Oh August

IMG_2297.jpeg internet photo

Oh  August

 

Oh August – most regal month 

So aptly named -awaited eagerly 

as a child who yearned for  

sticky summers to crisp, for cool

breezes to blow on my legs as 

summer flowers still stood and

school! -  those halcyon halls of 

joy, elixirs of chalk and quiet,

new squeaky shoes and ah

blackboards wiped clean with 

white wet cloths … beckoned 

beckoned soon… soon… soon

Oh August …month when so many

years beyond childhood -  

my father chose, on  white pillows

piled high to step from this mortal

coil to another …

and yet, oh August, oh August he only

deepened the mystery, the joy of all 

that awaited, unknown

mystic and magic… floating just 

beyond…

August. 

Let Anger Bang Its Head

 

Let Anger Bang Its Head 

Anger is the word that lives behind the door

that remains closed – a stain of outrage

seeps under and rises up as I wipe it

with cloths of protest and activism 

hope, poetry and determination – but

Anger stays behind the door – they 

tell me, tell me, tell me, that  to live without 

anger is impossible, disingenuous, 

sanctimonious, even a blatant lie, and yet… 

Anger is the word that lives behind the door, as

I stand on the other side - aware of its possibility

skeptical of its productivity when outrage and

action, reflection, and when possible - reconciliation 

wave bright banners of hope and possibility as anger

silently broods, stews, festers, contained and unneeded.

For I do know that anger holds its finger ever on a trigger –

grasps  the shaft of a shiv – for anger is blind, dumb and active 

Let anger stay behind the door – let it bang its empty blinded

head against the walls until it distills its fetid blood to useful outrage, 

and then, and then, - I shall take those clean cloths of hope and 

wipe and wipe and wipe 

what I can clean, aware when to enlist 

help when all that  -is - 

is just too much to bear

alone.