Teargassing of families and children–the stuff of fascism.

charles french words reading and writing

The Trump administration has ordered and defended the use of tear gas against families, against mothers, against children, and against babies. This is beyond reprehensible–it is evil, and it is the stuff of fascism, racism, and bigotry.

We must never become used to such abominable behavior. All of those who oppose these actions must speak out.

This must end.

Remember that we are all connected.

“No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee”

John Donne

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Dear Heart …

When will you learn, dear heart?

The world around you
is not what it pretends to be.

Reality is uncovered for you, one day at a time
utterly indifferent to what you have in mind.

Blessed are those with certainty about outcomes
You are cursed with doubts for all aphorisms

Why, oh why, dear heart
do you elongate the past?

Can you not just forget
that you stumbled into the present?

Every station in life has a future.
Look far enough and nothing else will matter.

Will you ever learn, dear Heart?

Written by my friend and fellow poet and remarkable author of fine books, Rashid Osmani

Find his Publications at Amazon:

“In the Footsteps of Rumi” ISBN 978145258232
“Word Posse” ISBN 9781477661963
“Are Muslims Savages?” ISBN 9781481853347

Tiny Bird

You are meant to fly,
to light on branches
of lush trees, to fill the
air with your song.
If I caught you in my hand
your tiny wings would beat in time
pressing for freedom against closed fingers.
Your soul is meant for flight but it is a cruel
place you have come
filled with creatures bigger than you.
Worst of all is man who glorifies death.
In the forest his cries of joy
ring out at the slaughter of a deer.
The world needs your song and
the beat of your heart.
We must open our hand.

bird in open hand

art borrowed from Pinterest


I want to fly but fall like

a silent prayer.

My limbs are an anchor

as I slip beneath the surface.

Opened mouthed my lungs expand,

my once struggling palms lie flat

as gentle waves of the river rock me.

Strands of weed mingle with my breath,

my only thing of value.

Everything beautiful is here,

all that was lost.

Birds chorus to the ancient stones.

A thousand warriors rest in an

estuary of flowers,

I can hear their mournful lament.

celtic woman by woad

Celtic Woman…art by Woad

Winter Song

The sun has lost its domain,

snow birds shroud its light.

A handful of starlings quiver

on bare branches tiny in fixed feathers

they could fit in the palm of a hand.

Their fragile song suspended in frozen breath

sings for the reach of an outstretched hand

clinging to a red-tailed kite above fields

of sunflower faces or wildflowers in full bloom.

the burden of forgiveness

Along the banks

river sand pulls away

from a glistening shore,

dusky gemstones caught in the current.

Minute ecosystems inhabit

tiny tide pools in the wet sand.

Sometimes I stroll the embankment alone

indulging the realms of lovers

where there is no logic but

a crushing ache I hold close

to my breast.

A carapace between a heart and the

mountains where I left you.

Grant me the freedom to come undone

beneath the tender weight of hands

on eggshell.

My sigh is a gentle quake upon your

unshaven cheek.

Allow me to drown in the river of

your impossible eyes where there

is no threat of war, hard silence,

or the burden of forgiveness.

Steve Hanks - Tutt'Art@ (13)

Art by Steve Hanks/ Maher Art Gallery