The Statue Must Go
“Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
‘That’s the problem, the people shout,
that message, that statue must go,
she urges every single soul
to journey to our shores.’
But others cry and gnash their teeth
and moan at such a thought,
they love their statue and the folks
whom others have forgot.
The highest court in all the land
will soon decide her fate
the Statue of Liberty might be axed,
despite the fierce debate.
The crowds all gather near the steps,
they chant the pros and cons,
they march beneath their handmade signs
demanding right be done.
The justices hear opposing sides
for many days on end,
they listen to impassioned pleas
and weigh the good and bad.
‘The statue is a symbol
of our complex, quilted land,
such beauty, culture, music, art,
from sea to desert sand.’
‘And each new stranger wants a piece
of all the promise here
They’ve come to find a better life
and share what we hold dear.’
‘We worry for our children
and for our future too,
we need our jobs, we need safe homes,
please tell us what to do.’
‘But freedom isn’t one man’s right,
it’s every human’s right,
who are we to cast the dice
and toss these folks aside.’
And so it goes for weeks on end
in all our nation’s towns,
until the ruling comes at last,
the statue must come down.
The wrecking ball begins its work,
folks shudder in dismay,
crashing pieces fall to earth
like broken, ashen rain.
By five o’clock the deed is done,
the lady’s torch is out,
there is no court to bring her back
there is no time for doubt.
Years from now we still will talk
Of all we felt that day,
but for now as nighttime falls,
we stop and look away.
Several weeks ago, I asked friends on facebook for their thoughts about America (both what they love and what they worry about). It took a long time to consider their thoughts and how I would incorporate them into a poem. I’m using the removal of the Statue of Liberty as a vehicle to show all the emotions that come to the fore when we discuss our country. I began this poem several weeks ago and then a few days ago, an editorial cartoonist for the Columbus Dispatch ran a cartoon with the image of the Statue of Liberty being carried away. I bring that up only to let my readers know that I did not plagiarize the idea.
We, the Gravity Bound
WE, THE GRAVITY BOUND
Bird songs in spring,
a symphony of sound,
floating above we,
the gravity bound,
their songs subtly
sync with our lives,
we mow and plant,
we picnic and play,
and the birds have their say
all through the day,
so busy are we that their
songs fail to pierce
our fierce determination
to move, do and make,
yet, once in a while,
in the quiet of morn,
their songs will succeed
in supplanting our need
to achieve,
and in that moment,
we, the gravity bound,
will soar.
Christmas 2015
A colorful gift, wrapped with care, sat at the end of the hall; its golden bow, tied just right, tempted kitty’s paws. The child asked if she could be the one to look inside. Of course, her mother answered back, of course, please look inside. A quiet calm cast forth a spell, for unbeknownst to them, the same gift sat in every house across the world’s vast lands. And at that moment, near and far, each box was opened wide and therein was a single note that rose and flew from sight. Then every note from every box combined in joyous song, a song so pure the stars joined in and twinkled all night long. The people heard and sang along, they sang with one accord, they sang a song for all mankind so hope might be restored. The notes hung in the air that night and stayed for many more; it seemed the music kept the peace where hearts and souls were torn. So, if you hear a song tonight, make sure you sing along. The song’s a gift for all of us, so sing out loud and strong.
Come Walk with Me
Come walk with me
and we will see what speaks to thee,
the skittering leaves fall from the trees,
tumbling to the ground,
unbound from their wooden branching home,
sounds surround our forest walk,
we seldom talk,
while chirping birds,
chattering squirrels
and swirling wisps of wind sting our skin,
reminding that more cold will follow soon,
but not before the Harvest Moon sings campfire songs,
making us long for days like this to never end.
Is that how fall speaks to thee?
Come take a walk and we will see.
