Manipulation

 

Manipulation

I watch him manipulate with his euphony,

Change the sounds subtly and images spin.

  Then I hear a strange clearly new symphony.

His instrument held so gently I do not know,

Its' sounds take me where I've never been.

Vistas pass through my mind, and visions grow.

Places I have quietly imagined the sounds reveal,

His notes in my mind deftly paint a green glen.

Quiet serenities over my soul slowly steal

Just as I fall under the spell of the new melody,

Again change falls softly a fresh place to begin.

Dance and movement come with this new revelry.

I watch him manipulate with his euphony,

Change the sound subtly and images spin.

Then I hear a strange clearly new symphony.

I Saw the Sad Eyes

 

  

I Saw the Sad Eyes 

I saw the sad eyes of women who had been betrayed,
By those who from honor, never should have strayed.

They could not have known what would come to them,

 Integrity was pledged and they believed without a whim.

In a dark hour their faith and loyalty was shattered. 
Their lives, without regard, left broken and tattered.

 

Time seemed strangled and unable their injuries to mend.
To go on with life seemed to have nowhere to begin.

Then in chorus the sad eyes looked around in panic and pain,
In a moment they knew other eyes revealed the same stain.

                                                                    
 Hearts united and power and change came with more ease,      
 The weakest were lifted first by the women from their knees.

Words and tears were shared and brought balm to their soul wounds.
Slowly in unity they overcame, and the living of lives resumed.

 

 I saw the sad eyes of women who had been betrayed. 
By those who from honor, never should have strayed.

     

The photos of eyes of women posted as a part of this poem are cropped from pictures taken at the Service Women's Action Network conference in April of 2013. I was privileged to be asked to attend this conference. These women are all survivors of Military Sexual Trauma. There is one exception, the eyes portrayed in black and white at the top of the post, are those of a non-survivor, her father attended the conference, as did several parents of Victims.  Her name was Carrie, she was a Marine, and she took her own life after being unable to cope with the beating and rape she sustained while in service, perpetrated by those serving along side of her.  Her father, a retired Marine works tirelessly to bring justice for her. We gathered to celebrate survival, offer support to one another, to work for change, and to mourn for and remember those who did not survive.  One of our goals was the passage of the Ruth Moore Act, which provides for equal consideration for those Service Members who suffer PTSD due to MST, and provision for the same benefits and services as provided those who suffer PTSD due to combat.  On June 04, 2013, it became law.

Another of our goals was to change how cases of Military Sexual Trauma are investigated and handled, and December of 2013 saw progress in that area as well.  We owe so much to those who serve, our prayers, our love, and our support.  That support should always include demanding that at all times the military operates from a place of sacred duty and honor, and that every Service Member be valued, and promises from our government kept.

Young Women With Dark Eyes and Dark Hair

 One of my favorite poems is one of the first I wrote.  After I read a story about  several young Afghan women who had joined the Afghan National Army, and who were training to be pilots, I wanted to pay tribute to them.  What amazing courage and selfless service for their country, and all women of the Middle East, their service represents!  I know what opposition and threat by some, it will bring to their lives. With these words I hope I honor these young women as they stand in courage and strength. I offer my poem of tribute to the young pilots, and all the brave women of Afghanistan, who have endured much.

Young Women With Dark Eyes and Dark Hair

Who are these young women with dark eyes and dark hair,
With beauty that runs so deep, and courage rare?

From what cloth were they cut, and where was it woven?
Who was the Artist from whose mind the colors were chosen?

 Of what fiber is the cloth and thread made,
That forms their true hearts which when they were bade,

By whispers to their souls of service to their country and us all,
Without hesitation bid them answer that call?

The fibers from which those threads took shape,
Were grown by the people of their nation who do not hate.

The seeds were planted in the soil by their fathers.
Then the fibers were collected at harvest by their brothers.

The thread of hope was spun by the hands of their skilled mothers.
None gave heed to the threats of others.

Then they were woven by their sisters, whose lives will be forever changed,
By the steps that they take and the destiny they arrange.

Finally from the Artist's hand, priceless treasure, a gift from Afghanistan,
Came to the people of the world who desire only with honor to stand.

Their mark and place in history their names will take.
When their life's work is made for the peace that lies at stake.

Who are these young women with dark eyes and dark hair,
With beauty that runs so deep, and courage rare?