Pardon me if I’m not fired up
by words of contempt,
however justified its dealers
may feel it is

Makes me want to walk barefoot
in water-sheened sand
and feel my footsteps melt,
and let the words that come to me
in my perplexed objection
be smoothed out as well

There’s no room for love in contempt
and there’s no room for contempt in love
and in the revolution
we’ll need traction,
not the gear grinding slippage
of mutual accusation

But there’s no traction either
for these words of mine —
makes me want to give them up,
and myself as well,
to the leadings of a higher Mind.

©Wendy Mulhern
February 19, 2017