Posted in fascism, poetry

The Color of….

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It is not rose,
much more like snow
that coats each velvet petal,
or dims an apple’s blush,
the pear’s suggestive charm.

Nor is it fire,
for each hypnotic flame
dispels the notion once contained,
no, more like glass, it is,
transparent, hard,
and always set to crack.

It is not grass or stone.
No, more like ice,
much more,
an army of stalagmites rising from the depths,
unyielding and unbound,
crystalline and honed:

the frigid glow of outrage.

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Posted in family

One Veteran

Dad: 1944

He was a gentle man who risked his life to fight fascism. He didn’t have to. His vision was so bad it could have prevented him from serving. But he went anyway, because of the stakes, the threat to the world, to humanity.

When he was injured in battle, he received the Purple Star. Twelve weeks later, he returned to the front lines, and was decorated for his service with a Bronze Star.

I miss him every day, but I’m glad he did not live to see the results of this election. He  would have been horrified. He did not battle fascism overseas to see it rise in the country he loved, the country he served so proudly.

Today, especially, I remember his selflessness, his principles, and his courage.

And, sadly, I’m reminded of the need to fight.