I've been writing a long time. My father sent me the scrap of paper above which I'll add to a little box full of poems and stories that I wrote long, long ago.
As the dreary news trickles in, my tongue smarts and the words to an old American song drift inside my brain.
Oh give me a home
As I wrote on a previous post, my arms aren't long enough to reach, always, with compassion toward everyone. Mea culpa.
As my friend said in a text this morning, Trump is the whetstone where we sharpen our tongues.
where the buffalo roam,
The picture of our President Resident Lech with six other white men standing round watching him sign legislation that tells women what we can't do with our BODIES
where the deer and the antelope play
Our President Resident Lech has given the go-ahead to fuck with sacred land and clean water, and we are being asked to reach out with compassion.
where seldom is heard a discouraging word
I don't think softened words are going to do much of anything.
and the skies are not cloudy all day.
