hoping each day of pain will be the last?
The first day of Spring and all its promises…
Leaning against the window frame watching the sun come up
It rises gently as I drink from my emptying coffee cup
The brilliant cardinals flit in and out of the pine tree in the neighbors’ yard across
the street as the family of squirrels in my old oak begin to scurry about.
I stand there feeling happy and blessed although alone
then the neighbor to the east of me starts his Harley scaring the birds
the squirrels and me.
I turn with an obscene thought for him then smile knowing he will be gone
most of the day.