A Song of Protest

 Come gather 'round people / Wherever you roam /

And admit that the waters / Around you have grown /

And accept it that soon / You'll be drenched to the bone /

If your time to you is worth savin' / And you better start swimmin' /

Or you'll sink like a stone – Bob Dylan

 In the long ago, not so long ago, when ignorance was bliss, we had no problem standing on a street corner, sitting on a lawn, picketing in the streets, our signs and fists held high and waving, “Make Love Not War,” “Power to the People,” “Hell No, We Won’t Go,” and we didn’t mind the jeers and the stares and the name calling, “damn hippies”; we had no fear for our lives, feared nothing, feared no one, except perhaps the Pigs standing their ground armed with batons and bullets and tear gas, their stoic figures a wall against which we pressed, taking a stand for justice, for what was right, for our own lives, our futures, against “the man,” the “status quo” unchanging in a time demanding change, change slow to come, a tide slow to turn, but turning … slowly … change inevitable, inevitably changing us, each of us, all of us; and now, another time, unchanging, demanding change, change slow to come, inevitable change to change us all inevitably, comes again, like the not so long ago, so long ago, and fearless, we must press again against the walls of ignorance, taking a stand for what is right, what is just, what is true, for our own lives, for the future, for the days ahead, and the generations to follow.

Cold Blue Shadow

In the cold blue shadow behind the shed,

Blue had dug himself a shallow bed in the dirt,

out of the sun and the heat of a summer day,

and lay down, his nose curled under his tail,

peering out through tired, rheumy eyes to watch

us working in the fields beyond, too old now

to romp about behind us, to give chase

to the squirrels and rabbits brave enough to enter

the meadow. And by the end of the day

as we washed the dirt from our hands and arms

and the backs of our necks, peeling off our shirts

wet with sweat, he had slipped away, alone and undisturbed.

We buried him on the ridge in the cold blue shadow of an old elm

as the sun slid behind the horizon, and in darkness

we hid our tears and bid him farewell, an old friend romping

now in the meadows of an afterlife where the good dogs go,

squirrels and rabbits to chase and a shallow bed dug to lie in,

out of the sun and the heat of a summer day. 

Morning

Morning,

the darkness fading,

and the birds arrive at my feeder,

chickadee and sparrow, robin and dove,

but the goldfinch carries with him on darkened wings

the sunshine, bright yellow reflected in the morning sky.

My Grandmother's Piano

My grandmother had an old upright piano, just sitting there

in the corner, rising above her chair. It’s once white keys

were aged to a pale yellow and chipped, as was much of the piano

itself, chipped and cracked and out of tune. I don’t remember

her ever playing it, no classic piano tunes pounded out at family gatherings

or soft strains played when she thought no one was listening,

no romantic waltzes or Beethoven’s “Fur Elise,” not even Christmas

Carols for the holiday sung around the piano; no, the only music

played there was the plink and plunk of grandchildren’s fingers,

chopsticks, or hands mashing the keys to make a noise, hardly melodic.

We didn’t care. We played and sang the songs we knew, tunes

we imagined we were playing to match the words we sang,

for none of us had yet started piano lessons, not a prodigy among us.

We never questioned it being there - it was just always there growing up,

like Gram, there in the corner watching us from where she sat.

Kept polished with the rest of the furniture, it was a place to display her family,

wedding pictures and us, the grandchildren, old black and whites, snapshots

and formal colored portraits arranged atop the piano, the music played

but the buzz of her family on a Sunday afternoon, a holiday gathering,

the only music she needed as we danced around her for attention.

Oh, the Choices We Make

On a parking lot staircase, two women, forced

to walk down from level seven - “ALL the elevators

out of service, ALL at the same time, ALL on this day?” -

stopped to rearrange their bags and purses and coats

and catch their breath, cursing the heels and pencil skirts

and silk they chose for traveling, fashion over comfort, and now

they longed for something comfortable, comforting even,

a stiff drink and running shoes as they were running late,

and the airport, three levels down and a bridge across to the terminal,

was expansive, miles to their gate and a fast dash, heels clacking,

to the stale air of their flight, sardined in with other travelers flying,

cramped and sweaty, screaming babies wailing around them;

oh, that they were booked through to Hawaii or Florida,

the Riviera, a week in Paris, anywhere but the business trip

they were expected at, reservations at the Holiday Inn,

long days and nights in the heat of the Midwest, where fashion

and comfort were one and the same and nobody cared.