• Connie Cruthirds

Unrest



Hearts,

like

over

stretched

rubber

bands,

break.

I hear you

scream out

your pain

your fear

your rage.

Just

so much

unjust

justice.


Marching.

Quaking

Tombs

full of

unknown

soldiers

shaken

open

wide.

Factions’

frictions

divided,

united

now

in

unrest.

Minds,

tangled threads

from centuries

of

better than,

less than.

Equations

that

will

never

add up

to

love.

Anger

boils

within

without

peace.

Hot lava

just can’t

not

flow.


Babies’ force fed

warped realities,

brimming

beyond

capacity,

spill

over.

Broken, cracked.

Broken, open.

Trapped screams

rise up big

rise up bold

through hands shaking

one word loose

from trees planted

in soiled soil,

“Stop!”


Our lives’ been

shut in,

shut down.

Trapped,

too long now.

Pressure cooker days.

Dazed.

Ghost virus

hangs in droplets.

Civil unrest

hangs in news.

Either,

when

swallowed,

take

our breath

away.


Vicissitudes

vacillate

violently.

Pendulum

swings

between

extremes

until

its

fixed point

breaks

and

falls.

Balance,

not left of it,

not right of it

yearns to be found

outside our tangled mind.

Last night,

I watched a man

lead a march.

Passionate.

Peaceful.

“Hydrate,” he said.

“Follow,” he said.

“Chant,” he said.

Gut ache,

ancient,

loosened

bellow out

what’d been stuffed

from

shallows shaping societal self,

cultures hierarchically made,

choking

essences’

from

being.

“Sit,”he said.

Here on this hill

Where in front of you

another marching man’s

civil rights got shot.

“Sit,” he said.

Here on this hill

and listen

until

your voice,

the one down deep,

your truth,

the one you were born knowing,

stills,

breathes deeply,

rests.

Light

will find

its way

through

this darkness.


Resilient,

we will

rise

until

integrity,

whole again,

restores

peace.


COACH  WRITER  CREATIVE

© 2023 Connie Cruthirds | Created by HKate Art & Design.