I’m not okay, you’re not okay, and that’s okay. — Sheldon Kopp
We wish we were otherwise, and that is our hell, our resistance to Life. — Stephen and Ondrea Levine, Who Dies?
I have found out who I am and I have no intention of impersonating anyone else. — George Sheehan, Running and Being
Written by Alex Henderson February 3, 2020 Alter Net
President Donald Trump has not been shy about berating anyone who doesn’t “stand proudly” when the United States’ national anthem is playing at sports events. But a video posted on Instagram shows Trump moving around quite a bit when “The Star-Spangled Banner” was playing during the Super Bowl on Sunday.
The Miami Herald’s Sarah Blaskey notes that the video “shows Trump greeting guests, adjusting his chair, and straightening his suit jacket as other attendees — including First Lady Melania Trump and their teenage son — stand with their hands over their hearts. As ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ crescendos, Trump raises both of his hands in the air, and twirls them around as if conducting the music.”
Blaskey notes that the brief video, which has also been posted on the Miami Herald’s website, was “included in an Instagram story by a real estate agent for a Russian-American firm who frequents Mar-a-Lago and other Trump properties and events.”
This is a reblog of a poem that appeared in Guy’s Hospital Gazette, the Newsletter of Greenwich District Hospital, London, on February 2, 1974. It was written by a lady in a geriatric ward and found in her locker after she died by staff who thought her incapable of writing.
POEM ON LONELINESS
What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
Are you thinking when you are looking at me–
A crabbit old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with far away eyes.
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply,
When you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you’d try.”
I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still
As I rise at your bidding , as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten with a father and mother
Brothers and sister who love one another;
A bride soon at twenty my heart gives a leap
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep;
At twenty-five now I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure happy home;
At fifty once more babies play round my knee,
again we know children, my loved one and me;
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead
I look to the future I shudder with dread.
My young are all busy rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I’ve known.
I’m an old woman now and Nature is cruel
‘Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body it crumbles, grace and vigour depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcase a young girl still dwells
And now and again my battered heart swells,
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I’m loving and living all over again.
And I think of the years all too few–gone too fast
And accept the stark fact that nothing will last.
So open your eyes, nurses, open and see,
Not a crabbit old woman, look closer–see me!
Exquisite. I can’t think of another word.
“We command all satanic pregnancies to miscarry right now” — Special Adviser to the White House Faith and Opportunity Initiative Paula White
Maybe it’s just me, but commanding someone to miscarry doesn’t seem very pro-life in my book… https://t.co/bvmgNgjfQI
— Libertarian-In-Chief (@ToddHagopian) January 26, 2020
**As prayed for by Trump’s Spiritual advisor
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
Neglected and alone.
The name and date are chiseled out
On polished, marbled stone.
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn.
You did not know that I exist
You died ere I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
In flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
Entirely not our own.
Dear ancestor, the place you filled
One hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
Who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved.
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
And come to visit you.
Poetry of a changing Earth. The grief is real--so is the hope.
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