The Problem with Boys

Take a moment to read the article below from The Power of Story,
and to follow the links included. Everybody is busy, nobody has the time to stop, but stop we must…The problem is in our laps. Each and every one of us bares a responsibility to contribute to finding a solution.

Mitch Teemley

I don’t believe there’s a single fix-all solutionto America’s “gun problem.” I do believe gun sales need to be better monitored; that semi-automatic rifles should require even more tightly-controlled licensing (perhaps the NRA can help with this process, rather than fight it); that an early-warning system needs to be instituted among psychiatrists and psychologists (including school counselors), requiring additional counselling and clearance before flagged persons can purchase guns; and that much harder long-term sociological steps need to be taken.

But another crisis has emerged: The Problem with Boys. Last month, a high-schooler less than an hour from where I live shot eighteen people. The incident got limited national attention because “only” two kids died, a number that’s no longer front page worthy.

The 15 year old shooter’s answers to police questions were startling. He is not obviously “mentally disturbed.” What he is is deeply alienated: from his family…

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A Time to Grow

empty from chasing the wind
we settle like fallen leaves
in dark corners devoid of sun

even then we are born to seasons
the breeze turns warm
the great thaw begins

an icicle morphs drop by drop,
a tear becomes a deluge
a cleansing flood

a sound grows in our ears
a bird’s song, a bee’s buzz
filters through the mist

a butterfly flutters by, an awakening…
we burst from dark cocoons
with fragile wings

It is Spring

Vent Ahead, Read With Caution

I can only hope that the author of this awesome statement of values will send it to Trump, to every senator and congress person. I hope everyone will share this on their blog. It is time we stop to hear the voice of reality and yes, of wisdom.

Poetry, journals, vents, and musings of a distracted woman

I went into teaching because I am relatively non-confrontational.  Now, talk to my brother and he’ll tell  you that I started everything when we were children.  That’s probably correct.  I can’t remember.  Doesn’t matter.  I’m not a kid anymore.

I’m an almost 46 year-old woman with two biological children and at least a hundred adopted.  I believe in compassion and goodness.  I believe in random acts of kindness.  I believe in saying my mind when I see something or someone beautiful.  I know that this might be weird.  But if I see a beautiful person, I am going to say something.  We live in a world saturated with unkindess, or at least we could.  But not on my watch.  Not in my corner.

I just finished teaching the Holocaust.  I made a point of talking about people who chose compassion and goodness over atrocity and evil.  My biggest regret right…

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Man or Ape

between being a militant pacifist
or a boring reactionary
I read the news and weep.

has little to do with it;
the dinner conversations
are always heated.

attentive to detail, there are nit pickers
in my history, necks stiff
from keeping their eye on the ball.

blinded by the light, we get down
but we seldom get it right
in this half-jungle tundra

of sinew
and synapse
and a fleeting emotion
that would bring a tear to your eye.

To March

Tea and patience
and tales that never bite their tongues.
I hold you in the underlined places,
those interstices of vagrant days.

It is only lately
I’ve begun to think the weather
is intentional, Inscrutable face,
the ides give you away.

I understand you
even better than April, Like you
I have a roar inside me
that hungers to be heard.

The Foe No Longer Silent Sleeps

O! Emerson, how could you know
when you wrote the Concord Hymn
that shots would echo ’round the world,
shots fired by lesser men?

No bridge can arch the flood
that sweeps across our land,
No sea can hold the mothers’ tears
nor calm the fathers’ hands.

The bullet’s echo ricochets
through once thought hallowed halls.
O! God pray hear our plea
before even one more falls.

Please come into our hearts,
and come into our homes,
and teach us now to understand
the problem is our own.

The bullying, the hatred;
the shots ring out again.
Teach us Lord to teach respect
to bring this killing to an end.

In Humble Adoration

Winter’s dismal cold,
when every breath
was an op art sculpture,
was more than a season;
it was a miracle of survival
where even I,
who sometimes struggles
with each step,
walked on water.
Of course it was frozen;
everything was
and along the margin of the bay
where daffodils will bloom in spring,
I slow stepped
in boots with tread so thick
it would make Michelin proud.
Everybody knows it takes a sturdy sole
to stay upright in winter.
Thank you Lord
for an encouraging calendar
and the hint of green
on my lawn.