Well said.
Words
Published July 15, 2019 by Nan MykelWell said.
Well said.

Pulling your hair only hurts your head–
that’s what grandma always said.
If you can’t say something nice,
then tell the truth, said Cousin Ruth.
Sticks and stones
may break my bones
said brother Jones,
but words can really
piss me off!
The parole
of the troll
who stole
the payroll
won’t last long.
Today’s the terror day and my Spectrum isn’t working…
The ICE raids will tear families apart and terrify entire communities — all under moral cover from the religious right.
James Dobson claims that asylum seekers are “illiterate” and sometimes “violent.” Pastor Robert Jeffress says “Heaven itself is gonna have a wall.” Even Franklin Graham looks the other way, claiming that helping refugees is somehow “not a Bible issue.”
P.S. Do you know any immigrants who might suffer from these raids? The American Civil Liberties Union has put together a helpful page for them with tips like this: “You do not have to let police or immigration agents into your home unless they have certain kinds of warrants.” Please share the ACLU’s Immigrants’ Rights page widely, and ask your pastor to consider sharing it with your church too.
From Faithful America

Inside, nestled into a corner of the brain, lies a chapel tucked away just in case we need it. Tear ducts have been installed for weeping, fingers for pointing, painting, and sometimes pinching. When glee or ecstasy overtake us, we are provided outlets for dancing and singing. On the long dark days of need, there is our inner chapel, deemed by some to be “the God gene.” Why not?
The wind blows unseen
Fireflies dance in synchrony
Painter of sunsets
I am a bear.But am I really?
My identity is caught
mid-stream.
Can you help me out?
When you look into my eyes
what do you see?
Do you see you or
do you see me?
No longer a living tree,
what have they done to me?
Cast into the scuzzy borders
of someone else’s reality (yours).
Caught in the net of your own
imagination, fake firefly in a jar.
Who am I to you? Who are you to me?
Shells, washed up on imaginary
beaches, carry life forms, sometimes
not. Look in your mirror and see
is it you or me caught in transit?
This old violin has lost
some of her strings
and like many an ACOA*
she’s filled to the brim
with lizards, and things
but mainly her stuffing is jello.
When I awoke in the night
and turned on the light
I prayed (to the Universe)
that today would be free
in its entirety
of fight.
*Adult Children of Alcoholics

A Tree Library
While continuing to try to continue organizing “my stuff” I came across a passel of earlier poems. I don’t know which have made their appearance in this blog and/or d’Verse, but I just felt like giving them a run-through again. One a Day takes the —what was it?—away. Since I love my Media Library, I think I’ll add a random pix, also. (This must be what happens when you start getting old.)

With climate change upon us, there’s an article in the current issue of Time magazine by Andrew Blum, adapted from his own Ecco/HarperCollins’ Journey Inside the Forecast that I find bone-chilling. In these days of “prioritizing the role of the private sector in weather forecasts,” the move to “monetize” the current work of the U.N.’s World Meteorological Organization is afoot. The WMO has a “public good” mandate, to try and get people out of harm’s way, from which countries around the world reap benefits.
“The weather enterprise” (the private sector) is working to monetize weather forecasting. If the best forecasting is for purchase, the haves and have-nots will be separated when it comes to life and property. Oh, by the way, did you know your smartphone is at work providing barometric information? Oh, just read the article, or the book.
And while you’re at it, read the article by McQuade and Vance on “The Myths About the Mueller Report That Just Won’t Die.”

Am I “me” inside or just a pile of input-output?
Seeds my creatvity?
Warmth personified
Shooting stars are meteors
Is there a way for someone to fact check Trump’s current employment figures? Seems his appointees tend to do his thing.
In the language of children, story telling means telling a falsehood—at least it did in my childhood. Now a number of learned individuals suggest that our lives—our selves—are no more real than the stories we think and believe and tell. Ohh that word “real.” Most folks today avoid that concept, I know.
Cogito Ergo Sum
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