Not only the absence of war

Given the current climate of cut-price jackboots marching over education, scientific advancement, human decency and the arts (among other elements that mark a civilized society), we need to hunker down around things like the Pythagorean Theorem, Baroque polyphony, the Oxford comma debate, Expressionism and, yes, poetry, as a way to keep bright the fires of sanity, grace and compassion.

So let’s think of National Poetry Month this year as a necessary component of the spirit of resistance, persistence and perhaps a few victories over ignorance, fear, greed and buffoonery.

To get us going, then, let’s have a poem from British-born Denise Levertov. Levertov was the daughter of a Hasidic Jew who left Russian Poland (Poland having been part of Russia until 1918) after World War I and emigrated to England, where he became an Anglican priest. The entire family campaigned for human rights, which on its own would have kept her from being allowed into the United States under the current administration, but she came here in 1947, so she spent most of her career as an American.

Levertov was one of many writers and artists who spoke out against the Vietnam War. She was among those who did more than just speak out—she withheld tax payments, and she was one of the founders of the group RESIST, a philanthropic non-profit that funds grass-roots activist organizations. RESIST was created in 1967 in response to the anti-war proclamation, “A Call to Resist Illegitimate Authority”.

So let’s start out the month with something appropriately titled.

“Making Peace”

A voice from the dark called out,
             ‘The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. Peace, not only
the absence of war.’
                                   But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can’t be imagined before it is made,
can’t be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.
                                       A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.
                                              A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, allowed
long pauses . . .
                        A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light—facets
of the forming crystal.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

The wise, the godless, the simple-minded and the child

Well, here we are in April, which means National Poetry Month. Which means 30 days of poems right here.

We’re also in the second April of the second administration of the Kleptocrat, and I’m struggling—along with millions of others who have been hurt materially, psychologically and spiritually by this criminal and his toadies. I feel a little like ever yoga lesson, when my instructor asks me if I have a Plough pose in me for that day: we’ll see.

But today, Pesach begins at sundown. Pesach is the celebration of that time when the Angel of Death passed by Jewish households when it spread calamity across Egypt. It also marks the joyful but speedy exit of the Jews from their captivity; in too much of a hurry to let bread rise. Ergo matzoh.

Pesach is a time for huge family gatherings around the table, recounting the whole Exodus story, eating (but nothing leavened) and drinking, talking and singing. Essentially, giving thanks for release from slavery, for escape from plagues, for the grace of God. It’s kind of the Ur-Gratitude celebration, and it lasts for eight days (seven if you’re in some Reform congregations). The meal follows a script set down centuries ago for both the menu and the conversation.

The Angel of Death has frankly been working overtime in the Middle East this year, aided by the forces of the United States and Israel. (I don’t know how this works, but the Angel might better serve humanity by visiting a residence on Pennsylvania Avenue.) Klepto and his cronies are openly talking about war crimes, and inviting/threatening our former allies (80 years right down the tubes!) to join in, because he’s made a mess and needs other people to clean it up for him. As always.

But they’re basically backing away while the Gulf States "privately" urge him to be their catspaw. As long as they keep flinging him flattery and flashy trinkets, I guess we’ll do that.

Well, back to Pesach. I definitely get behind having a ritual meal with roots more than 2000 years old, where traditions flow seamlessly into the new generation along with matzoh ball soup, brisket and charoset. Elijah will find many empty chairs to choose from at Seder tables tonight. But that will not stop the remembrance and the gratitude.

So today my entry for National Poetry Month is a poem about this holiday by one of my all-time favorite writers, Primo Levi. The second line is highly appropriate.

“Passover”

Tell me: how is this night different, from all other nights?
How, tell me, is this Passover, different from other Passovers?
Light the lamp, open the door wide, so the pilgrim can come in,
Gentile or Jew; under the rags perhaps the prophet is concealed.
Let him enter and sit down with us; let him listen, drink, sing and celebrate Passover;
Let him consume the bread of affliction, the Paschal Lamb, sweet mortar and bitter herbs.
This is the night of differences, in which you lean your elbow on the table,
Since the forbidden becomes prescribed, evil is translated into good.
We will spend the night recounting, far-off events full of wonder,
And because of all the wine, the mountains will skip like rams.
Tonight they exchange questions: the wise, the godless, the simple-minded and the child.
And time reverses its course, today flowing back into yesterday,
Like a river enclosed at its mouth. Each of us has been a slave in Egypt,
Soaked straw and clay with sweat, and crossed the sea dry-footed.
You too, stranger. this year in fear and shame,
Next year in virtue and in justice.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Milk money

Back in the Before Times, it didn’t matter where I bought milk for my lattes; it was $1.99 per half gallon. So I bought it wherever I happened to be shopping when I ran low—mostly either Trader Joe or Wegmans.

