We are the children
of the Four
A wandering race
The leaves, trees
and streams feed us
The earth, water and
winds sustain us
We belong to no man
A race so
You talk about us
with hushed voices
From behind your
Always looking down
The idea of us so
You don't deserve us
Never looking in our
As though the simple
mention of us will
bring you conflict
Our women so
Seeing them leaves
the vision in your
head for days
So you look away
From our mystical,
As we are the
children of the
forests, rivers and
The snow in the
We have always been
We have always
You gave us our name
It was never your
You called us
You look at us and
see aluminium homes
Your curious eyes
scanning our sites
Picking up on the
old battered cars
Camp fires and dirt
Nomads fighting with
You do not see our
As you are not
children of the air
A race so loyal like
thunder and lighting
Inside our homes
lives a love so vast
You can scoop it up
and eat it
It feels like candy
Smells like Apple
We a deadly
Taught from years of
We learnt to only
live with our own
Never having a home
When we burned, fire
was so angry
Our ash turned to
The wind was so
Our ash fluttered
over holy ground
Settled on the
We grew a paradise
Earth was so hurt
you took her
For you paradise
will be forever out
Just before it's in
The ocean washes it
Burning us made
You had killed the
children of the Four
We don't expect to
Our wisdom lays too
The Nazis didn't
just kill and
persecute the Jewish
They killed us too
Put your nose in the
You can still smell
us on the wind
THE LAST STAND
Where have all my people gone, the Navaho, Lakota, and the Sue.
Smothered beneath the white man blanket,
Chocking for a breath of airs life's sustaining oxygen.
The beating heart of native drums, are stilled frozen,
In the middle of it's rhythmic thumping, no pulses echo,
Can be heard on the open plain.
The weeping women kneel on sacred ground, shedding
A river of bloods tears, burning a permanent scare across,
A baron landscape.
Death's black raven shields itself, under it's crimson soaked wing,
Against shames immoral injustice.
Greed's unsatisfiable hunger for land and riches fuels lusts desire,
Behold exterminations nay holocaust of the native inhabitance,
Nothing remains alive except ignorance blackened shadow.
How much blood can mother earth be forced to drink before,
She drowns herself or spits up everything undigested,
With sheer disdain and hatreds malice intent.
On a black and white chess board the winners takes it all,
Strategies grand masters playing with living pawns.
Treaties written in vanishing ink, promises disappear in thin air,
Revealing a liars sharpened tongue.
The odds have always been stacked against those believing in fairness.
A rogue tidal wave of humanity has wiped out a nation,
And it's culture within the blink of an eye.
Flights appendages are clipped on the dove of peace, leaving it
Unable to soar above it's own habitat.
Wreckage’s refugees stumble in the ruins after math,
Rapes victims of civilizations civilized,
Are left devoid of their heritages lineage and legacy.
Elders chieftains representatives of a great nation,
Smoke peace pipes in the white mans hunting lodge
As human beings are hauled like cattle's cargo,
Taken to reservations burial grounds.
Ancient ancestors lit up the heaven's vast expanse,
By torches flame,
To guide the souls of the dead unto their great spiritual
The pale horse gallops forward without a rider,
And the red people become a phantom tribe vanishing
Upon the winds shifting tides.
Giving one last final trible battle war cry,
Why my father but the great spirit answers not.
Behold America's legacy, a world trampled beneath
It's heavy iron fist, all in the name of progress or for the cause
Of Manifest destiny.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Having settled into a firmament
of tarnished soil,
your sprouted roots
bring forth sullied growth.
What was blessed
by the sun at birth,
in deep shadows
of the moon,
living half a life in darkness
creating the fear that
comes from a wolf's howl.
SYNOPSIS of 'THE BIGOT'
We are born innocent,
but soon learn to distrust.
Racial prejudice, bigotry,antisemitism
emboldens and excites ignorance
and soon hate becomes the bigot's
religion of choice.
You are our neighbors
We are your neighbors
and we hate you
You do not belong here
You are different than us
We don't just want you to leave
We want to kill you
We want to eradicate you
We will attack you
When you retaliate
we will crumple to our knees
and cry to the world
Look at our neighbor!
