Injustice in America Form: The Bop Ann WJ White When a teen, I raised my fists against racism, violence; but for LBGTQ rights, women, elders, battered children, nature. I squeaked and squawked in righteous fury, pushed away, seated, a white bread girl against a tide of political indifference. I pointed out a promised future. Waved my hands, wanted to join. But peers, elders...I was unliked, invisible, ignored. I fell away Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale, Boring filler on a plate, something stronger must rise. Children vibrated in rainbow colors, full truth, hope. Fed my nature, fed my soul. My own tin pot dictatorship with rules that opened doors. A classroom. Be kind, true, needed. These were the policies of deterrent where I had control. But outside, on the corners, bus, streets, nothing changed. Segregation by class, schools without props, myself ignored. Brief wars came and went, unfocused and fled. Still unresolved. Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale, Boring filler on a plate. Something stronger must rise. Until the internet, the wave of life was submerged, then... Black, Brown and Gold, chased by armed police in riot gear, military weapons of war, killing knees, choke holds, no humanity. Streets filled with horror. I heard the rage I felt. Breathing. The young rising up, elders standing in the streets. Riots, followed by protests, fighting for change. A plague to battle. Sandwiches made with white bread, unnourishing, stale, Boring filler on a plate, something stronger must rise.
Ann White
annwjwhite
A poet for over 50 years, beginning when I was eleven, I've always thought in poetry. I am a graduate of the College of St. Benedict and Marymount University with degrees in music and education (grades pk to 8). A mother, USArmy veteran, former bank teller and sales, musician, and educator. Retired early due to Multiple Sclerosis. Spent my time since then writing, photographing, crafting and traveling. Currently hiding from the pandemic and wearing a mask. Still writing.
Poetry Marathon Submission, #2
A Recipe for Ripened Intellect, Submission #2, Ann WJ White Life is a stream of books, stacked in piles to peruse. Grated science fiction, mixed with forked dramas, particle physics discovered in 420BC, for added flavor. History, biographies, romance and other non-fiction, Twisted about, squeezed. Varied pages lightly sautéed with imagination, juices flowing, added to mental gymnastics, with humor sprinkled liberally on top. This recipe of life and it's shadows, served with a healthy dose of sofa cushions for holding my body as my mine leaves my consciousness.
Poetry Marathon Submission #1
Life's Hero in a Pandemic, Poetry Submission #1, Ann WJ White My mother sits in her living room, polishing grave stones from afar. She paces back and forth on worn carpet, exercising her legs and mind. The photos she takes from the window highlight trees falling on the parking lot, worn people wearing masks, and there on the edge, a man with a butcher knife yelling that life isn't fair. Part of the neighborhood watch, she calls the police, then walks down four flights, her mask on tightly. From a distance, she informs him that he should step inside, he's forgotten his mask and she would hate to see him pay the price of someone else's infection. It's not what he expects. It's not the argument he craved. At eighty-four, she is everyone's grandmother, elderly aunt, mother, friend who speaks with a firm voice that brooks no nonsense. Speechless, he steps back into his apartment. She has promised him an audience with the police who have sped to the rescue at an apartment full of older people. They arrive and she returns to her recording of the past so that others can find they way.
Hello, first marathon participate here
I’m looking forward to starting in forty minutes. I don’t know what today will bring besides words from all sorts of places in my mind. I hope that everyone is as excited as I am.
Ann WJ White