Then, maybe two years ago, I noticed that Wegmans had raised the price to $2.69—okay, but TJ was $2.49. Why was that, I wondered. I checked Giant (a regional biggie); they were charging $2.79. What the hell? The milk basically comes from the same cows.

So I limited my milk purchases to TJ. Annoying because it meant in some weeks going to multiple stores to complete my grocery shopping, but I found this discrepancy annoying.

Then, in the past couple of months, I went to a Lidl for the first time. Just for ducks, I checked their milk price: $1.63. This made me feel like the other concerns—especially Giant—were just taking the piss. (It may be a loss leader for Lidl, but more than a dollar delta between them and the next cheapest price seems pretty bold.)

What with tariffs and war in Iran, this past week, they raised their price to $1.67.

Here’s Trader Joe:

And Wegmans:

But looky here at Giant:

I mean—Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Gratitude Monday: A little light protest

Me and 7,999,999 of my closest friends turned out on Saturday at more than 3300 locations across the country to reiterate our refusal to submit to the Kleptocrat’s attempts to become king-dictator. Additionally, thousands more showed up in cities and towns around the world to stand with us.

He didn’t hear us, because he was in Florida golfing and grifting, but Republicans in general did. They are getting nervous. I hope this develops into ulcers.

This time round I did not get any photos of my fellow protesters in The People’s Republic. Given the rotting that’s taken place in the Kleptocrat’s brain since the last No Kings in October, I added a new message to the back of the poster I made before:

I know it’s a pipe dream; the toadies and lickspittles in the Cabinet will never invoke the 25^th Amendment, no matter now much he drools, slurs and meanders. But it’s still worth reminding Republicans that we know what’s going on.

Ran into my neighbor again. He carried several signs with his political cartoons, and saw some other protestors across the parkway who also had them. Viz:

At one point, when people were changing call-and-response “Tell me what democracy looks like/This is what democracy looks like,” he commented, “If this is what democracy looks like, it’s aging.” Well, yes—there were a lot of people who looked like they might have marched in the 70s, and 2010, and 2017. But there were also many youngs, including families with small children and dogs.

The passing motorists also showed support, honking and waving American flags. Some even had their own No Kings signs against the windows. (There was that one jackass in an SUV who flashed thumbs down; there’s always that one jackass.)

Fairfax County’s finest were out in force as well—one of their SUVs (why are they all in SUVs?) parked on the median and at one time four more hovering in an adjacent parking lot, I suppose to ensure that the people carrying signs didn’t suddenly pull out assault rifles or something. It would have been a good time to knock over an ABC store, what with half the force on riot control duty.

On the whole, a good way to spend 90 minutes being counted as opposed to this administration and every criminal, corrupt, contaminated thing it does. And it’s my gratitude for today.

 

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

Bring me something I can use

Whee, doggies—another whirlwind week in global geopolitics, brought to us by the worst, dumbest, most corrupt and incompetent administration in US history. Just a few highlights:

The kind of messaging you never want to see regarding any war (much less an illegal war of aggression) from the brain-rotted asshole driving the show:

Then we find out that said asshole—the one whose Daily Presidential Briefing on intelligence has been reduced to three bullet points in crayon accompanied by some swell GIFs—can’t take anything more complicated by way of reports on the war from the military chiefs than a two-minute video compilation of (as one aide described it) “things going boom”. He only wants to see “successful” operations before he gets his little container of pudding.

And finally, House Republicans announced on Wednesday that they’ve created an “America First” prize, and the first recipient is…the asshole who still doesn’t have a Nobel Peace Prize. I am unable to find any images, but it is indubitably gold-plated. Possibly in the form of a calf. It may be that Republican ladies have contributed their gold jewelry to be melted down for the purpose.

Seriously—this timeline sucks.

So our earworm for today is “Don’t Nobody Bring Me No Bad News”, from The Wiz. It just has to be.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

New civic art

In all the years (nine, to be precise) that I’ve been walking this stretch of the W&OD Trail, this is a first:

Someone has tagged the wall under the American Dream Way* bridge.

*That street was the drive up to the headquarters of Fannie Mae, the government-backed corporation founded in 1938 to help Americans finance house purchases. It is now the site of a butt-ugly development of 82 three- and four-story townhouses costing more than $1M, crammed onto five acres of what used to be a parklike setting. The developers are currently razing the actual Fannie Mae building and parking garage to make way for a zillion more townhouses. So the street name has become ironic in the extreme.

Wonder how long it’ll stay up?

