Sunday, January 22, 2017


January 22, 2017

No, we are not sore losers. Nor are we fired apprentices – belittled and shamed because we failed to please you. We will not slink away.

With the exception of Native Americans, we are the children of immigrants, whether our American journey began in colonial days or the 21st century. The descendants of slaves helped us win WWII, smash the sound barrier, and send a man to the moon, though they could only dent the barriers to their own civil rights.

No, we are not sore losers. We are the ones with memories longer than your most recent tweet – memories that include fighting for women’s rights to work, to be treated as equals and to choose when and with whom to bear children. We marched to end wars. We marched to garner civil rights for all.

We boycotted, we protested, we marched again. And we brought down presidents who ignored our power.

We are a force, re-awakened, ready to stand together. We are on the march again, not as sore losers, but as guardians of our country.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017


My heart stutters and skips,
puts a choke-hold on my breath
as though seeking escape.

Should I ignore this irregular tempo
pulsing in my chest?

It refuses to be tamed by
ape-like chest thumping,
pays no heed to scold,
is neither soothed by soup
nor calmed by tea.

I learned the name
for this worrying condition
from a nurse.

PAC, she said.
Pre-atrial contraction.
These things happen
as we age.

I wanted to object.
I am not old!
But she knows
I am.

Still, I bet she’s never
spent a day
with skittering, crazy,
unsynchronized cadence.

I’ve been free of it
for months now.
I'm puzzled.
Why is it back?
What have I changed?

Memory blips:
Another bump in the road
to old age.