* History Will Judge the Complicit || by Anne Applebaum - The Atlantic             

* Trump began the day with a call to Russian President Vladimir Putin || by Heather Cox Richardson from Letters from an American

The fire is lit,
It will be ready soon,
But smolders from
The wet wood.
Smoke curls over twigs
And wooden limbs.
As the heat grows,
flames flicker and dance.
The odor of smoke
fills the room,
as a puffy white cloud
goes up the flue.

For what purpose,
is this life of ours?
Can the answers be
found in the Stars?
Born into a World
of pain and hate,
must we also,
love and satiate,
a life of hunger?
Must we forego,
no place to live,
or abode to go.
We must live
on the streets,
as we strive
in this World
to stay alive.

The roar of thunder
outside our door,
makes me wish,
for even more.
I love the sound
of rain on the roof.
Makes me feel humble,
certainly not aloof.

Amongst the grass
there lies a stone
of greyish blue.
It's all alone.
No other rocks
to now decry,
or for us
to ask why.
A task of
asking now,
from Heaven above,
free of hate,
with unrelenting love,
for a single life,
now; here alone,
whose old heart,
is that lonely stone.

A green, colored Mule, was wandering along,
humming the melody of a beautiful song.
As he wondered, mostly out loud,
should I join up with a crowd
of people or other just like me?
Not with people as I won't fit in.
It will be with Mules; they are my kin.
What about the green shade of your skin?
Color only matters to people, there in.

I write not for you.
I write not for them.
I write for myself,
for the predicament I'm in.

A rolling ball of thunder,
with lightning at its back.
A Spring, Summer storm,
report of possible hail,
is what I heard.
Why then, is there sunshine?
The absurdity of our weather,
confuses most of us,
where are Spring-Summer
feels like it is now Fall.

The grass is not greener
on the other side of the hill.
We could go play there,
but that's not the rule.
No gathering in crowds.
Stay locked in your home.
No more going out.
No more can we roam.

A small wayward waif,
passed me by,
on his way to play,
once more,
in a Park, with others,
like it was before.
A long time will go by
prior to this virus end
where he will once again
play with a friend.

Wisdom can become you, as we age.
Your life experience will make you a Sage.
The years go by so quickly,
turn the page.

This World is a "funny" place,
filled with laughter and dread,
until the hateful rhetoric about Race,
smacks you, on the side of your head.

The best part of living this long,
are all the friends you made.
The worst part appears to be,
how many friends are no longer here.
Life can be fickle. Being strong to endure,
for all the factors attached are obscure.
I miss my friends; my memories do recall,
all the good things, Spring, Summer and Fall.
The best part of life have roared fast,
a blink of the eye, it's now past.
Put your trust in your Lord above,
remembering to cherish; remember to love.

The Sun is rising
on this wonderful day.
Here I sit with
my hands of clay,
knuckles most sore.
This I am sure,
too bad there isn't
a simple cure.

I will capture the Moon
and the Stars.
I will go where ever you are,
for you are my life,
no matter how far
your mind wanders from me.
Over tall mountains
across the vast sea
it only matters to me,
to be close to you.
It matters not, where you are,
I'll be here for you, tis my vow,
across all the deserts,
on hand and knee,
just to be closer.
Closer to thee.

I see you there.
You're not looking well.
Are you now amongst,
those in the living Hell?

Don't measure me as a man,
for I do the best I can.
No longer a kindly soul
but one confused in turmoil.

blossoms in the spring
now falling from barren limbs
snowflakes

If it is the light of no doubt,
must we hurry and scurry about,
or look to the heaven above
with hope, courage and undying love?

The quiet night flows over me,
no moonlight now, nothing to see.