I’ve dedicated my academic career to issues of gender and racial equity, particularly as they relate to media portrayal, civic and political participation and the division of labor and leadership. I earned my master’s degree in communication, where I specifically examined representations of gender and power in politcal coverage, presented and published work on the topic, taught classes on it etc. Despite all this, white men still want to tell me I’m wrong, I don’t make any logical or practical sense, I’m a reverse sexist and somehow I should be giving their uninformed, biased, weak-ass political opinions and world views equal weight to mine. These interactions have inspired me to write some fun acrostic poems. Enjoy!

Whiney

Heathens

Insitgating

Terror

Earning

More

Even

Now

Willingly

Hateful

Ignorant

Time-Bombs

Ever

Myopic

Enraging

Ninnies

Woefully

Hackneyed

Ingrates

Typing

Exhausting

Macho

Elegies

Needlessly

Whispering

Help

Into

The

Ether

Moaning

Emasculating

Neuroses

Come.

Open then, these hulking brimstone gates.

Lest I open them for you.

I expect only the Bastard himself to greet me.

The pleasure that is my company has many sins to share.

Hurry now, else boredom snatch your prize.

Waste not a moment longer of my time; therein lies a certain throne with my name inscribed.

HELLo

If that does not get me in

I’ll find myself in search of sin

A prying eye my life will find

Was riddled anything but kind

A prayer, A glance, I took perchance

To see if you would shout and dance

For fail I have to meet Gods plans

And whither now inside his hands

I cannot abide the righteous fools

Swimming in their azure pools

They sit and judge and make up rules

And if we fall they bray like mules

But you have set forth no such decree

To be a human does the deed

To see you sit among crimson blue and bones

A fire lit to chill our souls

My hope for now is that I’ve failed all marks

For to try would surely make fly larks

And herald to the Lord above

To let this poor old sinner sit in love

I do not want that wanton grace

The kind that leaves without a trace

I’d rather sit in your embrace

The devils own beguiled race

I ate and played and danced and laughed.

I loved potatoes.

I loved a woman.

I loved too many women.

I had kids.

I had fun.

I ran and worked and fought and yelled.

I was selfish.

I was needy.

I was very needy.

I had meaning.

I had a life.

I. Me. It was all about me.

But I went to church. So...

Hate came storming in the door

squalling, yelling, howling

ready to drill into damaged heart.

Hate had watched Love through cracks

distorting exposed image in his mind,

contaminating her senses, stole her soul

squalling, yelling, howling

Foggy essence of imperfect Hate

damned to Hell where lonely lies,

larger and larger, the cyclone grows,

dehydrated thoughts, waning passion

squalling, yelling, howling

Love is the conqueror and purifies pith

seizes Hate’s emotions whirling in space.

Love flows like lava into crevices of Hate,

warming the cold and sadness therein,

melts the ice from Hate’s furrowed brow

soothing, softening, calming

Meeting in middle, Love and Hate become

ONE

escaping Hell to bask in Heaven’s glow

In a flash, it's gone.

We prevailed? What did we save?

Only memories.

Everything feels wrong.

Among the ash, what remains?

Only memories.

Hear glorious song

'Be triumphant', choirs chant,

'Take the victory.'

But, shall we drone on

Of the distant, joyous day

When hearts are empty?

What have we at dawn

When our weary souls arise?

Only memories.

The brawny brute grabbed the scrawny lad by the collar and grunted, vile breath seeping through his gritted teeth.

“The only reason Magnar won’t accept my challenge is you!” he fumed, “Tell him to fight me OR ELSE.”

“Listen, Fritjof,” Syndri strained, “My brother has no reason to fight an innocent man--”

“INNOCENT?!” Fritjof retorted.

“Perhaps innocent you are not,” Syndri smiled awkwardly, “but you have committed unto him no offense.”

Fritjof growled as he slammed Syndri against a nearby tree, causing the lad to wince.

“I said, make him fight me,” Fritjof slurred.

“I’m afraid I simply cannot do such a thing,” Syndri breathed, “My brother has a mind of his own and, with it, he does what he so chooses--”

“Make him choose!” Fritjof roared, pressing Syndri into the tree a little harder, “He always seems to listen to you.”

“I tell you this day, if I were to suggest such an illogical act, Magnar would likely believe I’d gone mad!” Syndri laughed nervously, “Besides, it is the very essence of his heart that is against such deeds. You see, he’s devoted to The Shining Lord, now. He’s put away childish things.”

Fritjof drew out his jewel-encrusted dagger by the golden handle and traced its blade along the folds of Syndri’s leather armor.

“Have you called me childish, bumbling fool?” Fritjof asked in fury, raising the dagger up to Syndri’s neck.

“No, sir. Not at all, sir,” Syndri stammered, lifting his chin, “I meant--”

Suddenly, the two men looked to a distant noise ringing through the forest. A series of footsteps and a voice calling out: “Syndri? Syndri? Where are you, brother?”

“He’s coming along quickly now,” Fritjof gasped quickly turning back to the lad, “Tell him to accept my challenge. That is all I ask of you.”

“...alright...” Syndri hesitated, “But I am sure that he will still refuse. He has grown from the lad he was long ago. He has no reason to fight you, and so he shant.”

Fritjof exhaled in disappointment, realizing that he may never fulfill his wish of challenging The Great Magnar of Dryhtenhaven. Lowering the blade away from Syndri’s throat, he sighed and turned away.

“It’s not as if he has a vendetta against you,” Syndri murmured involuntarily as Fritjof loosened his grip.

At the sound of these words, Fritjof’s eyes lit up and his fist grasped hold of the lad’s collar once again. Syndri realized his mistake, but it was too late. He despairingly gazed into the killer’s sinister eyes as he felt the blade plunge through his side.

“Thanks for the idea,” Fritjof smiled evilly, “Should have thought of it myself.”

Sometimes he's white, sometimes he's black.

Sometimes he's American, sometimes he's not.

Sometimes he's old sometimes he's young.

Sometimes he's thin, MOST times he's thick.

You see him at the mall and then again at the museum.

Who's the real Santas?

Well, long ago, I came to the realization that Santa is a species. It's a special kind of person who loves to share. Sometimes they give material gifts, and sometimes they give a smile. They carry the spirit of Saint Nicolas with them and glean their magic from above. There are Santa's helpers too. You can call them elves. Some are short, but some are really tall, buddy. ;)

What about fairies? Tooth fairies?

Some leave coins, some leave dollars, some leave candy and some leave toys.

Do you want to know a secret?

I'm a fairy.

I'm a Santa too.

Sometimes, I'm one of his elves,

and someday, I may become his Mrs. Claus.

These magical beings are special breeds-- ranks.

Some were born with them, and some acquire them.

Some reveal their secret identities and some don't.

It doesn't really matter. After all, the magic is what you make it.

Coin in hand. I stare at the visual

Hoping to find Something that can satisfy

the deep stirring hunger that I cannot dismiss.

Each wrapped confection intricately placed

to tempt me.

Alas, after war between want and will,

I clench the quarter tightly in my fist

and walk away from the vending machine.