Celebrating the Truth Tellers

Everyone knows I love(d) Cuomo
but I love the women who speak up more.
I admire and respect these women for speaking truth to power.

He was wrong and admitted it.
How seriously should he meet the consequences?
Did his apology matter?
What should happen to him? I don’t know.
Ask the women.
Ask the jury.
Ask the pastor, ethicist, expert.

No one wants unwanted advances.
No one wants her name tied to some creeper, older white guy.
And while I admit to loving Cuomo’s communication style —
His emphasis on love, solidarity, etc.
His power points and joviality charmed me.
It is wearing thin.

I admit to wanting to go back to the time when he was a good governor,
not a creepy intruder upon a woman’s space and a woman’s psyche.
Because that’s what happens when creepers creep.
They get inside — as if they plant a worm that grows, makes you doubt yourself and doubt your sensitivity. They invite you to be quiet, to be good. Say nothing.

So the fact that a young woman says,
“Nah, I’m not staying silent. I’m not doubting myself, I’m calling this behavior out.”
I admire that. I admire their truth telling. I wish I had their courage.
I love their courage even more than I love Cuomo’s power points,
even more than his daily pressers.
I love / take hope when anyone without power steps up to the mic and says,
“I’ve got to say what happened. And it’s not right. And I don’t want it to happen to anyone else. People, listen. Learn.”

‘Women, speak your truth. Even if your voice shakes,’ the saying goes.
And if a wriggly worm says: “Be nice. Don’t make such a big deal about it. This person’s one of the good guys.” Tell the worm, “Yes, I hear you. And I will speak my truth any way. Because even the good guys need to learn, even the heroes must not harm others.”

Nah. I doubt his apology will be good enough.
If he uses his power to assume everyone wants a piece of him. Nah.
I love(d) Cuomo but I’m not going to let him silence or bully women.
This women’s history month, I’m celebrating truth tellers — all of the women who speak up when it’s easier to remain silent.
Thank you for your courage.

Throwing Shade

She considered purchasing shade.
How much?
Good shade or side-eyed shade? 
Cool shade or burning shade?
Grey or gray shade?
And look!
custom made simple.
Custom shade, tailored to the increasing shade demand. 
And 'lo, does she, we need that
light-hearted, slow burn, revolving,
evolving shade.
Especially now that it's women's history month. 
When does that shade shoppe open? 
How can she get some? 

Hey, look, it’s snowing!

the miracle
is found in the pause

just the wait
after one child
“Hey, look, it’s snowing!”
all turn to see teaspoon-sized flakes

teacher crosses her arms
adjusts
hands on hips
an attempt to look bigger
large and in charge

but like the children
she thinks of home
of hearth and health and kin
commute
tripped up

caught in the net of beauty

she pauses to watch the snow
the miracle of the pause

the moment suspended, the magic of sideways snow
of snow falling up
out the window
white flakes
fleeting
unmasked
carefree
heading home

Lemon Tart

"You can become bitter or you can see the broken seed as a way for growth." 
The quote appeared in my journal.
A reminder: refrain from bitterness.
Sure, taste the lemon, but do not suck on it.
Dine on it or
Seek nurture from it.
It is good to season with a zest of lemon
but not make a meal of it.
As I like to say,
"It takes a lot of work to be this happy-go-lucky."
How surprising that taste of lemon as a kid -- the first time I try it,
Wow. Pucker up.
This is nothing like the lemon sour candy
coated in the finest powdered sugar.
Bitter, better, batter.
You decide.
A recent trip to Wave Hill – peeking through the window of the green house.

Freezing Rain

Ice slides into cracks
on bridges.
Do not cross.
Reports indicate more 
is on the way.
Freezing cold and flakes fall,
only following the tug of gravity.
Looking to land in a home
on sidewalks slick.
Just water,
frozen, bright, looking to land. 

Less Judging, More Loving

A bird does flit or fly or tweet
but the bird doesn’t hang on to every mean feat.
A laugh may travel across the sky
but the laughter doesn’t come at the expense of you or I.