It’s Good for our Brains
It’s Good for our Brains
It’s good for our brains the experts proclaim,
Using big words to define
The sublime sense of ease
We feel while coloring abstract designs,
Choosing hues to amuse us,
We lose our sense of time
And the need to confine our thoughts
To worries of the day,
Bringing calm to our nerves,
Our thoughts converge
On shading, balance and color,
While other concerns fall away,
So, take time to play and color today,
You might be surprised
By the way that you feel,
And the way that you deal
With stressors the following day.
The design I colored came from the book Balance by Angie Grace.
Broken Glass
Broken Glass
Stained glass art, at the very start,
is a patchwork of broken glass,
the kind we pass in vacant lots
where weeds and troubles grow,
thrown aside, shattered, ground,
the glass lies there without a sound,
unsightly, urban blight some say,
but people also break that way,
at birth, such treasured works of art,
they later fracture, split apart,
their shattered dreams
get swept along the floor,
so easy to ignore their plight,
as we drive by the vacant lots of life,
the places where real lives exist,
and dreams might yet insist
on looking to come back alive,
to grow and even thrive,
a chance assist might help
those dreams survive,
for all the broken lives we see
are part of you and part of me,
every heart and every soul
a fragment of a bigger whole,
so find a piece of broken glass
and I will find one too,
and pretty soon, we’ll find enough
to change a life or two.
By Rita Bourland © 2015
This poem was written for an event at the Columbus Foundation where a group of panelists discussed philanthropy and the ways each of us can make a difference in the world. I was asked to write a poem to tie in with the theme for the evening. After writing the poem, I visited Glass Axis in Columbus and they helped to create a visual representation of the poem. It was a wonderful process from beginning to end!
The Seasons and the Reasons for Joy
The Seasons and the Reasons for Joy
The fairy garden nestled between the plants,
provides a bit of whimsy to match the season,
birds sing in sweet accord, proclaiming the end of winter,
squirrels play tag, chasing each other along the budding branches,
early, fragrant flowers burst forth in a dizzying array of colors,
a Bob Dylan song on the radio promises we’ll find the answer Blowin’ in the Wind,
then a choir joins in, harmonies begin,
it’s the kind of season when children laugh for no reason;
they roll in the fresh mown grass,
feel the cool spring breeze and hear the last school bell ring,
strangers smile at each other,
random acts of kindness occur so often they hardly seem random at all,
as spring turns to summer, the air shifts and taste buds drift
to ripe tomatoes, corn on the cob, hand-churned ice cream, and peaches
that drip down the chin,
where to begin with summer delights,
freshly washed sheets hang on the line,
hands deep in the soil urge plants to grow,
an elderly friend drops by; tasks are dropped, tea is made
so free, a day like this, free to smile, share a hug, be kind,
bumblebees and hummingbirds dance in the yard,
kids on bikes ride down a hill, wind at their backs;
shrieks of laughter float on the air,
fireflies at dusk, deep sighs, the time to relax sets in,
curl up with a book while a thunderstorm cooks up a rollick of thunder and rain,
then night settles in and the children run in to snuggle in their parents’ bed,
such a joyous thing, children at sleep; peace before day starts again,
a vacation is planned, time at the beach, a tent is pitched close to high tide,
the sunset’s orange streaks make room for the stars
and a full moon brings wondrous delight,
a kayak floats by, with nary a sound, the clouds casting shadows and light,
campfire songs, a big sing-along, the crickets pick up on the beat,
a walk in the sand, time to hold hands, just quiet with no need to speak,
I Love You is writ in the sand,
a beating drum cuts into the reprieve and school bells ring out once again,
new things are learned while the mockingbird sings
of a quickening change in the wind,
the colorful leaves, a riot it seems, burst forth like a song,
then they rustle and fall,
they crunch underfoot on a crisp, windy day,
while pumpkins and spice and everything nice seduce with exotic, fine scents,
warm donuts, hot cider, apple crisp, such bliss,
hay rides, goblin masks, raking tasks; it’s all a part of the fall,
we stop to give thanks and reach to embrace the folks that we love most of all,
a grandchild’s kiss, sweet moments like this
might hold us the whole winter long,
as the coldest months roll into stay, our dreams needn’t be put away,
like a novel with chapters unwritten, or a scarf being knit by the fire,
our desires remain in play,
as the day dawns anew, the sunrise peeks in to shake off the dew,
the smell of fresh coffee nudges thoughts of the past
when joy filled our hearts most of all,
it’s the simplest things we recall,
warm socks on our feet, a baby’s first smile, a walk in the park,
a song in our heart, a rainbow of magic that fills up the sky,
all of our friends who help us get by,
and on the dark nights when we turn out the lights,
we remember these things big and small,
and know the seasons and the reasons for joy
are the very best things after all.
