Amidst the Dying

Amidst the dying 
Courage shines, 
A wounded man cradled 
In his savior’s bloodied arms.

Amidst the grieving
Compassion floods,
A mother comforted 
By uniformed, gentle men.

Amidst the turmoil
Hope arises,
A full-throated call
To return us to sanity.

Amidst the despair
Love abounds,
Bright spotlight shining
On our solidarity, worldwide.

Amidst the lies
Truth rings clear,
United we must stand
Against weapons of hate.

Pants

Who wears the pants? Who’s allowed
to have freedom to move, to dance
without fear of exposure
without hands groping, snaking up our skirts
you can’t throw us down across a desk
when we wear pants. Or is it just
more subtle, a sign
of equality, of equal ease and comfort
of equal stature, in our own eyes?
The People’s House 
didn’t allow us to wear pants
until she arrived, and brought
what had been 70 years of freedom
to dress ourselves in slacks
crashing the halls while these Millenials
were babes crying in their cribs.

Don’t tell me she’s the cause,
she’s the Establishment, the root
of the evils she’s been fighting 
longer than you’ve been alive. Just

be glad you live now,
not subjugated in skirts.

Easter Sunday 2016

Logged on to post
about how much
I love Cadbury’s crème eggs
and saw instead
that 65 people
mostly women
blown up by a suicide bomber
in Pakistan, with
another 280 injured.
There is no respite today.
My prayers again to the world
for renewal of spirit,
for healing of our sickness,
and for peace in our time.

This is My America

This is my America.

I wake up each day, grateful, 

knowing my great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers
traveling to this land from across wide seas
not knowing if they could build a life
but opportunity lay ahead
and nothing but persecution lay behind
and they took their Adonai with them
bundled in miniature handmade scrolls
and velvet head coverings.

Knowing that my husband’s ancestors came long before that
either forced onto ships in shackles
for hard lives of brutal labor
or fleeing green hills barren of food
to come here and find plentiful bounty
but hatred still
No Irish signs popping up like
hillside clovers in store windows.

Knowing that my children carry this with them, and more
because their own grandparents,
their father’s familia,
moved here from warmer southern lands
following the trails of San Father Serra
up into Los Angeles
blendings of Latino heritage and cultures,
from California to Texas.

This is my America.

One household, united under God,
With liberty and justice for us all.