To The Man In The Red Cap

 To the Man in the Red Cap

 

When was the last time you opened a newspaper—

or have you only heard the world through a feed that flatters you?

Your candidate isn’t whiffing—

he’s doing what grifters do—until the room decides to breathe together.

An emperor in a rented costume, fraying at the seams,

a con man scraping the barrel—until the crowd stops calling it a feast—

even your side can see him. Seeing is where change begins.

 

Congress is in session—

The tide can turn.

They’ll read the script and miss their cues—but the crowd can rewrite the ending.

not to save anyone—unless we build saving into law, into care, into daily habit.

Keep your victory lap; I’m saving my breath for the long haul—and I’m not alone.

The party ends when we stop dancing to whatever they play—and start making our own.

It’s over like that spotless red cap—

a stain pretending it’s a flag—until you choose to take it off.

bright enough to spot in a crowd—plain enough to put down and walk on.

 

Maybe it’s too much to fit in your head:

history doesn’t repeat—it waits for permission, and we can refuse.

“Not again,” we say—then we practice: we show up, we speak up, we stay.

So it doesn’t happen—because we choose each other, in plain sight.

I still remember the stories

my uncle used to tell—so we’d know what to name, and what to stop feeding.

How he served in a U-boat’s belly,

pulled into duty before his voice had even changed,

at fourteen—still a child, treated like inventory.

Kids shouldn’t have to learn the world that way. If we remember, they won’t.

 

 

Earth Day

 Earth Day

I believe the planet will need more than one day to recover.

But Mother Earth thanks you—

truly.

If the dinosaurs were still alive,

they’d send a card.

The bees would sign it. In theory.

The endangered fish in the oceans

would also like to say thanks—

for buying that bracelet made from recycled plastic.

It was a choke hazard.

It’s still a choke hazard—

but now there’s a little less of it drifting around

those plastic junk islands.

Also, birds can still get those tiny, tragic hula hoops

wrapped around their necks. You’ve seen it.

This lonely planet thanks you.

She thinks it’s a great idea to send kids out

to pick up the garbage their parents toss out of cars.

There’s hope for tomorrow—

apparently.

People are so smart.

I’ll bet they can come up with even more ways

to recycle their own waste.

The Earth has a few ideas too.

 

But she’s a mom, so she won’t ruin your day.

She’ll just mention—casually—

her bowels have been straining for some time now.

She has a terrible itch that needs scratching.

It might shake a few people up.

 

Also, her disposition is shifting by the day.

Moody enough that the forecast keeps hedging.

It’s fine. It’s probably fine.

 

And the holes in her ozone layer are massive.

 

So yes—keep up the good work. 

Please send more debris into orbit in space.

She’ll be right here, holding her breath.

 

Training

 Training 

I laugh, looking back.

The years speed up—

Florida traffic when the snowbirds arrive.

Red lights feel optional—unless you remember you’re in one. I’ve seen enough to strip the naiveté from faith.

Crashes—car parts flung in a wide, bright ring of road. A debris field like the war my mother saw at five: waking to sirens, running in nightclothes, my grandmother scooping up five children and saying, now.

My shoulders are broad—

one of my better features—

as I round the corner of 69.

No one notices—until you’re treading water in the Gulf and need something to hold you up.

Yes, we were immigrants. I became a U.S. citizen in Honolulu forty years ago. We came by plane, sponsored by family; I was an infant in my mother’s arms while Germany still counted the cost of war.

I got a chance at a better life—better than my mama had. The man I married was a brute: brilliant, cruel. I loved him. I loathed him. He showed me the world and taught me to fight for my place in it. Years went by, soldiering on. Still, I learned: keep your head, keep moving, and don’t let the wreckage be the end of you.

Chasing Hope

 Chasing Hope

 

I try to catch up—

to the woman climbing the hill ahead of me,

the same rise of pavement I swear remembers our footsteps.

She’s there most mornings—steady as a sunrise,

moving with a brisk, practiced stride that doesn’t waste breath.

Her outfit matches the season—

light layers when the air still holds onto night, a brighter shirt when the day turns bold,

good shoes, a cap pulled low, a water bottle that catches the sun like glass.

She’s sensibly dressed for the climb, for sweat, for weather that changes its mind.

And still—she carries a smile the whole way,

as if she knows something kind about the day before the day has proven it.

I want to meet her, not just follow her shape up the slope—

to fall into step beside her, where conversation feels easy and unforced.

But she rounds the bend the way certainty does—

one clean turn, and she’s gone, swallowed by trees and distance.

The neighbor’s dog barks as I pass—sharp and sudden—guarding the invisible border of “too late.”

I picture the talks we might have if I ever caught her—

politics, sure—spoken softly, as you do with strangers before they become neighbors,

current events that arrive on screens overnight and feel different in morning air,

the weather—humidity, wind, the first hint of rain—small forecasts we can test.

Maybe she’d tell me her name and laugh at how long it took me to ask.

Maybe I’d admit I’m still learning how to begin—how to step forward without an excuse.

Hope, I realize, looks a lot like someone who keeps walking even when no one is watching.

Maybe I should jog, let my breath turn ragged for a minute, just to close the gap.

Maybe I should get up earlier, when the streetlights are still on, and the world feels unfinished.

Maybe I’ll meet her tomorrow—at the start of the hill, before the bend decides for me.

 

 

 

Pulling Weeds

 Pulling Weeds

Takes dedication—

effort, time management,

and self-discipline (the unglamorous kind).

The payoff usually shows up as blisters,

a few bruises, and the occasional puncture wound.

Plus deep-knee bends, squats,

ducking under the prickly bushes.

The result is rewarding—

but limited to the growth hours left in this season.

 

Leadership

 

It seems

doesn’t ask for any of that.

Unless you count sleeplessness,

ranting in the wee hours,

collecting enemies (including faith leaders),

choosing a gift for the dictator’s

birthday party,

starting wars, grabbing oil,

suing the government, and cutting deals

which, for some, is apparently easy.

Go team.

No kneepads required. 

Calm After The Storm

 Calm After The Storm

Today we awaken—
soft light trembling on our faces—
First, to absorb the hush of shock,
emotions streaming from tired eyes,
hands worn by the trials behind us,
unable to summon applause,
even as triumph calls.
Yet still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

In the hush,
we find the seeds of hope,
rest in the gentle shade of renewal,
witness what we have become—
then softly, surely, declare:
we have won.

We rise,
trampled and battered,
with storms at our side—
to the left, to the right—
still, we rise.

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

 

We pray to the sun for light to guide us,
then to the son for hope to rise within.
We lay down the weight of oppression,
conquer the beast of despair,
gather in the circle of survival,
and greet the new dawn we have won.

 

We rise, we rise—
from shadows into light,
with hope reborn at dawn,
our hearts unbowed, our spirits strong.
Through every storm,
still, we rise—
to greet the day,
to claim the calm we’ve won.

…

Rewarding Bad Behavior

Reeks

Like a game of thrones.

It throws the innocent from the turret

A witness to incest and lies.

And then cries like a crocodile.

Tears washed in blood and bile.

…

We crown the cruel with laurel—smile,

And dress their damage up as style;

We pay in praise for practiced guile,

And call the bruising all ‘worthwhile.’

We stack up perks in a shining pile,

While quiet decency lives in exile;

Then scold the ones who name it vile—

As if the truth should stand on trial.

...

So let it stink this tilted scale,

Till justice learns its tone.