Storms in the west
Floods in the south
We’re watching it happen
But shutting our mouth
Record heat in the east
And in the north too
Shaking our heads
What’s there to do?
Nothing can change until we make it so
Revolution is coming
And lots of sorrow
To grow is to change
That’s the advice most given
Which of course implies
That change is progress
But often, that’s not the case
Change is simply change
It’s not attached to morals
And while it can be progressive
It’s doesn’t always mark progress
In fact sometimes
It marks steps backwards
Instead of forward
But again, not always
Because change is simply that:
change
It’s attached to nothing
But we change
So we can breathe.
The intangible weight of life
Is laden with excess woes
But made light of strife
When unburdened from a closet of clothes.
Orange light streams in
And the floor dances with fire
Meanwhile, in the sky
Pink translucent clouds are shaded
By billowing plumes of smoke
Ash covers the sidewalks
Children play with it
Like they would a puddle
Watched over by a flaming copper sun
Why is it so beautiful
When the world is on fire?
Cotton candy skies
Sweep over hard machinery
Gray to contrast pink
Spun sugar clouds
Sun bleached and fractured with gold
Hang amidst black plumes
Of industrialization
“Doctors” with no oath
Looking to make a profit
Will descend on those
Who want their own choice
Tik toks and others
Will film “do it yourself” clips
And prey off the clicks
Of desperate girls
Boys without knowledge and
Men with few consequences
Will not be party
To the new shadows
Haunting the world of women
As a kid I thought
That when I was an adult
I’d stop making mistakes
Somehow, I’d know all
How to act in situations
How to think, and speak
Without sounding foolish
I’m forty now and it seems
That mistakes keep coming
Like old friends
Who want you to help them move
Because you have a truck.
Art is political
You can’t convince me differently
Because at heart, art
Is an argument
Artists want you to feel or
Think or see one way
The picture is cropped
Colors are chosen carefully
Scenes are deleted
Yet, we are silent
When it comes to disaster
Art doesn’t pay well
And we’re scared to speak
When we should be scared
To stay silent.
The wake of horror
Brings with it calls for action
There’s a problem though.
Politicians don’t
Listen to the peoples will
….they’ve gerrymandered it
“Thoughts and prayers” we’ve heard.
For a decade now
Long ago they chose to favor
Guns over children.
So. Pressing forward seems…hard.
But it’s not.
Outrage is the start…but…
Vote local.
School Board
City council
County council
Fuck, make sure you know who the PTA President is.
These local yokels
Impact your life
And in the wake of horror
It’s the start of change.
(I hope)
You’ve heard of broken
That ugly word describing pain
“A broken woman”
As though she’s shattered
Laying in pieces on the ground
Unmoving. Static.
That’s not what it is
Grief, pain; they’re ever changing
Frenetic, dizzying
No. We’re not broken
Or shattered, or static
We’re simply unmoored
A boat without a dock
A leap without a landing
But not aimless. No.
We know the destination.
We just haven’t spotted it yet.
Hipstory 