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The End

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, the disembodied eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg preside, unblinking, over a landscape of smoking industrial ash, byproduct of an uninhibited pursuit of wealth.

Are we living in that wasteland with a cardboard god casting his ineffectual judgement over our selfish pursuits? I don’t…


Transition

A pile of local weeklies sporting headlines like “Geiger Wins House Race” and “Miramant Reelected to State Senate” stared up at me from the tail of the check-out counter at my neighborhood market.

Consternated, I asked the clerk, “What’s with the old papers?” He looked at me quizzically. Then we…


Power

Trapped in a mist-bound guest house in Nepal waiting for clear weather, I was taught to play Bagh-Chal by a Nepali Wharton graduate. He was a wonderful and patient teacher.

Bagh-Chal is a game of unequal power. One player controls four tigers, the other, twenty goats. The tigers try to…


3000 Poems

Sometime in August, the Medium odometer for the tag “Resistance Poetry” rolled over to 3000. I can’t say that all poems so tagged were published in RP or which one tipped the counter. …


Be Kind

My husband asked me, “Do you think you can tell who someone will vote for just by looking at them?”

I thought about it, about how people dress, their carriage, whether they wear a mask, my central casting versions of Rockefellers, Rednecks and Resisters. I decided I couldn’t.

“But, you…


In all honesty,
I wish
I could say
I didn’t wish
You ill.

But that,
In truth,
Would be
A lie.

Vengeance is
Not mine.
But suffering,
I could share.

As you pant,
Fevered cheek
To cold tile,
Dying to live,

Will you think
Of me,
Or someone,
Anyone but
Yourself?

You’ll never know
Unless you try.


Sorry

“Don’t be sorry. Just be more careful.”

That’s what a friend’s nana used to say, admonishing us kids after we pled “sorry” for some misdeed.

Those wise words stuck to me, small though I was. They were forward looking, aimed at improvement. What was broken was forever broken. No amount…


Heavy bees
Fly low patterns
Over thirsty earth.
Prop wash dust storms
Scatter desiccated petals.
Reconnaissance for a
Pollen payload.


I Can’t Breathe

Spirit speaks to us in metaphor, the language of the soul, the language of poetry. It is for us to heed the whispers, connect the dots, draw the lessons, act.

Rather than my words, I choose to lead with this piece by Ryan J. Petteway this month.

May you all…

Meg

Writing, because talk is cheap

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