Lear

 

The tragedy of Lear is that he was a once great and noble King whose fall into dotage is both heartbreaking and universal. There has never been anything great or noble about Trump and there is nothing heartbreaking about his fall. He's a two bit huckster with just enough patter to mesmerize the rubes while he picks their pockets. He doesn't move us to Aristotelian pathos, he enduces nausea. May he wander lost and raving on the ash heap of history.

Solstice

 I am doing everything in my power

To attract the help and resources I need

to fulfill my aim.

My aim is peace.

After this long year of fear, isolation, depression, helplessness, hopelessness, I will act in my best interest.  I will take care of myself. 

The End

 All of these sad, sick, Nazi sympathizing Trump supporters are flailing in their failure. They have been returned to the dustbin of history where they so richly belong. In a few years, finding grandpa's MAGA hat in the closet will be akin to finding his Klan hood or Swastika.  Your grandchildren find you abhorrent. Go back to your caves and your paranoid, racist fantasies. The adults are talking now.

Walking at Night

 Walking at Night

Louise Gluck

Now that she is old,

the young men don’t approach her

so the nights are free,

the streets at dusk that were so dangerous

have become as safe as the meadow.

By midnight, the town’s quiet.

Moonlight reflects off the stone walls;

on the pavement, you can hear the nervous sounds

of the men rushing home to their wives and mothers; this late,

the doors are locked, the windows darkened.

When they pass, they don’t notice her.

She’s like a dry blade of grass in a field of grasses.

So her eyes that used never to leave the ground

are free now to go where they like.

When she’s tired of the streets, in good weather she walks

in the fields where the town ends.

Sometimes, in summer, she goes as far as the river.

The young people used to gather not far from here

but now the river’s grown shallow from lack of rain, so

the bank’s deserted—

There were picnics then.

The boys and girls eventually paired off;

after awhile, they made their way into the woods

where it’s always twilight—

The woods would be empty now—

the naked bodies have found other places to hide.

In the river, there’s just enough water for the night sky

to make patterns against the gray stones. The moon’s bright,

one stone among many others. And the wind rises;

it blows the small trees that grow at the river’s edge.

When you look at a body you see a history.

Once that body isn’t seen anymore,

the story it tried to tell gets lost—

On nights like this, she’ll walk as far as the bridge

before she turns back.

Everything still smells of summer.

And her body begins to seem again the body she had as a young

      woman,

glistening under the light summer clothing.