“I said that since humans came from Africa and migrated to all
parts of the world, their skin color changed so that they could
survive in their new environment. Therefore, we are all shades
of color and we are all One Race…”

I’ve been thinking and appreciating —
appreciating and embracing
our friendship since we
met in fifth grade.
How rare is that —
a friendship that doesn’t fade.

“Well, I’ve had it,” he said
After fretting all day about
The terrorist attacks in
El Paso, Texas and Dayton,

Ohio and he emphasizes
That both were terrorist
Attacks. #1. They created
Terror and #2. They were

Mass shootings by young
White guys against black
And brown people. “This
Isn’t rocket science,” he

Says revealing himself to
Be someone whose hay-
Day was the Sixties. So
He’s looking forward to

Masterpiece Mystery
On a summer Sunday
Evening having some
Bourbon and then in

The morning thinking
A bit more about being
A privileged, old, white
Guy with his heart in the

Right place which actually
Is the left place, except
That because he is the age
He is, people make all the

Wrong assumptions about
Him. As a retiree, he feels
Almost as comfortable as
Republican Senators who

Spend most of their time
On break, like right now,
And then send their staff
Out to fundraise when

Those senators are back in
Washington having a few
Martinis over lunch. As his
B-i-l ended a recent e-mail,

“Meh,” revealing his b-i-l
To be a 90’s kind of guy
Which the 60’s kind of guy
Had to Google to find out.

How hard, hard, hard is it to deal
With what the survivors must feel —
The mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers
And so, so many others?
The horror reverberates
From the marrow of one’s bones across states,
Overseas.
Weak in the knees.
Sick to the stomach.
Spirits plummet.
On the summit, a climber stands
And raises her hands
And screams and screams and screams.
Vibrations tear at the seams.
She gasps for air;
She drops as if in prayer.
Fellow climbers stare.
Across continents,
Into the stratosphere
Touching the bowels of hell
Shock and horror are here, there, everywhere,
Even if we pretend it is just another summer Sunday.

Right-wing mass murders are now de rigueur in the US.
We knew this would start; we knew this would happen.

This white suspect/alleged mass murderer at a Walmart in El Paso is a big Trump supporter.

He went from Dallas to El Paso to kill black and brown people.
Where to go to get the most? Walmart on a Saturday morning near the border.
Twenty dead; 26 wounded.

Everybody on the TV is cautious (Are they worried about their jobs?).
Nobody wants to name it for what it is.

We need to call it for what it is, name it: hate, hate, hate unleashed/enabled/endorsed
by our racist (and so many more descriptions) Donald Trump!!! He now tweets,
“God be with you all.” Really? This guy, this malevolent narcissist, who doesn’t
care about anybody but himself?

May God damn you, Donald Trump, and then in God’s ultimate, unconditional love,
convert you to be the child of God you were intended to be.

Let it be. Please, let it be.

The Devil (metaphorically speaking) ultimately will not win, but Evil is
wreaking incredible havoc on our delicate, fragile representative democracy.

Join a peaceful march/protest!!! Beat the Devil with Love.

Follow Jesus, follow the Buddha, follow Lao Tzu, follow Martin Luther King, Jr.,
follow Gandhi, FOLLOW LOVE.

The reader likes to read short, internet
biographies of the poets whose poetry
finds its way into his inbox every day.

He copies the name and pastes it and,
if the poet has a website, he clicks the
link and then reads “About.” This one

started out like so many of them — where
the poet was born, how many siblings,
where she went to school, how she met

her husband, how many kids they have —
the story was on the way to glory — how
many awards she has received, when the

paragraph came to an abrupt halt with a
searing sentence — 23 years of marriage
before her husband died of cancer at age

49. The reader was caught off guard,
stopped him in his tracks where he sat —
26 years of marriage before his wife died

at age 49. It would be a while before he
would read the rest of the short, internet
biography. Before clicking out of the site,

he glanced again at the poet’s smiling face
and wondered if there was a hint of pain
he hadn’t noticed before.

Maybe the reader was just projecting.

*What Racism? is an artistic photo and poem by friend Jess Merrill.

It’s the trickle-down theory —
the theory that water trickles down —
then runs down, then floods down.
There’s one trickle-down theory
about money trickling down from
on high and we know that doesn’t
work and why —
because the money stays up
because it is grabbed and
held on high
by some wealthy wise guys —
meanwhile, there is the other trickle
down theory, the one that’s more
practice than theory —
and that’s the one of FEAR.
Fear trickles down and runs down
and floods down —
daily, weekly, monthly,
year after year —
and then anger goes up and up
and up and violence goes up and up
and up and the master trickster
(with his Joker chuckler) tickles the
funny bone of white America
and sixty-three million cult followers
are tickled
and laugh their way, all the way —
through Dante’s one to the ninth
circle of Inferno.

They ask, “When will the sun shine in?
It’s been so dark for so long, I’m beg-
inning to see the hieroglyphics in the

technicolor of my imagination. ” They
pray, “Here comes the sun, here comes
the sun, and I say, ‘It’s all right.’” Those

in the dark want the sun and say, “It’s
all right,” but it isn’t all right when all
you know is night. They will be blinded

by the sun. How long will they need to
adjust? How long will they look at the
sun and realize that just beyond the sun

is the darkness as dark as any darkness
they have known since the slave ships
regurgitated them onto the shores of

what would become America? It is
the darkness of privilege and economic
security and everything that keeps

those privileged people from singing,
“Here comes the sun,” because they
live in darkness thinking it is the light.

Who will shine the light on their dark-
ness? And a little white girl and a little
black girl in the same Sunday School

sing, “This little light of mine, I’m
gonna let it shine, let it shine, let
it shine, all the time.”

As an old, white guy, he
Assumes the privilege of

Saying what others would
Warn was “ageism.” He

Thinks there are certain
People running for president

And some people interviewing
Those running for president

Who should retire, go away,
Enjoy the rest of their lives.

And if anyone wishes to
Ask for their advice on

Whatever, that would be
Nice and they might, if

They are lucky, attain the
Status of “States-person.”

Otherwise, they run the
Risk of being laughed off

The stage and out of the
Studio with people singing

Them along the way with,
“Thanks for the memories.”

Moonbeam Marianne spoke truth
to power; in this case, the power
in the hands of the other Demo-
cratic candidates who needed
to hear the truth that they can’t
keep playing it safe with “wonky”
policy statements without call-
ing out what needs, way beyond
political lip service, to be called
out — THE DARK, DARK, DEEP-
ER THAN POLITICS DARK SIDE
— THE RACISM OF THE WHITE
OCCUPANT OF THE WHITE
HOUSE. What she didn’t say
but probably would affirm — they
need to be like Jesus calling out
the Devil and the Devil’s deep,
dark temptations and what Jesus
said to the politically correct
Peter who wanted to play it safe
about Jesus’ passion, “Get, Thee,
behind me, Satan!”