Infinite Monkey

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Archive for the ‘portland writer’ Category

So . . .

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bronze-children-statues

So weary of this war machine

where “They” and “Them

MUST BE DESTROYED

 

So easy

when it’s THEM

Because

THEY

did

THAT and

THEY deserve it

 

Children, howling, slapping back

With all the rage and indignation of a God

(we bluster)

all the bite and brawl of a rabid Dog

(we attack)

 

Heeding the seasick call of

an infrasound fear,

beating just out of reach,

behind our eyes,

pulsing,

beneath our hearts

in the slick, oily underbelly

underscoring,

undermining,

the syncopated rhythms

of our own internal compass

Jarring our needles from their

HOMEward pointing cradles

spinning them, careening

towards a magnetic pole

that leaves us all thin,

dizzy and amnesiac

 

All less than our whole

 

Stretched and translucent

Far from community

from tribal unity

from our humanity

 

And just as senseless,

just as petty,

just as bereft of higher vibration

or thought

 

Naked

of true meaning

of THE purpose

that IS

 

love

 

An action so small

Four tiny letters typed on a page

A line, a circle, an unfinished inverted triangle, an arm encircling in half-embrace

Four letters (4)

To bring us HOME

 

So

Ready

to join arm-and-arm with fellow humans

REAL humans

not automaton politicos

or Wall Street thieves

or the grift of man-made marketer dreams

 

So

Ready

to leave behind all the gaping, ooze of want

(disguised as NEED)

to abandon our Corporate Overlords

to their empty marbled fortunes

and gristle-strewn lies

 

(All of them, long ago parted

from the heft and whisper of their 10.5 ounce fisted muscle,

aortic valves parched, cracked and curling at their edges

their barren chests echoing with the hollow reverberations of a desolate chamber)

 

Peeling back these crusty, wilted layers,

the greed-covered rot, 

to find that better place

where those four tiny letters

and empathy,

kindness,

and consideration,

reside

 

To find us,

and them,

and they,

 

Are WE.

 

Reunited –

blooming in the Bedouin desert

hand-feeding one another,

feasting, on the honeyed milk-giggles

of OUR children

 

 

Vanessa Nix Anthony

June 14, 2016

Written by Rainee Squatch

June 14, 2016 at 4:18 pm

And Sometimes Late at Night

with 2 comments

she stomps late at nightShe clips

and she clops

she bangs

and she stomps

my neighbor, next door

But just in the morning . . .

and sometimes late at night

(when she’s most important)

or more importantly, when I’m adrift

wading through a dream or semi-wakeful state,

groggily numbed by the washed out sounds

of my white noise machine Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

September 28, 2015 at 1:39 pm

Let Me Show You to Your Room

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locustsMake room for you.
YOU say
Make room?
What room is not yours?
What room is not drenched with your disposition?
Does not hang with the drip of your hot, wet wool?
(Let’s all check our pulses. Will we be allowed our joy today?)
What room
does not brighten with the opening of your heart and eyes and ears and mouth and mind,
ushering in the light and air?
(Let’s all gather round, arms wide chins up and soak up the beam of this ecliptic moment.) Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

September 14, 2013 at 11:44 am

Book of Faces: The Facebook Dilemma

with one comment

fbFacebook can,
Surprisingly,
bring up such pain
What to do
when someone who did the unthinkable
to someone you care deeply about
tries to friend you
out of the blue,
unaware that you know Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

June 18, 2013 at 2:27 am

Black Friday Reverberates

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Black Friday

Seems to radiate out

like spokes on a wheel

Loss of humanity at the hands of commodity

People being trampled in the name of a deal

It happens earlier each year

until the deal making starts

the day before

ON Thanksgiving night

Where workers whose wages

just don’t add up Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

November 24, 2012 at 6:18 pm

They Are . . .

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Loads of change
happening all around me

babies being born,
dear friends dying,
slowly
painfully,
disorientingly sudden
another transitioning,
a sick child,
a busy schedule,
a new career height
The beauty/pain/surprise
of this life. Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

August 16, 2012 at 11:33 am

Where Am I?

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Where Am I?
When I can’t hear my own voice
Feeling my way in the dark
(I heard something . . . faintly)
Following a gut
Instinct
All that’s left

When the world shouts you down
Drowns out the sound of your own thoughts
Losing my way
Losing my self
I can barely touch, fingertips outstretched
Lips moving — no sound

Hands out in front
Feeling the relief map
walls beneath my prints
Reading lips to guide me back Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Rainee Squatch

May 26, 2012 at 10:56 pm