Peace & Justice for 11/28

https://www.peacebuttons.info/E-News/peacehistorynovember.htm#november28

A Poem for Wednesday

The Home of the Sacred Ofelia Zepeda

^{Sublime landscapes were those rare places on earth where one had more chance than elsewhere to glimpse the face of God. —“The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” by William Cronon}

The “sublime landscape” is not a place to catch a glimpse.
These places are where the creators, Gods, deities and powerful beings live.
At Waw Giwulig I’itoi’s home is found.
O’odham climb the peak to be in the goodness of the Creator.
At Mauna Kea the Goddess Pele resides.
Hawaiians climb a volcano and humble themselves there.
At San Francisco Peaks near Flagstaff Kachinas and Ye’ii Bi Cheii
spirits live.
They climb down the mountain blessed with songs and prayers
when Navajo and Hopi call them.
In the Grand Canyon many Gods, deities, and
powerful beings stay in these rock walls and cliffs
holding vigil for their people.
In this powerful place are all the sacred beings.
The Hualapai, Havasupai, Zuni, Hopi, Navajo and others know they
are there. The people simply don’t “catch a glimpse” of holy beings
they sing them; they pray them in these places.

See (and hear!) more about this poet, and this poem on this page.

Happy T-Day Eve to All Who Come to Playtime!

Broom Hilda by Russell Myers for November 27, 2024

Broom Hilda Comic Strip for November 27, 2024

https://www.gocomics.com/broomhilda/2024/11/27

Thanksgiving by Nancy Beiman

(I love this toon on GoComics. The artist/author writes on Substack, and this one is especially nice. -A)

It should be every day. Read on Substack

American Thanksgiving is on Thursday, November 28. Grandma Heckel is visiting the FurBabies. This is only fair since she hosted the dinner last year and had the Buffet family visit for Canadian Thanksgiving this year. Grandma likes turkey.

Kate wasn’t allowed to make the pies last year. She was just an influencer.

FurBabies, November 19, 2023

Grandma did like it.

The Dog Family had a Friendsgiving with Mrs. Oldman and Buster.

FurBabies, November 21, 2023

Since Grandma is visiting, Mrs. Oldman is celebrating the holiday elswhere this year, possibly in Mexico. (I like to think that all of the off camera characters are living ordinary lives when I don’t have the ‘camera’ on them; we get glimpses when they do something funny.)

FurBabies is seen from the point of view of the Dog Family and Kate. The parents and Grandma never appear in the strip, so I had to find a situation that would allow us to guess their reactions to an unanticipated event. Luckily I found a great ‘human interest’ story about a dog and an Item that was perfect for the occasion.

Plans for the formal dinner began on Monday, November 25. Grandma likes dressing up. We see Shawm and Stella ‘suit up’ for a rehearsal, then cut to a night scene. Grandma Heckel is staying in Kate’s bedroom, which she shares with Sirius and Floof. Everyone has to find a new place to sleep. Sirius is not happy with his options. Sirius finds the Item on November 27, so I won’t reveal it here. I was happy with the results. We also see where Shawm and Stella sleep every night.

https://www.gocomics.com/furbabies/2024/11/26

The situation resolves on November 30, which then conveniently transitions into the Holiday strips. There’s a bit of repetition with variation when Kate once again tries to send a text to Santa. Things do not work out as planned.

Real life is like that, except it isn’t usually funny. (snip)

“Delayza’s Necklace” by Max Early

(Tuesday’s poem.)

We enter to sounds of bells.
The hall’s warmth evokes
an imprint of my small self
standing by my grandparents.
Their presence I sense
in drums and singers’ voices.

Collective breath of all colors
hovers above the leaping herd.
Eagle and hawk feathers adorn
the deer dance’s rhythmic scent—
forest evergreen, damp earth.

Delayza puts her hand in mine.
The seated crowd hinders her view.
I lift her above the masses—
a butterfly beyond reach.

Her irises bloom to the choir
and drumbeats rumbling
nearby snowflakes.

I set her among the gold straw flecks
glistening on the mud plastered floor.
Her body sways back and forth,
she stands on tiptoe
to see over the crowd.

A charcoal faced hunter
in camouflage shirt and jeans
trots towards the small child.
He places a coral bead necklace
over her head as she smiles
at her new delight.

Saturday Poem

I was built by inherited hungers. This is not a poem that names them.

Kimberly Blaeser

i.
As a body politic we take up space in their ledgers.
Yes, my relatives are the salvage bodies of history.

We have ways they do not approve of.
How we feed ourselves for one:

I have been taught where to find the winter cache of squirrels—
and how to walk away.

As we walk, my brother quiets me:
you cannot tell stories until you visit the places where they make their homes.

Father said the garden song calls the pollinators—
and we must sing in tune.

Nimaamaa said leave some for the spirits and the little people
(and what she meant was we are small in the green frayed body of belonging).

We learn from makwa, from maa’ingan—sometimes, even from Nanaboozhoo.

By this I mean not everything tattered is ruined.

ii.
They believe I was built of equations for gain.
(This poem is not an anthem.)

We still follow picto-spirits,
animal tracks, and seed paths:

Not all of our tools have price tags.

Not all of our safeguards are weapons

You will not find wild game in our lexicon.

Ask yourself—are we the meat they covet?

Find out more about this poem, and this poet.

Vladimir Shklyarov, Ballet Star, Dead at 39 – by Lique

Read on Substack

Russian ballet star Vladimir Shklyarov is dead after falling from the fifth-floor balcony of a building.

(snip)

(I’ll say it; it is to wonder how someone capable of his work could simply fall out of a window. Some of the comments on Lique’s Substack go there, as well.)

Friday Poem

As Girl

Annie Wenstrup

At six being a girl meant Tinkerbell
nail polish and pointed, pink Barbie shoes.
Sequined fairy wands and slippers that fell
off my feet when I ran. Outside the blue
sky a backdrop for green grass, the sweet
gum tree that was home base. Everything caught
my eye and sparkled. Rain-freshened earthworms,
armored rollie-pollies, and firefly dots.
At night the television played the news.
Its cyclopean eye returned my stare.
The goat-like pupil reflected a parade
of women and girls like ewes. Fair
and lovely. I thought they were adored.
Later, I was not a girl anymore.¹

^{1. Stardate 2373, Earthdate 12.25.2021: I watch the crew stand on deck and chart a course around
the asteroid. I want Roddenberrian optimism, but I worry that one of us misunderstands a
time-paradox. I worry one of us misunderstands humanoids.}

^{The rerun ends and another documentary begins. Onscreen
a model James Webb unfolds its mirrors}

^{like petals}

A Poem For Thursday

Ars Poetica

Kenyatta Rogers

^{After Amiri Baraka and Stefania Gomez}

Poems are bullshit unless they are broken
like a horse, like a dog kicked in the ribs,
Like your favorite toy that’s missing an arm.

Love can make you feel used.
I want the poem that limps back to me.
Poems should hurt like love,
like ice water on your teeth
like a massage to smooth out a cramped muscle.

Give me the poem that’s like leather.
Give me the poem that smells like gasoline.
I want a poem that is a warning,
a poem that makes me check to see
if I left the shotgun by the door,
a poem that’s a runny nose, a sneeze, a poem
that’s the moment the sky turns green.

I hope you check out more about this poem, and the poet.