Category: human needs/getting involved

The Writer’s Arrow 2

.Reading time 2 minutes.

Little quill on an inkwell rests. The keyboard idles in its frame. Moguls in stretch limos arrive for Coronation Day, mere minions surfing the golden-crested wave of hair soon to fill the ever hollow crown. Silence echoes your nothings. A raccoon digs at the ice on your frozen koi pond with intensity that chips his claws. He needs to drink.

The poor thirst. Their bodies wither.

You sip a cool drink of Evian while you surf the net on your cell phone. You shake your head in dismay at the state of the world and such things.

No one sees you from your leather chair with the oversized ottoman where your feet rest crossed. Your finger slides on the screen of your phone and leaves a greasy streak behind. You wipe it with your sleeve. At least your sleeve has found a purpose. It polishes your screen so you can read the dismal headlines clearly. That picture of starving refugees from Sudan sparkles. You glide your finger across the screen, magically erasing it from view.

Don’t you see the problem?

Your fingers are uncommitted. They simply flip through the pages of life, smudging the screen with the oils of indifference. How can you sit there? Why are you stagnant? Your country is about to crown a Baron King in the oasis of the global desert.

Little quill on an inkwell rests.

Writer from passion rests.

World thirsts.

~

Words and Photography ©2017 Tanya Cliff ~ to contact me

Entry posted in short stories. Bookmark the permalink.

 

North Dakota Republicans Want to Protect Drivers Who Hit DAPL Protesters*

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

Weary of protest ~ impatient, itching fingers ~ pen bills dressed to kill~ (My Haiku of Utter Dismay) Hopefully, ND lawmakers have more sense than this…

The Writer’s Arrow

.Reading time 1 minute.

Little quill, on an inkwell, rests. The stationary lives up to its name. Ideas die in wait on a solid oak desk where an empty chair defies its game. Silence echoes your nothings. A woodpecker pecks on your window frame with intensity that rattles his brain. He needs to eat.

The poor starve. Their bellies ache.

“So it is with the world!” you shout into the pillow.

No one hears you from your bed where you scratch notes. The pencil line you draw with those words simply chases its tail around your margins. You break the lead. You crumple the paper and throw it across the room. At least the paper sees some action. It flies through the air and lands just short of your garbage bin. You leave it there with a few of its cousins. You pull up the covers and sleep among your eraser droppings.

Don’t you see the problem?

The pencil is uncommitted.
It changes its mind at every whim.
It cracks under pressure and requires constant sharpening.
Who has time for that?
Why are you in bed?
The alarms are all ringing.

Little quill, on an inkwell, rests.

Writer from passion rests.

World starves.

~

Words and Photography ©2017 Tanya Cliff ~ to contact me

Entry posted in short stories. Bookmark the permalink.

 

Communion of the Saints

.Reading time 2 minutes.

Weep, clouds, and join my sadness
in
clear,
melancholy
drops
that
trickle
and
channel
and
flow like rivers into puddles
with
no
warming
ray
of
sunshine
to
cause their shimmering sparkle
of
fluid
to
dance
like
a
mountain
jeweled
creek
running
on
a
cloudless, blue-skied day

No, let them drop to the ground
and
moody
stay,
flat
and
grey
mirrors
reflecting
inverted
perverted
realities
back to the sympathetic skies
that
respond
by
pouring
out
a
concurring
symphony
of
rhythmic
drops
that
vibrate the mirrors
in
continuously pulsing ripples
distorting
the
mourning
view
that
make
them/me
cry

endlesss

clear
melancholy
rivers
of
drops

I salt-season the parched ground at my feet
where
multitudes
of
bare
starving
hurting
neglected
iron-pierced
feet
tread
mingling their bleeding blood
in
my
salty
river’s
flow
making cracked-skin soothing mud
that
poor
moms
will
form
into
cakes
to
fill
the
bellies
of
their
screaming
young
ones –
a
blood/bread
communion
of
the
rag-covered
despondent
forsaken
saints

HYPOCRITES

but let the little children come to it

anyway

and
do
not
hinder
them,
for
their
bellies
rumble
empty
and
their
bones
show
that
they
need
some
mass
to
fill
them
even
if
it
be
no
more
than
the
tear
mingled
bloody
mud
at
my
feet

I
weep

and
salt-season
the
parched
ground
at
my
iron-pierced
weary
feet

Weep, clouds, and join my grief

~

Words and Photography ©2016 Tanya Cliff ~ to contact me

Posted in human need  & poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

A Poor Child’s Manna

.Reading time 2 minutes.

Why is it
that
food fit for your garbage bin
should be a poor child’s manna?

cans crushed and dented
as if they had once been
the subject
of vigorous
street kicking games
Your “donation” is insane
Ever
hear
of
botulism?
Yes, Scrooge, reduce the
surplus
population

cans missing labels
as if this is a game
of guessing
the
mystery
food being served
Your “donation” is absurd
Ever
hear
of
food allergies?
Right, Dad Bunker, ‘cuz
WASP’s sting
the poor in Queens

cans long past their date
as if antiquities
well-preserved
of
grocery stores
now gone defunct
Your “donation” will be junked
Ever
hear
of
bacteria
Fine, Uncle Vernon, leave
Harry
all the rottings

Why is it
that
food fit for your garbage bin
should be a poor child’s manna?

and

While you are at it,
please
tell me
what child wants canned
alligator
meat
for dinner?

Words and Photography ©2016 Tanya Cliff ~ to contact me

Posted in human need & poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

—

The first time my older boys helped with a post office food drive through the local food pantry, they returned indignant at the volume of waste “donations” they had to sort through and discard. Many of those cans were years past date, severely damaged and unlabeled; and, yes, canned alligator meat was on the menu. A food pantry drive isn’t the time to clean the junk out your kitchen. Real people depend on food pantries as a stop-gap measure against malnutrition and starvation. Please fill the donation bags full but only with items you yourself would consume. For those of you partial to canned alligator meat, I apologize and cringe.