Country of Immigrants

Happy 4th of July, friends!

I have been laid up with a migraine for the last 8 days after tweaking a neck muscle. Life just has a way of continually throwing new challenges at you, doesn’t it. Just when you think you’ve made progress in one thing, another comes along. C’est la vie, I suppose. Toss that on top of many other demands occupying my energy, I have been unable to devote myself here as I would like. Hopefully, eventual respite will allow me to periodically this summer.

It’s a holiday today — a holiday celebrating waves of immigrants’ making a new home in a new land, one where they could determine their own constitution, laws, leaders, goals, away from tyrants imposing taxes without representation.

It was a tumultuous, bloody, uncertain period of time from 1776-1783, the period of the Revolutionary War. I took time today to watch documentaries and listen to podcasts detailing the battles, heroism, setbacks, lives lost and victories gained in the formation of our country. Of course, I love this stuff, being a Political Science and History major.

I will also spend time this week learning more about the part that slavery played, and the part that displacement of Native Americans played in our becoming The United States of America. I think it is natural to be proud of your country while simultaneously being dismayed at the atrocities that were imparted on those in our path. Ignoring ugly history is merely willful blindness to the truth that there can be no new country without the usurping of someone else’s life and habitat.

This 4th of July is bittersweet. This country of immigrants is being mauled by an administration of tyrants and their sycophants willing to forgo admonition of abominable acts by a lone madman for the sake of passing their ultra-right agenda bent on restricting human and civil rights and dismantling democracy while admiring the dictators around the world as mentors and “friends.”

What the people in power have done in a mere year and a half is utterly shameful. The  stench of hypocrisy runs through the capitol. The sheer lack of compassion, maturity, bipartisanship, the evil underhanded tactics to get their way, all smacks of a new kind of party — certainly not Republican. I do hope they find their way back, but it will take a new name, this one it ruined.

The soul of the country is ill, divided, and for all intents and purposes, has gone missing.  The Resistance is strong, vocal and will never relent, even if we do feel powerless in ways. The truth will come out, the investigation will be sure of that. Justice will prevail, even as darkness reigns more than not.

And when the truth comes out, as it has been — if anyone is paying attention, we can get ourselves into triage, bandage up the wounds and start to figure out how to recover from the trauma, and prevent this kind of atrocious attack on our Constitution from ever happening again.

That first July 4th after being free of this psychopathic band of fools will be a day to celebrate, for the United States, and the world.

In the meantime, I celebrate the framers who set up failsafes for exactly this situation. Now, if only the people elected to protect the citizens from tyranny would put country over party.

It seems simple, and it should be; the fact that it is obvious to so many and nothing gets done to halt the inside job means we have a LOT of work to do.

I think the framers would have hoped that 242 years into a future they could barely dream of, the current populace would be smart and evolved enough to handle attacks on the freedom and democracy that they literally spilled their blood for.

Let’s prove them correct.

~ Em C. 7.4.18

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Dark Sails

your dead dark sails billow
in the storm you tried to escape;
the one you aimed away from,
only you aimed the wrong way.

the way was rigged before
you chartered your doomed trip —
the patched vessel’s hull…rusted,
even as it moored in its safe slip.

you followed a fool star’s direction,
your fantasy in sky she wrote,
above glass water she beckoned,
twinkling false signs of hope.

onward into vast unknown,
i watched from wandering shore,
waving my warning arms,
all the harbingers you ignore.

the storm you failed to escape
shred your canvas heart,
trailing dark sails, straight
into toxic seas,

you sailed yourself apart.

~ Em C. 6.21.18

*For Anthony Bourdain, and anyone else who’s ever been taken for a ride by a manipulative narcissistic sociopath.

Wayward

I found my belief in the forest
amongst green shaded wood,

eyes climbing bark to canopy;
below — the tender growth of hope.

trudging muddy mire,
steps out of sync,

breathing in staccato,
thunder didn’t blink.

there discovered my spirit
hidden in twisted vines,

choking on bitter yesterdays,
coughing up discarded time.

mutilated mutterings,
incomprehensible speech,

contorted in design;
my own hands out of reach.

I found my soul dangling —
hung by its own rope,

swaying to a fickle wind
which blew the familiar corpse.

’Twas mine once before…
I recognize the scars;

So I came to free me,
I came to cut the rope,

to gather sunken spirit, 
to merge with wayward hope;

to capture my fleeting belief,
to walk in footsteps whole;

ones I laid down a million miles 
on a path I’ve travelled alone,

on wandering red ground I know
that has cradled these bloody tears.

I found my belief in the forest
I followed the sound of loss

the calling of the heart,
the echo of my soul.

 

~ Em C.

5.28.18

How Many

white wooden crosses
waiting in the shed
nameless and claimed

they stack up
for future news days ahead

the children of the future
massacres
living out their numbered days

smiling goodbyes to parents
normal weekdays
mask the threat

to school for learning
how to run or hide?
to school for fearing
sounds of death
in hallways pockmarked
with bullets and blood

white wooden crosses
waiting in the shed

how many will be made
how many must die
how much death

how many children
how many futures
how many screams
how many last goodbyes

how many
how many

how much will it cost
how many hearts stopped
how many guns bought
how many bullets shot
how many crosses
how many tears

how many
how many

they don’t answer
because money is louder
than the questions

than the screams
than the tears
than the lives

than truth

~ Em C.

5.23.18

 

Master Carpenter Creates Cross Memorial Outside Santa Fe High

Afloat

you died at the cusp of midnight
but no one knows for sure
the exact minute of departure
you carried your own sword

the sweat from life still dripping
down skin that kept you here
a shell around the broken
bones that never really healed

a voice that sang for the world
echoing truths in ancient air
singing intricate melodies
to words that carried fear

they carried love and anger
pain filled notes dance in black
dotted paper trails
lyrics of loss traced your tracks

giving your all to all, we followed
till your breath’s untimely end
yet we still follow to this day
since we haven’t found your end

woven like exotic tapestry
you weaved lives in decades’ time
as from restless times come beauty
painted true colors by your design

you died at the cusp of midnight
alone — so one would think,
yet souls of millions buoyed by you,
and your music won’t let us sink

afloat we travel onward
lightened by your light
never to be dimmed, nor
succumbed to endless night

~ Em C.

5.16.18