I know why we need to value our own worth
and stop feeling that others have judged us harshly from our birth.
The shame cycle of ‘never enough’
causes us to defend the castle or to bluff.

For we are made for heroic jousts,
for the equal swordfight, not for the lion’s roar to the mouse.
Equal in battle, in fair play, in rhyme.
We are meant for love and understanding not for lying.

So set aside the buff, the cower, or the care.
We are opening a can of ‘lookee here!’
Follow the heart, open the breath.
For if we are judging — or fear judgment from others — we cause our own premature death.

Creativity, Doubt, Survival

The nipping of CREATIVITY at her heels.
All she ever wanted was to turn and soothe the beast.
At times she did. Painting, writing, dancing in the dawn.
And other times, the bark grew fainter 
to a whimper,
waking her in the night. 
Was that a call?
A dream, a spiderweb filament, on her face in the morning?
Nothing more. She cupped her ear to hear the bark. 

DOUBT grew from a soft kitten to a lioness,
proud, loud, nippier than CREATIVITY.
DOUBT silenced the dog. 

Alas, SURVIVAL, a deluge of biblical proportions,
drove both cat and dog away. 
"I matter," said SURVIVAL, "for planet, people, places, politics.
Let CREATIVITY nip and DOUBT roar. I matter more."

SURVIVAL set CREATIVITY and DOUBT 
to shelter, huddle, warm themselves, 
wait out the storm.
But the two embraced, allied, befriended, 
plotted to overtake, save SURVIVAL 
-- or at least pacify, soothe SURVIVAL's alarm --
to dance in the daybreak once more. 

February

February comes, a month of hygge,
squirrels burrow in the knots of trees,
stalks huddle in the too-cold shade,
waiting for the glimmer of a warming sun.
February kills my high,
bums me out.
with its soft slow snow, feathery fistfuls.
February, the heart-smacking,
lip-centered,
wait for longer days.
For the spring of birthdays,
of another hula hoop,
scoop around the sun,
for stronger days,
when the shoots doesn’t break in the brittle cold,
and the loon calls from the lake.
And even the Met opens her front doors, wide,
like a seamstress, ready to unfurl her crazy quilts.

inspired by Bill Christophersen’s February.

Namaste

After today’s second dose of the vaccine,
I feel freer but not free.
I will follow my bliss but ever so cautiously,
slowly.
And here’s something to know about me when we meet again,
I will not shake your hand or anyone else’s hand for that matter,
Never again.
Alas, I will hug you.

See, I met a doctor at Kripalu when I were there, from March 6 to 8, 2020, a few days before the world shut down.
She, the endocrinologist, told me that hugging’s safer than shaking hands.

Namaste, she and I said when we parted,
hand to heart probably safest still.
I signed up for an online Kripalu zoom class because I miss the vibe. The class began yesterday. And we were invited to
make a wheel out of the areas of our lives.
My wheel looked a little deflated.

I miss the walk down to the lake.

We will go again, hand to heart.
Namaste.

Be free. Follow your bliss.

My wheel of life
Doodling on the cover of my journal.

Torn Mask

Look what it is to ride out a pandemic
the tear of masks from a new pup, call him Brandy,
from the makers of masks in China or Russia via your school or workplace
not made for the bite of a dog who mistook the mask for a bone.
You noticed another pile by the entrance to the M5 bus,
comfort to know there is more by the door,
paper and cloth masks
in a glass bowl or on a silver hook.
And look what it is to give your mask away,
three times now, and to grab another,
in three different multiverses, oh tears
for the people, the older, the younger, or maybe born on your same birthday
birth year,
who forget their masks or must wear the oxygen mask
alone in a buzzing room with hazmat suits,
flowers by the door, pings on the hospital floor,
sirens closer or passing your home
where you left no room, only tears,
for the M5 ride or the dog walk or the recovery room, 
torn mask by the door
for the freezing long hauler.

Inspired by today’s Poetry Foundation poem Torn Coat by Gerald Stern