generation activism lives after all

today i met a group of artists and writers

filmmakers and poets filled up my eye and

i caught it

in each sense of them

hope and beauty as it filled  the air

none of these kids were rolled up so far in their

twenty to thirty year old angst

that their humanity was lost in paintbrush and pen

none were so far into the hip and cool

of suffering in/for/because of/in order to create their art

that they had bought into the isolation

and the foolish belief

that all artists must suffer

to create

none of them were so wrapped up

in dead poets and their shrines

to dead heroes/writers that they forgot

about the real pain

of the humans standing next to them

in realtime

but these came forward

to help someone else

hungry

in need

suffering without home

or in need of a blanket for an empty bed

on these freezing nights

these artist kids came to a food bank

and asked, “how can we help?”

one kid said, “all i have is a box of annie’s mac and cheese”

and a poem

i smiled

grinnning ear to ear like an idiot

i hugged them

and held on

it was plenty.

it was enough.

i smelled hope in the air around me.

then i sat down at my computer

and wondered

how many of  you in here

suffering for your art

have lifted a finger to make a difference

this week

this month

this year

or ever

in your self-involved little lifetimes..

wake up, suffering artists

tiz the season

get off your whining asses

and do something

kind

for someone

else

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About lindalou5150

as exercise or exorcism, i write...for the eyes of others, for my eyes and heart only, for the love and the rage, i write...to release the gamut of emotion...to tell the truth and say what's often thought but not written...
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2 Responses to generation activism lives after all

  1. I am crying once again. You move me like no other. You shame me, wake me up, shake me up. Your love spreads like a blanket over me who needs no shelter nor food, but only your reminders to be a better person. Thanks you.

  2. MandT says:

    Standing in the pouring rain
    At dawn
    On the trail
    In a hail of wet
    In a pause
    The sound of three old men
    From a trailer
    Banging on a kettle,
    Drumming on a block of wood
    Could
    Be heard
    In the lifting song
    Of bass, baritone and tenor
    Singing the blues
    Singing Gospel
    Lead and resisistive
    Call and answer—
    The ancient resistance
    Active in the pain
    And,
    The rain carried away the sound
    To a heaven hearing melody.

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