Dec 052013
 

(not aimed at any one person or entity, but far too many… )

They call it a trail
but it’s really a path

but we love it anyway, taking us
around the neighborhood beside
the main road

and we love it, with its stand of bamboo
and we love to take granddaughter Maya
on the path with us, because
Maya sees everything as wonderful
even the sticks and weeds on the ground
and she makes us see the wonder of it

They call it a mountain
but its really a hill, still majestic in its own way
with trees everywhere, and an incline
You can negotiate if your legs are strong

They call the city diverse, even though blacks
and Mexicans seem to be shunted aside

They call it the Republican Party
even though it is sullied by thugs and bullies
not the Party of Lincoln and Eisenhower

They call it a family, even though
it is shattered, split apart by old wounds
many probably half forgotten

They call it kindness, even though
it is demeaning pity

They call it counseling reflection
even though it is delivered
in a phony voice

They call it an open mic
even though it is dominated by egos
and closed to some subtly

To be continued…

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