Poetry and Photography by Sherrie Robins (Please allow for three *words.)
Harbingers of *Hackamores, you Sour-faced Children of the *Habitudes.
Why all the angst and self-perceived *percipience, you of the fine-toothed comb?
The stony-hearted throwing stones. Smacking the rock, making bitter the waters.
It’s amazing anyone reads your diatribes. That there are those who enjoy inhaling the fumes, breathing deeply to become one with toxicity, assuming superior airs.
When all the while their own closets overflow…
Excuse my simplicity, my naivety, my flabbergasted, gobsmacked insolence. But haven’t we been around that mountain before? Will we never learn?
I say pass the bread. The wine. Wash the gnarly feet.
Stand in awe of the glory and reach out to bind the broken.
Bend over backwards to see the good.
Wear the glasses dyed and blinded to all but love and hope and grace.
We are a thirsty folk.
Find the voices of the waters-sweet, in a dry and barren land, and run to them, run to them my friends!
*Hackamore: rope or canvas headgear for a horse, with a rope for leading.
*Habitudes: habitual mode of behavior.
*Percipience: Having the power of perceiving, especially perceiving keenly and readily.