Invigorating: Gorrie, Dawson, Donofrio, Panek: aaduna Day 21, NPM

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Say there's a boy that has two dreams,
one concerns business, one fishing in streams;
but which is the more real my friend?

A wolf licked an Eskimo's blood-covered knife,
licked it till it cut-up and bled out its life;
but are wolves' impulses wrong my friend?

I saw a terrible play with a terrible end
and horrid lines no writer could mend;
but do you think I missed the point my friend?

Someone opened a door and let a dog in,
unaware of where most strays have been;
but what is real kindness my friend?

One hundred slaves wept at their fortune,
united, killed the tyrant, and began to run;
but don't they still work for their livings my friend?

I found a pocket watch in a patch of tall grass,
hoped selfishly, watched centuries pass;
but weren't we told time heals wounds my friend?

© 2014 Christopher Gorrie                

San Diego, California

Christopher Gorrie (photo provided)

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POINTED FINGERS - then arms (4-27-15)

The problem is not black America

The problem is not gay America

The problem is not Christian America

(or any religion, America)

The problem is division, America.

And that's not really it, is it?

The problem is not a white problem

The problem is not a guy problem

The problem is not a rights problem

The problem is the attitude of, 'it's not my problem'

But it's more than that, isn't it?

The problem is not the police 

(that's an occupation, right? 

so how could that be?)

The problem is not taking our jobs too seriously

The problem is not the youth, either

The problem is not gender-specific

The problem does not exclusively impact women

The problem is that we're terrified 

that things could be perfect

if we actually knew how to love or understand 

anything beyond the vanity of our skyward noses.

The problem is in the kaleidoscope 

of inaccurate definition 

that we're looking at the world through.  

The problem I see is that 

we do everything in our powers to reject peace

& our fears, they expand

and the human thing to do (we're told)

is to attach a face to them

And this world conveniently

demonizes everything of difference

offering us layers and layers of 'I'm not like that'

to cowardly lash out upon.

But I'm not like that, ask my mom

The problem is in us all

and we're perfectly projecting it 

onto everything else

so we don't have to face our own disappearances 

without holding someone or something else accountable. 

The problem is that we have a problem 

in admitting when we're wrong, but I know

somewhere in the world people are smiling

and I'm not trying to downplay anybody's experience(s)

but, America, "Can't we all just get along?"..

© Alexander J. Dawson                     

Iowa City, Iowa                                                                  

Alexander J. Dawson (photo provided)

* * *

There I Was at Coney Island

I felt Staten Island to my left

And the Bronx to my South

But neither place had the best hog dogs around

I still have sand left in my shoe from when I last visited

I still remember the conversations I had with the old man in the old arcade parlor who said the next time he would show me around

I miss the Ferris wheel, roller coaster, and self trance I go into every time I think of Coney Island

You know I was Coney Island’s baby never to forget where I left my heart.

© 2014 Christine Donofrio                

Cleveland, Ohio         

Christine Donofrio (photo provided)

* * *

Anahit’s Kitchen

Rose hips made into a brew

to induce breast milk

for my daughter-in-law

carried warm in a glass bowl.

Three houses up the street

her mother lives and each

night she brings something

wonderful for her daughter’s

family. Mushroom salad,

chicken, walnuts, garlic

lentils and curry--

good for the kidneys

good for the blood

good for lactation

made in her small kitchen

three houses up the street.

She uses herbs, spices

from Turkey, Greece,

Armenia, from groves

and gardens.

And keeps them in

jars without labels.

We smell them. Her eyes

drift to far-off places.

Together we make dolma

in her kitchen up the street

stuffing grape leaves

peppers and eggplants.

I learn so much

from her about herbs

and greens.

Like “Babbette’s Feast”

each meal a banquet

always followed with

fruits, nuts, and

dark Armenian coffee.

Silt sits at the bottom of the cup

while we remain at the table.

© 2014 Bobbie Dumas Panek            

Auburn, New York  

Bobbie Dumas Panek (photo provided)

              

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