Reading · Around the Campfire

I feel a shift in my writing coming.

I’ve spent years worrying that my writing might offend someone ~ so I have been so so so very careful not to trigger anyone’s ire. The unintended consequence is that addiction to carefulness began polishing down parts of my voice.

~ it occurs to me that as I type this that I have often used “carefulness” as a reason to practice “cowardice”.~

The internet is now flooded with comforting poems assembled (usually by machines) from the same handful of beautiful words.

Breathe. Bloom. Heal. Light. ~ I use these themes as well and meant them every single time. They have been the spine of my writing journey.

But lately I’ve wondered whether my desire to comfort everyone (including my wounded heart!) has made it harder to actually recognize me anymore.

I still want to write about tenderness. I just don’t want my tenderness to arrive without teeth to bite the apple or elbows to create its own space.

A rosebush carries its beauty and its weapons on the same stem.

In this spirit here is a poem I just wrote that I normally wouldn’t have been brave enough to share with you.

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Hold on tight to me, my love,
the world has lost all her brakes.
We now make more bullets than babies
and are growing new deserts from ancient lakes.
The imposter class has fully taken over
~ wearing their fake beards and TikTok eyes.
Leading us into a blue-light future of their making
as awards are given to those who tell the biggest lies.
I am programmed to fear my neighbor;
to watch the news behind bulletproof glass.
Then I go to church on Sunday for a bit of relief
where I’m told the Devil is still coming for my ass.
Did we come all this way from the great before
to sit here and draw lines between “us” and “them”?
Creation didn’t endure her starry Big Bang labor pains
just so we could blindly worship a cold metal algorithm.
I can’t make oligarchs stop their garching.
My empty wallet can’t afford to build a park.
But I can go plant a single row of fat red roses.
And that, my love, might at least be a bit of a start.
Grab on tight as the rollover rolls on.
The horizon may flip, flop, thud and flip again.
Let’s not allow the key holders to lock up our souls.
~ Surrendering to despair is this age’s only mortal sin.

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A Bit Of A Start

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