Our neighbor is trying to kill us!
Then the world will rush to our aid
because the world fears us.
The world fears what we might become
You must learn to fear us.
Suffer not o man she cried desperate for consolation
Compassion twisted and tore at her heart
but the world she knew was silent.
Painful sounds from death filled wars, would wound her more
than jagged poison tipped arrows that pierced much too deeply.
And yet she carried on in quiet song as the world she knew kept silent.
And if the dying weren't enough, the sight of bloated bellies
and distraught mothers and sacked villages laid bare
by the unwilled force of child soldiers, would crush her spirit.
How could the world she knew keep silent?
Thinking that God did not understand her despair
She wept with abeyant tears that could not flow
as the world she knew kept silent.
To live, to die in the soiled spattered flow of time
passing through, passing through
Is the secret so sublime? Cannot she grieve?
Then silence no more was heard.
Instead a curious word within emerged
from her meditation of life's graces
a Hebrew word "Bitachon"
What was not known in agonies
was revealed in her silence.
They are always grainy.
Slightly out of focus due to age.
Their subjects stand sadly stoic.
Their faces all the same but different.
Eyes dark with hopelessness and pain
sprinkled with some sense of disbelief.
These pictures, some seventy years after they were snapped,
still scream impossibly loud with their silence.
Countless faces, forgotten to the fog of time,
stare back blankly begging for compassion
that will never come.
Snow falls on the brittle leaves of birch trees,
their branches miraculously overlooked by the December wind.
It makes a sound like the marching feet of scary Germans rushing through Poland.
Snow, mixed with freezing rain,
falls hard on the roof of an unheated barracks in Auschwitz,
filled with men and boys in pajamas.
It sounds not unlike the far-off thunder of the radio in the commandant’ s house,
the angry voice of the Fuhrer.
Snow, descending from the sky like shaved ice, on a brittle day,
5 maybe 8 degrees.
It covers the makeshift roadblocks in the streets of Warsaw,
making little mountains — so pure on the outside but fetid, rotten, corrupt beneath the fine powder.
this ice falling to the ground,
sounds like Russian boots jumping over the mountains.
Rain in Gdansk,
a fine mist,
the smell of the sea.
It covers the streets, where men whisper things that will someday be heard
and old women fall on their knees to pray the Rosary.
it smells of freedom.
a grab-and-run pack
a small survival sack
with one set of clothes for spouse and self
passports, a file with just few mails
an old diary with addresses to contact
in England, Finland, and Switzerland
and some currency notes
couple of thousands
in rupees that does not stretch
like the American dollars
they were what i needed most
as the pogrom was in progress
in my Tamil homeland
while i always went to bed
with shoes on my feet
You Take From Me was written for a therapist friend whose father went through the Holocaust. She is Jewish. Her parents and siblings were eventually reunited praise God, but everything beyond family, faith and love was gone. They felt fortunate. Both her parents died many years ago. She recently received a notice for her Dad that the German government was demanding reimbursement funds as they claimed they had given him too much. She was outraged and reached out. This was my gift to her:
YOU TAKE FROM ME
You take from me
This is war you say
But you do not ask of me
You take from me my
This is war you say
And never ask of me
It's just the way it is in war you know
Yet never ask of me
And when Your war is finally through
and now my internal war has start...
This was only war you say
And never ask of me
Out I'm tossed
No need to hold
No need to keep
There's nothing left
a few dollars you toss
Really only war you know
And still... you never ask of me
So many years have come and gone
My second life as well
And yet you say
of what we took
all these things
all this all
we gave too much
those dollars tossed
too many for your loss
You take from me
Seventy years later more
Although I'm not here for you to take
you take once more
and never ask of
Name: Rightful Jack
I see the lonesome, washed up, tragedy...
My people, the children, meant nothing to them...
Sacrifice my palms with the blood of one thousand sons...
Analytic substances, known as the air we breathe...
There is no longer peaceful currents, the sea is now a liquid black...
The storms were greasy, the fires were oblique, every word was bled...
They always perceived error in our effort...
