Desecrated Public Servant Blue Uniform

We stare at the TV,

Watching four grown men,

Wearing police uniforms of

Public servant blue.

Officer Chauvin's knee is holding down,

Choking, suffocating George Floyd,

Pleading for air, begging for his life,

Calling for his mama.

Two of the men in blue

Hide behind a black and white police car,

While they too, pin the man to the ground,

Squeezing his life out,

One begging plea at a time.

Is this America?

The America that I risked my life for

in Viet Nam,

Alongside sailors and soldiers

Of every race and creed?

I thought we passed the Civil Rights Act

More than half a century ago

To end racism in our America.

Who are these four grown men,

Dressed in public servant blue,

Who desecrate the uniform,

Their oath

To serve and protect?

Who allows such men to

Kill Black men at will,

Violate common decency,

Violate human rights?

Who allows such men to

Ignore the Constitution,

Ignore the rule of law,

And express blatant racism

With NO accountability?

When local governments

Ignore the law

To shield one of their own

From lawful consequences

They become accomplices.

We, too, become accomplices

When we watch TV

And do nothing,

Except run to the toilet

And vomit our helplessness,

Our acceptance.

What does it take for us to act?

Do the corrupt police have to hurt

Our next-door neighbor,

Our family,

Our body?

We know, when we accept injustice,

We are being unjust.

And we can't keep vomiting

Our integrity into the toilet.

We must NOT turn off the TV

And walk away,

Lamenting the violent “normal”

We have accepted.

We must hold accountable

Any man who desecrates

The police uniform,

Who desecrates the public trust

with lethal racist actions.

When we climb out of our shelter

And charge forward,

Knowing it might be uncomfortable,

It might hurt,

We come back to humanity,

We come back to life.

Clam Smiles With Ruffled Lips

What am I doing in this crowd,

So noisy, so loud?

People, cars, buildings,

and trash cans all crunching into me.

Is this what we are, what I am:

A massive conglomeration of stuff

Running, crawling , spewing our garlic breath

onto everything?

No! or is it? I trudge to the beach.

Sit on the sand.

Boom! Cush. Slosh.

A clam surfs on the wave and glides to my feet.

She shimmers in the morning sunlight.

She smiles to me with her ruffled lips

I pick her up and feel her heart

Beating, tapping a message into my palm,

“I am you and you are me and the sea.

Do you feel it?”

Sun flashes his blinding orange wink.

Sea waves with her white gloved hands

Inviting me to dance.

I carry the clam and we dive into the wave.

I evaporate into the sea.

Clam grows bigger and bigger

Until she becomes me or we.

“Promise me,” I hear my own voice say.

“Refill your pitcher with the gems you don't see.

Say it out loud for you and for me,

I am a blessing. Go on say it.”

I am a blessing

I hear clam harmonizing along with my lips

I vow to listen to my heart,

To my bones,

To the flow of my blood.

I swim to the surface.

I hear the perpetual whizzing of my lungs,

Reminding me to pull kindness

Out of every breath

And blend it into every word I say

To anyone, especially myself, every day.

I am a blessing, I say as

I walk onto the beach,

Crowded with smiling, laughing, sun tanning people,

Escaping the cars, buildings, and crunching of trashcans.

Paint Drop Smile

I drag my paint brush across the wall.

It pulls my head sideways spilling out

Bloody, gooey, self-loathing thoughts:

Wrong color, wrong tint,

Errant brush hair on the wall.

You screwed up, you bastard!

I dip my brush into a pool of celedonic buff,

The color of desert sand just before

The Lord of the Dawn begins painting the clouds

Orange, yellow, pink, and purple.

I drag my bristled brush, dripping with doubt

Across the wall, adjacent to the first stroke.

A drop of paint sneaks off and decorates

My big toenail with a smile.

I sweep my brush back and forth,

Swaying with the trees, and singing with the birds.

A few are chirping jokes about pooping on people

who walk underneath.

I dip my feathered wand and write,

I love you,

Above the wet paint on the wall.

My lover pats my butt

And whispers in my ear,

“I love you too.”

Would you like a beer?”

She leaves me alone with my wall,

My brushes, and my note

That I know is meant for me, too.

It's a mystery to me how

A toenail smile, and just writing,

I love you, on the wall

Brightens my heart.

And now I feel like Salvador Dali.

I dip my brush into the pail

Whose color is desert sand that glistens with

Love just before the Lord of the Dawn

Paints the clouds in oranges, yellows, pinks and purples.

I paint a happy smile

On the wall.

It paints a joyful one

On me.

Prayer, It Matters Why

Pray or be prey to the devil.

Pray or God will be mad.

Pray so God will take away the pain.

Pray for a new house, a monkey, a puppy, and money.

Prayer was always a necessity,

Always a begging when I was younger.

We had to pray on our knees

With our hands placed together.

We had to be perfect,

Or we'd go to hell.

I asked the Creator one day,

Do you really want us to pray to you?

Don't you get tired

Of us always asking you to fix things,

Give us things, make life real easy?

What do you do all day?

Does anyone ever ask you?

I'm asking you, now.

Really, you do everything?

Yes, I remember reading that you are I am.

What? Every time I say I am, I am praying?

But what happens when I say I am pissed

Or fucked up or screwed?

I am?

Damn!

“Exactly!”

How should I pray, then?

“It doesn't matter how.

It matters why.”

You don't care how I pray?

“Why should I?
I don't need anything.

I am, remember?
I am everything that there is

And, incidentally.

Everything that is not.”

Oh, now you're getting deep.

“You do realize that we are praying

At this very moment.”

We?

“Of course. Prayer is conversation.”

But I wasn't taught to pray that way.

“And now you know.”

If you do everything

Do you cause war, pain, suffering?

“Of course.”

You're scaring me.

“I created everything perfectly.

I created contrasts,

Light and dark.

You created labels that you think are true:

Good and bad,

Yours and mine,

Me and you.

There is only I am

So choose.”

Choose what?

“What follows I am.”

Oh, I get it.

Thanks for the prayer

I am a blessing.

“Exactly!”

Fingernails

I stare at Kita, my canine pal.

As she wags her tail watching me

Clip my toenails and fingernails.

She licks her paw and places it on my foot

Impatiently waiting to go for a run.

In a minute, I say, and then ask her,

Why do my fingernails keep growing?

When will they learn to be strong enough?

Heaven and hell both know I give them exercise.

I scratch my itches,

I peel the tape loose from the spool

that has recaptured it.

I peel the skin off the orange colored oranges.

And my nails still break.

I scratch a tiny clump of dirt

Off the side of my shoe.

I scrape a dot of stubborn paint off the mirror.

Certainly all these scratchings,

And peelings, and scrapings,

All should make my fingernails

as strong as metal knives.

But No.

They crack and break down to the quick

sometimes

And that hurts.

What am I suppose to do with the

fingernail clippings when I slice off the ends

to make my nails even,

To make the ends of my fingers nail free enough

to allow me to play the guitar or violin.

Kita places her other paw

On my foot

And slowly shakes her head.

Ok, I really don't play the violin.

But if I did,

I'd have to cut my fingernails

Again and again.

Which I do, anyway.

Yes, I do play the guitar and sing to my dog.

Kita stands and runs to the door.

I can't run on my front paws and back paws

I'm not a coyote, a wolf, or a dog

Who wears down their nails when they run.

Kita wags her tail telling me

To take my fingernails outside,

Feed them to the plants.

And let's go run.

Kita is right,

of course.

Long fingernails

won't help me run.

How Do You Say ... To a Bereaved Mom?