“Diana Prince for President“
No Blue No Matter Who
but someone brave and true
an Independent candidate
her only mandate:
to heal the world.
.
Instead of quick fixes, cures
Instead of ignorance,truth
Instead of violence, peace
Instead of hatred, love
.
No need of accoutrements:
lasso, bracelet, or tiara.
Her character’s unimpeachable.
.
Steve Trevor could be her VP.
“Autumnal Love”.
evening songs tattoed
across an autumn breeze
.
a golden sky’s nutbrown breath
leaves pepper the air
.
birds prepare to flee the coming freeze
frost’s first exhale boldens the winds
.
the burgundy and orange world
crunches beneath our feet
.
no wonder we call this season
fall
.
*image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing.
“Fatal Foam“
.
Worship the sun’s holy rays.
Cleanse yourself in poisoned waters.
Foaming bubbles like a bath
must bleach away your sin,
tickle your chin, bathe your chest.
.
Boat through foaming blights.
Laugh as they burst against you,
your face, your lips, your tongue,
your lungs inhale the corruption.
.
A transformation not to be wished,
this striking contrast, this union of opposites,
as your blood red robes trail behind
in the sparkling snow white ooze.
.
Put your life on the line for a beautiful moment
a breathtaking snapshot of devotion
hastening your own decay
.
We shake our heads at your tragic folly
tucked snugly into our own burning beds.
.
.
#
*inspired by news of Indian worshipers ritually bathing in the Yamuna river, a river covered with toxic foam from industrial waste.
“5am Derelict”
.
I make the predawn turn
on the way to my husband’s work,
note the same tall building
we pass every time:
window treatments of particle board,
graffitid exterior spray painted
to match the neighborhood palette.
.
I think of the apocalypse:
such a building would well serve
to barricade against a plague
of our own making,
keep out the undesirable
as we shelter ourselves
from those we cannot see.
.
Then I realize, we do that
already.
“Original“
.
I sip poetry with my tea,
it seeps out like sun through a window,
it leaks through my fingertips.
I breathe in each page,
I live in these words.
.
Can I claim my voice as my own
when nothing comes of nothing?
There is no sound in a vacuum.
.
Can my whisper be heard
above the roaring wind,
or am I part of the chorus?
“A Bee Sucking Honey”
Leaving is so hard to do.
A million things call me back
from this respite from the drudgery
of my life’s day to day to day.
I sip honey words dripped
from fragrant tongues, flutter
from one to the other
as the dial quickly ticks on by.
My time is over. I’m called away
back to toil and tedium, but
my feet, stuck in viscous sweet syrup,
slow this unwelcome parting:
I am an insect caught in amber,
unable to tear herself away.
*
I’ve been feeling very nostalgic lately, and the above poem was inspired by my attendance at multiple poetry readings last year. Hopefully, we’ll all be able to attend them again soon. In the meantime, stay safe, stay well, and read often!
“My Wildest Dreams for Them”
that live in the future
are pretty predictable.
I’d like to say what
a humanitarian might:
that my descendants
live in a world of peace
free from disease and distress.
But what I really want,
I mean the very first thing
that popped into my brain,
was that my great grandchildren
would live on Mars
with robot servants
but the kind of robots
that are smart enough
to fulfill all their basic needs
without violating the pesky
ethics of unpaid labor
performed by sentient species,
and also they’d win Nobel prizes
(my descendants, but not
the robots–although I don’t
see why not) in literature,
maybe become
Martian Shakespeares
encapsulating their era’s
Martian-humanoid
culture for generations to come,
long after their own demise,
so that everyone could
devote themselves to art
and science and poetry
and beauty and also spend
Sunday afternoons sipping tea
between monster-movie marathons
because what’s the point
in an ideal future
if you can’t have a little fun?
#
Since my second book, An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories, is due to be published via Venetian Spider Press this coming Tuesday, I thought I’d post a scifi-themed poem in honor of its publication. I hope you enjoyed it!
*image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing
“To The Poetess”
epic battles of heroes on bloody foreign fields
or gods meddling in the lives of men and women
were not subject fit enough for your sweet lines.
instead you delved deep into the bittersweet
affairs of human hearts, the union of souls,
the intoxication of lovers sharing the common cup.
your words like wine lingered on the lips
of ancient vocalists thirsting for vintage reds
singing verses you cultured long ago.
your gleaming feast of words filled from apple trees
you strode by long ago as honey breezes blew waves
through your shining locks. your bold steps soon followed.
your words are only known to us from ancient admirers
or from torn and tattered fractions lining paper mache coffins.
How great your work when fragments alone
grant you immortality.
#
I wrote this poem last month when I was reading a free ebook, The Poems of Sappho, via manybooks.net
* image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing
“Patriotism“
The call to act with love
against the hate that spills into our streets
Not follow the same drummer’s beat, beat, beat
while others are simply beaten
Fighting hate with hate increases
the blaze across our states
Fighting hate with love abates outbreaks
soothes the aching wounds of history
Kindness is not complacency
Shake this world gently
Shake this world with love
Shake this world with peaceful protest
Shake this world with words
Words have power
Speak out.
*
Happy Fourth of July weekend!
I know this poem seems especially written for the current circumstances, but I actually wrote it June of 2018 as a response to a tweet I read on twitter about the usefulness of nonviolent protests. I was also inspired by this quote from Ghandi: “Where there is love there is life. In a gentle way, you can shake the world.”
Another special thing I’d like to do this weekend is offer my poetry collection, Soul Picked Clean, on sale at a discounted price to celebrate both the Fourth of July (Saturday) and my birthday (Friday)!
If you’d like a copy of my poetry collection, Soul Picked Clean, for only $10, please credit my paypal at this link, and don’t forget to include your address so I know where to mail the book!
Stay safe, stay well, and read often!
**image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing.
“Spider Flight”
Spiders have no wings,
but take to the air
nonetheless. climb,
raise abdomens to sky,
extrude strands of silk,
and float away.
ballooning. away
from predators
competitors
toward new lands
abundant resources.
two-and-a-half miles up,
1,000 out to sea.
sense the Earth’s electric field,
use it to launch into air
thunderstorms crackle
around the world,
Earth’s atmosphere a circuit.
The upper reaches
a positive charge,
the planet’s surface
a negative.
operate within increase
those forces climb
twigs, leaves, blades of grass.
Plants, being earthed,
protrude into the positively charged
electric fields between the air around
and tips of leaves and branches
spiders detect
ruffle tiny sensory hairs on feet,
like when you rub a balloon
and hold it to your hair
a set of movements Tiptoeing—
help gauge wind speed direction.
prepare for flight
#
*Found poem based on text found in article, Spiders Can Fly Hundreds of Miles Using Electricity, by Ed Yong published in the Atlantic on July 5, 2018.
**image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing.
Cat Russell 
