John Roedel

Cruelty can’t disguise itself as leadership for long.

Halos everywhere

I’m too busy shaking my defiant ass
and flying my wildflower feet to find any time to pack my bags.

The old guard hates my new moves.

I dance in places where change is just talk,
-where scared silent is mistaken for peace,
-where stillness is mistaken for power.

The fear mongers keeps telling me
that I “should move if I don’t like it here.”

But I don’t. I can’t leave yet.

I dance at town hall meetings,
~ where an out of tune jukebox spits circular arguments and pounding fist.

I dance on capitol steps,
-where the statues don’t blink,
-where the air smells like old speeches,
-where the legislature scrambles for soundbites,
but never for the suffering of the people.

I dance in the corner of the old cowboy bar,

- where country songs drown in whiskey,
- where men tip their hats but never their hearts,
- where the jukebox knows every goodbye

but no one speaks about the wounds we all carry.

The old guard in my town told me that I should move if I don’t like it here.

So I immediately took their advice and I started dancing.

Now, I dance on the cracked sidewalks,
where the weeds don’t ask permission to be flowers.

art should roam untamed,
not be led by tethered hands
— who decides its path?

art was never meant
to march in straight lines,
to salute patriotically,
or to bow for its supper.

it belongs to the wild ones,
the question-askers,
the dreamers who refuse
to color inside tired lines.

Damn the gatekeepers There is room for all of us!

This morning I was sent a pretty stinging message from a poet/writer whom I have never met, but whose work I really respect. They offered (not so kindly) that I am hurting the genre by writing in the way I do.

Here was my response:

open.substack.com/pub/johnroed...

our breath keeps our hearts from time traveling to the storms behind us or to the unwritten future. stay with me here in the present. there is so much wonder for you to witness. anchor yourself to the unfolding now with every single breath you take.

don’t let anyone tell you that empathy is weakness. having a heart for those less fortunate is a perpetual genesis. it transforms the cold dark universe. it creates new hope. it allows for growth. its sews us together. it’s an unbreakable circle of kindness. empathy is everything we came here for.

A teacher’s heart is a blazing lighthouse,

and we need every beam of light we can get.

Because if we treat teaching like it’s nothing more than a vacancy to be filled,

we won’t get steady hands or guiding voices—

we’ll get faint echoes,

too quiet to scare off the wolves,

too dim to show the way through the dark.

If you want the best to teach,

treat them like the heroes they are.

Stop making them juggle second jobs just to keep the lights on.

Stop questioning their hearts.

Stop forcing them to build a classroom out of their own wallets.

Being a teacher isn’t just a job.

It’s a calling, a vocation.

You wouldn’t take volunteers from a passenger list
to fly a plane through a storm—

so why would we gamble with the minds
and futures of our children?

They are the ones who know how to lead children into the wilds of growing up,

how to spot the wolves before they circle too close,

how to howl back with strength and certainty
so the camp remains safe.

We have been investing in tanks over textbooks for years,

and now that the bill has come due: 

we look to cut corners,
bargain away the future,
just to pay for the platform
of unsteady ground.

A teacher should never be an empty suit with a paycheck in one hand and a how-to manual in the other.

We ask teachers to grow flowers
in soil packed with landmines,
       
to shield their students from the crossfire

of the decisions made far from their world by 
people behind microphones who are more concerned about

their polling numbers than the kids they were
elected to serve.