Madness Poetry Round 2

Well I’m excited to announce that I made it to Round 2 in the March Madness Poetry Competition! Head on over here to read some great poems and place your vote! This has been such a fun experience; there are so many talented writers, and amazing poems to read.

via Madness Poetry Round 2 — THE NIGHTINGALE TALES

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The Hairbag Poet-Why?

Hi and welcome to my Friday series The Hairbag Poet.

In the blogging world Fridays are known as Poetry Friday.  You can read about Poetry Friday here. I will plan on posting The Hairbag Poet each Friday.

You can read about the history of this series here.

Today’s poem is going to tackle the very difficult topic of school shootings. I have three children: one in high school, one in middle school, and one in elementary school. They all practice lockdown drills.  This has become matter of fact for them.  There are days I sit at the bus stop and watch my children get on the bus and wonder if today is the last day I will see them.  My kids will never know anything different.

As a healthcare professional I am appalled at the way this country handles, and has handled, mental health issues. Starting as far back as the mid 1950s deinstitutionalization began with the introduction of Thorazine, and the belief that people with mental illness could be managed on an outpatient basis, despite the fact that there was no system, or funding, ensuring successful outpatient follow up (pbs.org, 2005).

Now in 2018 we find ourselves having a mental health crisis and wonder why?  What are we missing?  Why do children want to kill?  Why are the signs of mental illness ignored? Why are semi-automatic weapons of war easily accessible to the general public, and in particular to teenagers? What is the responsibility of primary care physicians/pediatricians in recognizing the signs and symptoms of mental illness? What is law enforcements responsibility? When will enough be enough?

In my post today the picture that was sent to me by my brother Donald had an interesting caption. He wrote, “As promised the aliens returned with the wand of knowledge…or fill in your thoughts.” My thoughts got me to thinking about how alien school shootings are to me. It’s not how I grew up. I love the idea of a wand of knowledge, or perhaps a wand of peace. I’m realistic enough to know life doesn’t work that way.

Young children’s brains are equally alien to the idea that they too could be a victim of gun violence in school, but it doesn’t mean they don’t think about it, or have an opinion, or ask why. My poem today is written from their perspective.

I hope you enjoy these posts. Thanks for stopping by and reading, and please feel free to post your own poetry in the comments if you feel inspired by the photographs. I always love reading other peoples perspective on “art”.

 

The Hairbag Poet

Photo by Donald, who says, “As promised the aliens return with the wand of knowledge or fill in your thoughts…”

Why?

Why do we have to duck and hide,

and lock our doors

so terrified?

Why has school become so scary?

Teacher says, “It’s cautionary.”

I say, “Can’t we all be friends?”

Is this too hard to comprehend?

Help the kids with angry souls,

and implement safe gun control!

The Hairbag Poet-Siberian Snow Cat

Hi and welcome to my Friday series The Hairbag Poet.

In the blogging world Fridays are known as Poetry Friday.  You can read about Poetry Friday here. I will plan on posting The Hairbag Poet each Friday.

You can read about the history of this series here.

Russia, Russia, Russia, it’s all we hear about in the news lately, so I thought I would devote this weeks Hairbag Poem to Acmeism. According to the poetry foundation (2018) Acmeism is “An early 20th-century Russian school of poetry that rejected the vagueness and emotionality of Symbolism in favor of Imagist clarity and texture. Two famous poets of Acmeism are Osip Mandelstam and Anna Akhmatova. Both these poets lived through the tumultuous Russian Revolution, and the communist leadership of both Lenin and Stalin.

Mandelstam was a poet in a time when artistry, and individual thought did not fit into communist government ideology. During his life, Mandelstam was exiled, arrested and tortured, released, rearrested, and died in the Soviet work camp/prison system. He paid the ultimate price for freedom of speech.

After being a celebrated writer and poet for most of her life, in 1925, under the new Bolshevik government, Anna Akhmatova’s work was banned. The government was in control of all literary publication and funding. Her son was placed in a work camp, his only crime being the son of his father Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev a poet and counterrevolutionary. Gumilev was executed in 1921 without a trial.

As writers we take our freedoms and liberty seriously. If we have to think twice about what we are writing or saying, are we really free?

I hope you enjoy these posts. Thanks for stopping by and reading, and please feel free to post your own poetry in the comments if you feel inspired by the photographs. I always love reading other peoples perspective on “art”.

The Hairbag Poet

Photo by Donald titled “Snow Cat”

Siberian Snow Cat

Kis, Kis, Kis they call to me…

Bitter cold warms my spirit.
A thousand winters pass.

Kis, Kis,Kis they call to me…

Conifers bow as one
In taigas’ boreal winds.

Kis Kis, Kis they call to me…

Mountain peaks cry frosty streams.
Icy crocheted doilies wet my tongue.

Kis, Kis, Kis they call to me…

Snowy forest playground romps;
Jump, vault, hurdle, dive!

Kis, Kis, Kis they call to me…

Puff, puff, puff; palatial pelage puffs
Warding winter winds.

Kis, Kis, Kis they call to me…

Sable, fox, squirrel, ermine
Treukh, Ushanka, Kubanka, Papakha.

Kis, Kis,Kis they call to me…

Take refuge from the cold,
Abandon ancient grounds.

Kis, Kis,Kis they call to me…

“My turn shall also come:
I sense the spreading of a wing.”

Thank you for reading. The last line is a quote from Osip Mandelstam’s poem “I hate the light” from Selected Poems.

These are the real Siberian Snow Cats.

The Hairbag Poet-“Transmosaic”

Hi and welcome to my Friday series titled The Hairbag Poet.

You can read about the history of this series here.

In the blogging world Fridays are known as Poetry Friday. You can read about Poetry Friday here.

I hope you enjoy these posts. Thanks for stopping by and reading, and please feel free to post your own poetry in the comments if you feel inspired by the photographs I always love reading other peoples perspective on “art”.

The Hairbag Poet

Photo by Donald. “Mosaic Flashlight” Don says, “I know, you’re blown away!”

Transmosaic

Identity shattered;
Soloist slayed.
Shards of glass separated by color,
Flashlight takes a knee.
I am lost in the bunch.

The Hairbag Poet-“Crime Scene”

Hi and welcome to my Friday series titled The Hairbag Poet.

You can read about the history of this series here.

In the blogging world Fridays are known as Poetry Friday. You can read about Poetry Friday here.

I hope you enjoy these posts. Thanks for stopping by and reading, and please feel free to post your own poetry in the comments if you feel inspired by the photographs I always love reading other peoples perspective on “art”.

The Hairbag Poet

 

Photo by Donald.

Crime Scene

Among the dirty leaves,
and frozen ice,
Naked, and decapitated,
Lie the bodies of the missing.
A pool of serial malice
Reveals the horror of summer crimes.

The Hairbag Poet-“Marginalized”

Hi and welcome to my Friday series titled The Hairbag Poet.


 

You can read about the history of this series here.

In the blogging world Fridays are known as Poetry Friday. You can read about Poetry Friday here.

I hope you enjoy these posts. Thanks for stopping by and reading, and please feel free to post your own poetry in the comments if you feel inspired by the photographs I always love reading other peoples perspective on “art”.

 

The Hairbag Poet

Photo by Donald. “Decay of the Backyard”

Marginalized

Rusted and discolored
Metal-bones creek.
Monkey bars sag like over-nursed breasts.
Nothing left but memories of
laughter and sticky fingers.
Passersby cast a repugnant eye.
I take my place among the forgotten,
Invisible,
and waiting for death.