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

 

The importance of use case scenarios

I was in Paris Baguette the other day, waiting for my latte (I don’t know what it is, but their lattes are infinitely better than the ones I make; their milk must be from exceptionally happy cows), when I noticed that I was next to the shop’s thermostat.

Which was encased in a locked plastic box:

I’m thinking that it was an unfortunate and thoughtless placement of a device that controls the space’s temperature; ergo the after-market security feature.

I wonder how long it took after opening to encase it? 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Stewards of the land

Long ago, in the Before Times, when the developers of the corporate campus behind my house were still trying to get planning permission to turn five acres of parkland into 82 four-story townhouses, I had an email exchange with a lawyer fronting the project about many of the scores of mature trees they’d destroy.

He assured me that “the canopy will not be affected,” which meant that they’d rip out/cut down all the trees they could and eventually plant an approximately equivalent number of saplings. For dealing with county agencies, that amounts to “the canopy won’t be affected”.

Well, they’ve got eight units completed of their 82, with framing done on another five or six. All the parkland has literally been paved and plumbed for the remaining units, and they’re working on the landscaping. Two months ago I wrote about their allée of hollies that look fine now, but will never again bear berries unless they stick a male plant in the vicinity.

And as I was making a tour on Sunday morning (the only day of the week they don’t have crews out violating the start times), I noticed that three shrubs right next to the model unit do not have long for this world.

Wonder how long it’ll take them to replace them?

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: movement restored

My gratitude for today is, in the global scheme of things, miniscule. But for me, it’s big. I’m grateful that my sacroiliac joint is almost back to normal.

Can’t recall if I wrote about it when the issue first arose—about two years ago. It was agonizing and required weeks of PT to beat it back. (Let me just say: you may not realize it, but just about every movement you make makes a transit point past the SI joint. If all the muscles are fine, you don’t notice it. If not, you do. You really do.)

So, of course, when I got back to normal, I stopped doing the exercises. A few months ago, it flared up somewhat, but I dragged out the PT and it subsided.

Then, during the Big Freeze in January, I slipped on ice; I landed on my left hip (which was the problematic one), but clearly knocked something awry in my right. I tried walking it out, to no avail, so back with the exercises. It receded, but then kicked back in, right around the time I was helping with the monthly food pantry at a local church. (For that, I bag produce on the Wednesday and on Thursday push carts for my neighbors who collect food at the church.) I observed A Pattern: on the Friday after the pantry, big flare up; impacts everything, including yoga.

Like I said—everything you do passes across your SI joint.

But this past week, after steadfastly doing my exercises, I’ve finally corralled the pain to mild discomfort, so that about a half-mile into my morning walk, I don’t notice the muscles complaining. I also pinpointed the triggering event: bagging sweet potatoes, onions and cabbage last Wednesday, I realized that the bag was heavy enough to feel in my butt. (Those heads of cabbage can weigh upwards of 10 lbs alone.) It’s not the cart pushing, it’s the produce schlepping. I can continue helping with food distribution, but I’ll back off the bagging.

This is a lot of verbiage to get to the point: being cognizant that at a certain age we cannot assume full functionality in our musculoskeletal system, I am grateful that I am still able to command mobility and that my muscles are responding to proper exercise. I suppose I have to be more aware of what I’m doing, which is kind of a bummer, but given the alternatives, I give thanks for what I have.

Also—the magnolia trees are awakening.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Cut him a slice

In 2022, deputies from the Adams County, Ohio, sheriff’s department raided the home of Joseph Foreman, apparently looking for evidence related to kidnapping and drug trafficking. They found no such evidence and filed no charges against Foreman, a rapper with the stage name Afroman. But they did break in his door and cause other damage.

Adams County—population 28,000—is 97% white; Afroman is Black. I sort of feel these are relevant facts.

Afroman’s then-wife recorded the raid on video, which he has used in videos of his own. Let me just say that Adams County’s finest do not come off looking quite so fine, so of course seven of them sued him, claiming his videos, “Help Me Repair My Door” and “Lemon Pound Cake”, subjected them to ridicule, emotional distress and threats. They put the price of assuaging their feelings at $4M.

Afroman claimed his First Amendment right, along with artistic expression. He also pointed out in court earlier this week that the videos raised funds needed to repair the property damage the deputies caused. If they hadn’t barged into his house, he wouldn’t have needed to tell the story to make money.

Here’s a photo of him (by Paul Weeden/WCPO) testifying:

It took the jury a few hours (including electing a foreperson, ordering lunch and filling out the forms for all 13 counts) about half a day to rule in the rapper’s favor. His response: “We did it, America. Freedom of speech. It’s still for the people, by the people.”

So our earworm today is “Lemon Pound Cake”. ‘Nuff said.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu