My Cardboard Balcony

I Want To Be An Astronaut by Belinda Roddie If I shoot for the moon, I will aim for a crater so that the dust and shadows will soften my landing. And when I look up, I will see white confetti celebrating simultaneously both my rise and my fall. I have been so accustomed to crashing that I will forget not to look for the debris of my own pride, and when I see fireworks, I will always assume they are meant for someone else rather than my own cosmic entrance. My little rocket will whimper as its legs buckle beneath it, and I will carry its engine to where the Apollo 11 American flag once stood. The others remaining are bleached white, stripped of the patriotism painted on their drooping smiles. Their eyes are full of that same confetti. They, too, are not used to so many people watching. So many people wondering if you'll leave footprints. In the sparse moonlight, a show awaits those who still wander on a dark man's face. The stars make a circu

Look at how the snow has quilted the plains despite the fact that it is April. It is a bubbling cauldron of turmoil in the Arctic Circle, and yet here we are, freezing in the midwest of North America. When will the seas rise high above to flood our coastal brothers and sisters? I see how thick and dark the glasses are that the elites wear. They blot out the truth from them. If only they could truly view the calamity.