After Jack Gilbert

The angel flies up, taking me with her. I’m airborne. Cloths flow from my body, but I somehow feel naked. There’s music. Tiny people are dancing, holding hands, swirling in a circle that never stops. Is this what heaven feels like? When I was young, my father told me stories of the sky, of a God I could never see. He told me that when we die, our souls will belong to heaven. I tried to believe him, prayed my little heart out until I could. But in the end, I could never be that long-legged beauty walking through the dirty streets. I belong to this Earth—this world that never stops revolving, and I hope never will. I feel on Earth, sometimes I feel so much that I cry tears that can fill a river, and other times joy that can light up a room. My heart yearns for the ground that will always be there to support me when I’m alive and when I die. I want my soul to be buried in the ground that smells of musky raindrops with my body. The angel is still ascending, taking us higher and higher, through the clouds, to the destination my dad dreamed of going to. But I let go. I let go and fall down, down, down to the ground where I belong.

I am a patriot and a proud American, and nothing will change that

I will never cease to believe in the idea of America and the potential this nation holds

No matter how many thugs are unleashed on their neighbors

No matter how many cowardly politicians try to hide the growing pains that come with progress

No matter how many more presidents that defy the constitution that is America

No matter how much shame is brought upon the American name and idea

No matter how many more years you and I, America, must endure

Not for a second will I lose my pride 

Not in the institution that is now, but in the idea that is America

The last thing that brought a smile to my lips was a school hallway interaction. A girl who I'd never seen passed me, and gave me the biggest smile. It quite literally felt like sunlight seeping to my core. Even when she had passed me, there was still a trace of a smile on my face. And that reminded me of something. 

When I was little, I used to play a game with my sister when we would take our bicycles around Burlington. The game went like this; each person who would smile back at us on the bike path was worth one point, and we would compete to get the most points. We would smile hugely until our face muscles felt tight. I remember how much my own smile and my sister's would tint my day with joy. What a beautiful time. 

There are vintage looking posters in the windows

And they’re probably not old

But I’d almost believe you

If you said they were.

They’re next to organic candles

From the raspberry farm down the road.

Each window gets a wreath

Hanging covering

Almost the whole window,

Lights and red berries and wet snow

Covering it.

And there’s tall grass planted in the pots out front

It looks somehow alive

Defying winter.

The store hours are printed on one side of the glass door

And scrap paper is taped to the other side

With a sharpied note

And I already know it says something

About the shortened hours due to Christmas tree light malfunction

Something like that.

It’s our general store,

With the gas pump out front

Ice cream stains on creaking floorboards,

It’s ours.

I'm not a painter, 
but if I were, you'd be my muse. 
I'm not a sculptor, 
but if I were, I'd only sculpt you. 
If I were a singer, I would never run out of songs, 
People would get tired of how my serenades go on and on. 
If I were a writer, I'd never run out of words, 
The main characters in my books would all be a little like you.          I'm not a poet, 
but if I were, you'd be the poem. 

Here is another chapter in America's thirst for oil, a black liquid that fuels the cars that are killing our planet. The leader of Venezuela was an evil dictator, not caring about the people, but Trump is the same, he violated international law, captured an entire country, and did it because he wanted control of their oil sales. Does that sound like the type of person who would care about human rights? I read in the New York Times about a woman who lost her child because three different hospitals turned them away because they were all full. Trump does not care about this, he just wants the cash. He has already broken laws to silence Democrats and the forces of good in America to get more power and money, and he will do it in Venezuela. So, Venezuelans, you should celebrate that your evil dictator is gone, but you have a new leader who also does not care about the people, and your situation will likely become even worse. So, protest, fight for your human rights, before it's too late.

because we cannot do this again.

we are tired of giving our lives up 

so you can play at governance. 

we are tired of pretending that war is a toy

you can wind up and watch. 28.5 million lives

cannot be packaged neatly into a box

for your convenience. we refuse to be witness

to yet another takeover, another fight we aren't allowed to finish.

did you learn nothing from libya, afghanistan, iraq, ukraine,

places that for years were just another word

we didn't want to be saying,

part of a world we didn't want to be thinking about? 

people live there, you know,

because people are resilient and hopeful

and so damn stubborn they don't know when to stop.

stop. we will not sacrifice our bodies for you.

we won't be tricked into believing you somehow have the right

to be doing this. breaking and entering is a crime

when done to houses - why should countries

(home to not only houses but lives)

be any different?

convict your felons, administration, 

tell your lies. we're keeping track. we're watching

and protesting and planning our own attacks.

and when the time comes,

we're taking all our countries back.