Justice

It is only with calloused hands

that the heavy body

can claw and leverage the self

upward on the thorny vine

of a life

without wince and whine

ascending to reach the fruit or bloom

the famished soul craves.

Strength is only followed by ache

and ease meets us 

like the close breeze of angel wings

when we are certainly alone

to endure 

and prevail despite difficulties,

in spite of opportunities.

Facing this,

finding a certain grace

that heals

and feels

righteous-

just us. 

Artwork by Fyodor Bruni, 1820s or 1830s, 'A boy climbing the rock' (drawing for "Brazen Serpent" via Wikimedia Commons, in Public Domain. 

Feather weather

Before I arose

the tangerine sunrise

squeezed its citrus air

through my bedroom window

dripping fresh pulpy nectar 

of a new day onto the corners of my mouth.

A small smile and burst of delicious 

opportunity as wide as the opening sky

filled my treetop nesting place, 

I stretched, feeling light as this crisp air

where wings unfurled 

and carried my delicate body

across the sparkling dew laden fields

light as a feather.

Artwork credit: 'The violet fairy book' (1906), Henry Justice (1860-1941) Internet Archive Book Images, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Objectified

The thing about Americans

are all the Things-

So many things,

more and more than ever before

buried in crap, cremated in mishaps.

We make, we take, we earn, we lose, 

we choose the right to have 

to hold-

We fight over 

and over, about

the need, the greed-

we have earned and lost,

another thing tossed. 

The sheer weight and

the wait, a cure and curated-

A new thing, and another thing, 

junk or slang, it is all the rage-

And all the rage, coveted, lust, we must have-

Unsatisfied, insatiable, hunger,

not food, not fast, 

lasts and lasts, plastic and preservative,

a classic, a novel-

ty, a storage bin, or unit, 

a closet, a garage, the tags still on, 

the deal forgotten, the steal justified, 

the hope, the saving for someday 

it might be needed

this thing, that forgotten thing, 

so buy another, smother our small space, 

lie to our face, stashed someplace,

in a cart, on a list, a deal just missed

how these things

clip our wings.

Wealth with strings.

Poverty sings.

Graces never saved faces

nor held our places

in heaven, 

as in hell 

we end up 

only us 

without all the surplus

it comes down to

just detritus and decomposition,

unaccomplished missions

like the unraveling 

of a flag or poem.

Artwork credit:  Bustling with work and activity, "The Wealth of the Nation" by Seymour Fogel is an interpretation of the theme of Social Security. Dated circa 1938 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.