Tag Archives: shame

Fill ‘Er Up: Ukrainian Blood On My Hands

There is a statue
in Seattle
of Lenin.
Lately, he has been painted
with blood on his hands.

When I go to the gas pump today,
I’m glad that the handle is red,
so people won’t see
the Ukrainian blood
on my hands.

We in the USA
import millions of barrels of oil
from Russia.
That money goes
to fund the Kremlin war machine
that is murdering Ukrainian babies,
senior citizens, youth, fathers, mothers,
ripping families apart.

Ukranians are free people,
(like we claim to be),
victims of a tyrannical onslaught
paid for by the gas
I purchased today.

When a Russian bunker-busting bomb
goes off in a refugee-packed subway
in Kyiv,
and ignites the very air
these men, women and children breathe,
so the last sensation they feel
is the air in their lungs
igniting, exploding,
burning them alive
from the inside out;

Or when a cluster bomb
randomly breaks into hundreds of
smaller bombs
just before impact,
sprawling and slaughtering
innocent civilians,
how much of those ruthless
war-crime,
crime-against-humanity devices
were funded by,
paid for,
by me?

Here in the USA,
we lovingly (and safely)
plant sunflowers
and wear blue and yellow
in solidarity with
those freedom-loving people.

We put our hands deep into
the dark, rich soil that mirrors
the farmlands of the steppes.

We clean up so nicely
to parade those proud colors
that drape the coffins
of Ukrainian defenders,
and stand in tatters
after the cruise missiles
that I helped pay for
strike Freedom Square.

All the soap in the world
will not wash away the Ukrainian blood stains
or the stench of Russian gas
from my hands.

My hypocrisy makes me sick,
but I cannot ride my bike
to Athens this weekend.
What else can I do?

As the citizens of
that great
freedom-loving country
die
because of our awful
energy policies,
greed,
and misguided directions,
I can only weep
and beg them for forgiveness.

Мені дуже шкода, що так сталося

I’m sorry.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what I’m doing.

Immaturity Revisited: Haiku Lament

It’s tough learning your/
Immaturity caused your
prior marriage issues.

OR

I’m shamed learning my/
selfishness was the cause of/
most marriage issues.

Examining The Dark Corners: Revolutionary IMprov Poetry

We shine.
Our bright lights
pierce darkened,
shadowed corners
where scary pests
and sickening pasts
scurry from the light.

Sometimes we see
what others won’t show us.
They are shy.
They are embarrassed.
They are hurt.
They are ashamed.

They try to shut off the light,
try to redirect the beam
to the center,
where everything is already
exposed,
illuminated,
orderly,
neat,
as it should be,
as the world would want it.

We have been there already.
It is comfortable.
With them,
in that space,
we can chat,
cook,
munch,
dine,
dance,
relax,
rejoice,
rest.

We know our way around,
and it is good to
feel warmth
and happiness.

But when we feel
the dark,
the terror,
the fear,
the loneliness;
when we see
the concern,
the worry,
the pain;
it is then we turn away
from the comfort
of the center,
from the warmth
of the fireplace,
from the light
and fresh breeze
coming through the window.

It is then we take our light
and shine it
into the musty corners,
the terrored,
dank,
fetid,
hidden places,
the places of shame,
the hidden recesses
and cavities
where our friends
scream
in pain
and embarrassment
and fear,
and where they beg us
not to go.

Although we honor
and respect them
still, we shine
our lights there,
and expose
that which they plead with us
not to examine.

We pick it up,
and we turn it this way
and that,
looking at every piece,
exposing every seedy underbelly.

And when we see
what they have been hiding,
we learn about them,
and we understand them better.

And they learn
and see
that we are not repulsed,
nor ashamed,
nor sickened.

We have looked at that piece
of whateveritis,
and carefully,
thoughtfully
considered it.

Perhaps we will put it back.
Perhaps we will give it
to our friend to throw away,
or burn,
or discuss,
or hurl,
or crush.

But not to ignore.
Not to pretend it does
not exist.

It is, after all,
there.
And it is still theirs.
They must do with it
what they need to,
even if they can
do nothing
right now.

Still, they know
that we have seen it.
We have felt it.
We have considered it.
We have examined it.
We have exposed it
to our light.

In giving it back to them,
we allow them
to move forward,
with us by their side,
to support,
guide,
help,
or comfort
as they need us to.

And they know,
as they see that our light
does not fade,
nor dim,
nor flicker out,
that we love them.