We can make a house called tomorrow

It's sobering to realize that there's a huge chunk of the U.S. voting population that doesn't think of sexual assault as something horrendous enough to disqualify a presidential candidate.
~Ana Kasparian

by Jogesh Chandra Seal

Happy Poetry Friday! How great is it to have poetry friends who will take up a meaningful challenge with you? Here's a post from 2020 full of poems about hand-marked paper ballots.

Ouch: Voting Machine by Maggie Smith

Lastly, I'm returning to Alberto Rios, who knows what to say:

A House Called Tomorrow
by Alberto Ríos

You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen—
You are a hundred wild centuries

And fifteen, bringing with you
In every breath and in every step

Everyone who has come before you,
All the yous that you have been,

The mothers of your mother,
The fathers of your father.

If someone in your family tree was trouble,
A hundred were not:

The bad do not win—not finally,
No matter how loud they are...

read the rest here

****************

I'm visiting Ariana and Matthew this week but hope to make the rounds anyway, maybe a little late.

Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme has the Poetry Friday round-up. Thanks, Matt!

Vooooote

[Project 2025] is a meticulous outline of how they will crumple the system simultaneously through minute changes.
~Cecilia Esterline

For Art Thursday, voting! I voted early:

It was super easy, but would I have gone to great lengths to vote? You bet I would! Am I terrifed at the thought of someone with no regard for civil rights, ethics, or democracy taking the White House?

endless screaming

Like everyone, I am pulling myself together and carrying on. Conserve your strength, preserve your sanity, take action when you can. The Norman Rockwell Museum's Unity Project "calls upon all Americans to uphold democracy by voting":

VOTE
by Lisk Feng

Vote – Register – Find – Learn – Explore – Make Sure – Research – Look – Check
by Timothy Goodman

The Future is in Your Hands – VOTE
by Edel Rodruiguez

Noodle Soup

Jazz music is an intensified feeling of nonchalance.
~Francoise Sagan

For Music Monday, Four80East:

Radiant

The meadows are yellow with buttercups, and the birds fly out of the gold.
~George Augustus Moore

photo by William Warby

Happy Poetry Friday! Today's poem is by Wendy Stern, whose poetry has an archive at the Buddhist Poetry Review.

Vision
by Wendy Stern

If all you see is cityness,
Heavy cement, paving stones,
Concretised un-breathing,
Can you still notice out of the far corner of your eye
That solo flying buttercup,
Rooted in the crusty soil,
There between the cracks,
Amid the greyness, the bleakness,
All radiant yellowness?

Life,
No matter what,
Survival,
No matter where.

All radiant yellowness.

Wendy was a Buddhist and poet who lived in Bristol, in the west of England. For many years she was completely bedridden, and her poetry therefore came from an unusual perspective. Writing poetry was Wendy’s passion and her only form of creativity and self-expression. Her work was produced without the capacity to look at text, to write or to use a laptop. Dictating the poems and then editing them aurally took an immense amount of energy and concentration. Wendy passed away on April 8, 2015. -Buddhist Poetry Review

***********

Jama's Alphabet Soup has the Poetry Friday round-up. Thanks, Jama!

Fionn and Áillen

[Áillen] would burn Tara [the seat of the High King of Ireland] to the ground every year at Samhain [Oct 31/Nov 1] with his fiery breath after lulling all the inhabitants to sleep with his music. This only ended with the arrival of Fionn mac Cumhaill, who inhaled the poison from his spear to keep himself awake and slew Áillen.
~The Boyhood Deeds of Fionn

Now that's a hero, right? Inhaled his own poison to stay awake! For Art Thursday, Fionn mac Cumhaill fighting "The Burner" Áillen. According to Irish History.com:

Fionn Mac Cumhaill, born as Demne, was the son of Cumhaill, the leader of the Fianna, and Muirne, the daughter of the druid Tadg mac Nuadat. Fearing for the child’s safety due to Cumhaill’s death in battle and the enmity of his enemies, Muirne entrusted her son to be raised in secrecy by the druidess Bodhmall and the warrior Liath Luachra.

The name Fionn, meaning “fair” or “bright,” was given to Demne after he killed a dangerous supernatural creature known as Aillen mac Midgna, who had terrorized the people of Tara for years. With his newfound fame, Demne adopted the name Fionn Mac Cumhaill, honoring his father and signifying his bright future as a great hero.

Both of these images seem to be from the same book, but they are quite different. I thought the second one was Áillen because it seemed like there was fire coming out of the creature's mouth but maybe not? What do you think?

Fionn fighting Áillen
illustration by Beatrice Elvery in Violet Russell's Heroes of the Dawn (1914)

illustration to a collection of tales from Irish mythology
Beatrice Elvery, 1914

Orla Gartland

La-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la-la
I, I wouldn't trust me either
~Orla Gartland, Backseat Driver

For Music Monday, Irish singer, songwriter, and musician Orla Gartland with "Late to the Party" and "Backseat Driver":

We will be spirals and domes

“And if anyone knows anything about anything,” said Bear to himself, “it’s Owl who knows something about something.”
~Winnie the Pooh

Happy Poetry Friday! Glad you're here. It's National Poetry Day in the U.K. (on Oct 3rd) so huzzah for that!

One morning this week when I walked outside with my dogs, we startled an owl. It flew away but not too far, so I got a good look at it. How thrilled was I? Exceedingly! I told my neighbor, who said he'd seen that owl a couple of times before and he shared this picture:

by Nathan B.

He took this photo out his window! I have been looking for our owl ever since. When I was searching for an owl poem, I found this gorgeous one about starlings. It could make a good mentor poem! What if humans could move like a pod of whales or a caravan of camels? (You can find animal group names here.)

Murmuration
Emily Schulten

If we move with the fluidity of starlings,
like a puddle of clippings in the air that shape-
shifts but never falls hard to the ground,

if we sense enough of each other to know
in which direction to fly away from being
preyed upon, but never from one another,

in swirls and with the unshakable faith
that wherever we turn we will be synchronal,
miming in a language only our bodies

comprehend the intention of our design...

read the rest here

***************

Please leave your link below!