But no harlequins were in our already dead, hellish survival...
No one else can be held liable...
The undeniable stench of the deceased mothers...
One man regurgitates his bowl of slop...
Another procreates his remedies of the red drenched taupe...
I love this poem :')
The impending night has fallen upon us
It woke with much persistence
Our hearts fled from its rage like a doe from a rifle
But the blast had already been made. . .
People fall like rain
The clouds are crestfallen with grief
And the darkness has no mercy
Rain soaks...leaves an impact
The falls are devastating...
She was so strong, like a diamond she shined
Only to burn away and be one with the grime
I never saw her go
But the angry darkness of her essence—strangely glows...
He choked on his words, his memory
Like a child swallowing a pill
It is sticking in our throats
Against our will
And the dose ever grows. . .
Who will stop the night?
You wicked thing how achingly stormy you have become!
Rich in your light as it smothers you whole
Leaving the rest to the droll sound of its toll
As they watched in angry happiness
The smoke of her spirits filling our hearts
No expressions...heavy depressions
He was left to melt and rebuild
His wick ignites—burns are second nature
Though images are hard to swallow
She still talks to our souls
Her story still to be told
Like diamonds never found
A flame of hope hovers
We remain instilled in the rot
The darkness smothers
Its heavy slumber always waking
Naked bodies lie in waste
Can you hear the concealed laments?
Afraid to express
Afraid to breathe
Unable to stop the grief
A young boy picks up a dried hip bone
Scooping up the soil to bury Sleeping Kate
Spines tingle at the crunch of excessive skeletons
Grimy boots unmercifully stomp
Sleeping Kate showed the officers
The skeleton she built out of bone fragments
Sleeping Kate told them we were all the same inside
With this truth, she died
With their guilt, they continued life
They tried. . .
The officers tried to bury Sleeping Kate
But Sleeping Kate is always alive,
Building skeletons in their minds. . .
Who could have known of their watch
Who could have told of their suspicion
Who could have told
That they were the harbingers
To my resurrection?
Me, I sat there
Engrossed in my ingratitude
Betraying the illusion
And I remember, too,
Lingering in the thirsty
Entwined in my solitude.
Before the Eolithic era
Which refracted by dioptric
Prometheus moulded his man
There were no leaves on branches
No bark on the trunks
No undergrowth in the forest
No sweat on the pores.
I opened the cataract
on my veins
the silence of the stars
down the rivers on my palm-
leaving deserts behind.
In my oblivion
Reproaching my rebirth
I reached out for the present
Leaving no spoor.
I arrived at the end of my hibernation
At the beginning of their quest
I had not solicited, I swear!
Mother, they said
These cracks on your face
In the shape of nations
Who will mend them?
Who daily defile your rivers
Make love to your beaches
Shitting on your mountains
Who will excoriate their oddity?
Shaking your constellation
To balance the ecology:
Who will indite the epilogue?
Those dirty mercenaries
Who raped your plains
Plundered your joy:
Who will expiate the outrage?
Who will resurrect
Who will deflect
through my window
The day begins!
A brief listen to an inspiring song
Then I face up to the realities I must
Life is full of sorrow and pain
One should realize, however,
that just being alive is a blessing
Anne Frank wrote that
as long as one can be
alone with nature and with God
there will be a a cure for every sorrow
She was right on the mark with that!
I Just want to rest
from my long migration
Find a sweet oasis
Many nets and traps
full of dying songbirds
adorn the route
An army culls us
millions migrating south
hunted to extinction.
Will silence replace
The birdsong each morning
It began as a lovely September, 2001, at least, it should have been.....
somewhere lost in the crossfire, between summer and fall
days growing short, and evenings long
But, things are warped into a sense of surreal. What was seen, can it be real?
It's as if bifocals are mixed in a bin, out of focus, glossed over with grim
Someone lets me borrow a broken pencil, I find paper blowing in the acrid wind
my fingers shake with tensile fear....and, I write a goodbye.. I don't know why......
