On Fascism, Poetry and Survival

One of the things I love about this page is that it can become whatever it needs to be, or whatever I need it to be, on a given day. Tonight, I need it to be a wall I can chalk a poem on, before walking away. My thanks to those who read it.

Another Poem About Survival

Step backward, forward or aside as needed.
There were never any roadmaps.
Shelter yourself and others,
in fabric, between walls and with open arms.
There are days so dark that light must hide
itself,
its glow,
its motion,
to grow until its fully formed.

With armies mounting,
and knocking down doors
our hopes are hidden children
breathing behind false walls,
and whispered dreams —
neither deferred nor deployed.

They exist amid memories and empty chairs,
but at times leave us to eat alone,
longing for the pitch of a friend, or lover
or father’s laughter,
or for the sound of anyone at all.

If your best-loved hopes have turned to vapor,
and risen away
from sight or reach,
or have even begun to linger
on the edge of memory,
remember:
Joy and pain, grief and pleasure,
will turn like wheels.
And on some unknowable day
The sky will reopen,
And water will return as rain.

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