This is an interactive poem created with prompts/submissions from 40 friends via my facebook page. They were asked to list things that bring them joy. Their responses brought me true happiness and provided me with two days of JOY as I worked to mold their beautiful words into a poem. A few of their comments were consolidated or reworded slightly but I hope I included the gist of what everyone was trying to say. Thank you to everyone! This project was a real gift!
I took the photo at a family wedding a few years ago.
There’s No Gold Star
THERE’S NO GOLD STAR
There’s no gold star on my artwork today,
I started with such care,
Staying inside the bold, black lines
With a calm, steady hand,
Moving the colors up and down,
Round and round, without a sound,
Smiling at the precise zones of color I created,
Separate but equal, I thought,
Don’t cross the lines and you’ll be fine,
But fine is not what I was after,
Not really, Not today, Not this way,
So I picked up the green, the red and the blue,
I followed with colors of most every hue,
I crossed every line, then crossed them again,
And did it with glee and a tilt of my chin,
And so there’s no star, not gold, red or green,
No simple reward to feed my esteem,
But who needs a star for playing it safe,
Who needs a star with so much at stake,
Who needs a star when the path that we take
Might lead to a rainbow of color.
Photo and Poem by Rita Bourland
Daisy Queen of the Flower Kingdom
From this day forward, ye shall be called the Daisy Queen,
and shall henceforth reign over
all the subjects in the Flower Kingdom,
ye are tasked with spreading joy and good cheer
by creating daisy crowns
for all the young maidens of the kingdom,
ye shall, additionally, set aside time each summer
for dancing and singing in the meadow
and picnicking on the royal grounds;
swans shall be released into the moat
and lambs shall frolic on the lawn,
all other tasks will be set aside until such time
that ye, the Daisy Queen, deem they commence again,
now go forth and rule your subjects
with the strength of a mighty oak and heartfelt
compassion for even the smallest daisy in the kingdom.
The Caretaker of the World
CARETAKER OF THE WORLD
When I grow up, I will be the Caretaker of the World.
A young girl declared her intention and the grown-ups winked and smiled, beguiled by the certainty and scope of her pronouncement. They shared knowing looks, immediately dismissing her childish whim and lofty pronouncement as folly. They had learned, over the course of their lifetimes, that the world is much too vast for one person to touch every life.
Yet, there was something in the set of her chin, her unyielding glance, that held them in place.
A bit of wonder fell across the room as she continued.
Each night, before I go to sleep, I will hold the world in my hands just like this. She cupped her hands and stroked the invisible earth with the gentleness reserved for the most fragile of possessions. I will think about every living thing and then sing them all to sleep with a peaceful lullaby. Then, I will put my hands on my heart like this. She lifted her hands to her heart and held them gently in place as she continued. I will share the love in my heart with every person and creature in the world and when they feel that love, all will be well. That is how I will be the Caretaker of the World.
And somehow, on that particular day, all doubt disappeared, for she seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages and the mightiest kind of love in her very tender heart and caring, gentle hands.
Photo of Haddon Ingram taken by Eliza Ingram
Just Poetry and Prose 
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