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Can You Hear It?

Can you hear it?

in the dark of sleepless nights
the pop of baton-starred windows
the piercing whistles of warning
the tear-choked cries of “Shame!”

Can you?

through the oily drumbeats
the thumping of heartless chests
the empty heads nodding at golden tributes
the apotheosis of clowns

I can.

from the massed rumbling of voices
the rising sirens of dissent
the crackling of crumbling facades
the electric hum of investigative light

Just listen.

to its wheezing, wet and panicked
its whimpers echoing down shadowed halls
its spittle-flecked lips mouthing repurposed slogans
its ancient rage bubbling up, phlegmy and thick

Know what it is?

it’s the death rattle of the ruling class
the final breaths of discordant power
twitching in spasmodic bursts of violent hate
as the people stand up and prepares to march ahead

Time for change.

 

It’s Chaos. Be Kind.

I am a white middle-class sixty-something hetero male living in America. I am arguably the possessor of the highest level of entitlement in the less-than-billionaire world. I have lived my life in two of the bluest of blue demographic regions in the nation. I have never known any discrimination beyond those deserved by my own flaws.

I grew up, though, during an era of intense racial strife. My family and teachers brought the concept of civil rights into my young life. I learned that our nation had a history of treating people differently, based on how they looked. I learned that, though I did not personally feel the effects of prejudice, others in the world definitely did. I learned that the presumptions made about me were not necessarily made of others, if their skin was darker than mine, if their religion was different than mine.

And I was asked, did that seem fair?

It did not.

As I grew older, I discovered that it didn’t even matter if our skin was pale. If you were a woman, you could be treated differently, also as “less than.” Having been schooled by women, having been raised by women, this also did not seem fair.

But while I was able, as a teen ensconced in my bluish-ivory tower, to intellectualize all of this and say “Oh, yes, that is bad,” and, “That is wrong and we should work to fix that,” it took many more years before I realized that this unfairness, this prejudice, this smoldering (if not outright) racism and sexism, this misogyny, this antisemitism, this idea that pale skin imbued one with an inherent supremacy, imposed a level of stress and daily anxiety the like of which I had no concept. I had no idea what it was like to fear men on the street. I had no idea of what it was like for someone to take one look at me and decide my worth, my value, my humanity.

I did learn of it, though. It wasn’t a difficult assignment. All I had to do was open my eyes and pay attention for a brief period, because it was all there, easy to see if you simply looked around.

These days, though, it’s even easier to see. Now, you have to actively look away in order not to see it.

And many of us are doing just that.

If you aren’t, though … if you are paying attention and watching what is going on and seeing what is happening out there, in our nation, in our name, I ask you this:

Be extra kind. Take care to take care of those around you, be they neighbors or strangers or just folks in the checkout line at the grocer’s. People are on edge, and tempers are near the breaking point. None of us know what the person next to us in line has g0ne through today, or this week, or this month. They might be in pain, scared, angry as hell, and just barely holding it in.

It’s fucking chaos out there. So we need to be kind to one another. Just so we can all see tomorrow.

Together.

k

Sowing

this seed
on my fingertip
dark hard smooth
small as a gnat’s wing
shiny as a starling’s eye
is a kernel of hope
a dream undreamt
of warm sunshine
and cleansing rain
and to plant it
in this black loamy bed
heady with life
is to say a prayer
for food
for flowers
for beauty
for peace

Vignette 06Dec2025

This morning, I awoke surprised as last night, in my dream, I died, that fearful thing we were always told would mean we’d seen our last waking day. Yet here I am alive and telling my tale of how I dreamt that, after a struggle, I’d succeeded in my grand task, but failed to save myself.

I lay in a hospital bed. The room was bright, the machines beeped, but when the klaxons sounded I turned my head and saw the monitor’s lines go flat, its numbers tick down to zero. I know it was it I who watched, as I felt my conscious self hanging on for a few brief breathless moments as my candle guttered out. There was no sudden pain, no last struggle against the dark, or if there was, I was unaware as my form and I had already parted ways. I heard no celestial choirs, saw no flights of angels. What filled me as my vision faded was neither terror nor fear, not even anxiety.

I felt free.

Free. Released, unfettered, one final exhalation filled with serenity and peace, the struggle over, the grand task complete, a life, concluded. I wanted nothing after, did not pray for heaven, feared no hell. I was simply content to have loved well and done my best.

That’s it.
Love well.
Do your best.
Naught else is worth tallying.

New Eyes

the boy stood there as I drove by
staring at me as if
he’d never seen my like
and of course he hadn’t
for I was a new thing
the first of my kind
to him
and I thought

oh, please, give me those eyes
those new eyes
eyes that have not yet learned
to see the world
as pigeon-holed types
sorted and rendered into
a broad-brushed tonal pastiche

driving on I prayed
let me see things
in their wondrous uniqueness
not just as
a house a fence a woman walking her dogs
but as

this house
clad in bright happy greens
partnered by a particolored sweetgum tree
brass bright on its red door
mullioned windows glinting
in shafts of the morning’s autumn light

this fence
gap-toothed and silvered with age
mottled with lichen
bent by the storms of years
a ragged highway for squirrels
racing from yard to yard

this woman
bundled in her well-worn tweed
grey hair peeking out from under a magenta cloche
breath puffing like word balloons as she talked
to the tired waddling retriever his snout misted with age
to the jaunty-stepping shepherd that looked up to ask
am I a good dog today?

let me live in this real world
let me revel in this multifarious creation
let me see life as it is

give me new eyes
again

Today’s 4,000

rain, cold, and woodsmoke
a cottage in the deep green
homespun alchemy

Extensions

I do not recognize my hands, today,
hide-wrapped and rough,
fingers moving all as one, a unit lacking youth’s independence,
working like
a team of horses, fingers yoked in tandem,
brushing crumbs or combing hair,
reaching out
claw-like, deliberate, mechanical.

Gone is the fluidity
that typed like a piano etude,
that tested the strength of rain
fingers splayed, palm up to the lowering sky.

They seem, now, more like my father’s hands,
leathered, laced with welted scratches from thorn or cat,
thick fingers slightly curved, open,
as if holding the memories
of tools and wood and mugs and plates
and books and pens and paper
and forks and spoons
and a sweetheart’s hand.

They do not close as once they did,
so tightly that they could catch
my breath on winter days,
and when now they speak
in gesture they are
slow, brutish, leaving most
to context and implication.

And, of course, the pain they carry, that is new as well,
the constant reminder of dull aches,
the sharp-edged recriminations of grip and release.

I have always seen them, in many ways, as extensions of me,
strong and supple, quietly expressive,
nimble in deed and thought, switching with ease
from fountain pen
to computer keys,
from kitchen knife
to garden tool,
from dovetail jig
to a viola’s strings
to my true love’s hair.

This still is true, I suppose, as they and I both are
a good bit older, a dash more tired,
content to spend time in restful contemplation.

We still do all the things we used to, only
with a mindfulness that comes from
a slow paring down of life from what we need
to what we desire
to do, to feel, to create.

Perhaps I do not recognize them
because I do not know who I am,
in this time.

Perhaps they are teaching me.

Clever hands.

Let’s learn together.