The city, an ediface in shades of gray stone, smoke, rubble and ash,
littered streets, silent people, crying people, screaming people in fright
A playbill shouts, "LIVE! Mandy Patinkin Concert - The Neil Simon Theater",
ripped, and frayed around the edge...blowing into my face, .... now in my hand
How strange....we were there........was that just last night?
It began as a lovely September, 200l, or it should have been.....
Sirens, shattered concrete, sidewalks, shepherding the living into
the arms of someone, or maybe, .... into the arms of no one
Someone is borrowing a cell phone, ... there is smell of burnt sulfer
Bridges, crosswalks, that will take them back into calamity, .. our new reality
Someone lends me a broken pencil, I find paper blowing in the acrid wind
I write a goodbye... I don't know why......
It began as a lovely September, 2001, or it should have been....
For The Challenge "Chopped"
Sponsored By Craig Cornish
Anything but quietly
I’m standing in the shade
Fixated on pixels
Lost in the rain
Two counts for one drop
They’re lost in the aisles
Pushing pens bleeding notes
Lost in the files
Structure in contrast
Is taking a bow
Explosions in distant fields
Men running through crowds
Authorities always late
Children in tears
Mothers walk aimlessly
Drenched in their fears
The shadows still stand
Reminding of the lost
Burnt in the ground
They remind us of the cost.
Little birds spill onto the gravel
Chirping with disoriented confusion.
A spindly flock warbling
Through cracked lips and bony beaks.
Hawks circle indifferently
Unfamiliar with the call
But acquainted with the cry.
The scarecrows converge,
Singing their songs of
Reunion across the river.
Seductive assurances and
Dry straw lies
Come together when
Hopeful lines form
For a mère poule promise.
Across that green field
The boathouse beckons,
Under late summer boughs
Alive with blossoms.
Across that green field
The boatman waits.
One of the darkest
in human history
is vividly portrayed here
The proud hopes of the Renaissance
and the Enlightenment
gone up in smoke
like the murdered millions
Photos of cruelty and pain
cause me to reflect
nature of man
ponder what will
become of the
travelers on our hollow globe
Words fail to tell us
of the magnitude
of these murders
The horror and pain
have faded with the years
Light falling on the
snow in Jerusalem
in which those with deep souls
can forsee a better future
As the days and nights
continue to pass by
Perhaps one day we will all understand
We must try or perish
To be able to stand up and be thirty feet tall;
shout out and echo from the mountain ranges of chile
to the coast of Japan;
to harm someone without use of brute strength,
but with the power of the words they speak.
And with a single step they shake foundations,
tumbling buildings like the White House,
and the Palace of Westiminster;
one can finally tell what power is.
Those born to lead are destined;
like a wildfire they spread,
contaminating the wood that's built society,
weakening the support;
with cunning superiority,
they triumph over the fire,
dousing with a power that comes to few
who don't lead in fear,
but instead take the necessities of those around him
and own them.
And so fires begin,
from the burning hearts of those like
Adolf Hitler and Jim Jones,
which are doused by unity,
a power created to regain balance
when evil runs its course.
And with this unity,
we've created nations, governments
and in rare occasions, Peace.
The tin men
in a fortress of smoke.
Death all around,
hungry for oil.
Their eyes in the storm
divide and cleanse
to be dragged into the mud
It rumbles on.
One and another,
one gets stronger.
A rainbow of shoes,
the broken tin men.
I would be better off if
I kept my mouth shut
but my burning lips open to reveal
waterfalls of guilty smut
I have a lot to say but will leave it
to those who have the ability
to expose their complaints
better than I can
Expose my complaints……
Sickening pessimistic hypocritical masters
Conservative communist apocalyptic bastards
Living in a sublime society who
have sucked and f ****d up
rehashing daily their greed
paving paths to hell
knowing this---no amount
of effort can save
my starving soul from
© Kim van Breda—1 October 2014
Rolling away into a vast memory of mindless predictions…
You’re a spawn, nothing more…
Says the master of continuous hypocrisy…
Eerie eyed to the three horned absorbency…
Keep turning my wheel…
Until all the sweat is gone…
The aborted holocaust…
It’s not here by nature, or by will…
Keep walking round…
Keep walking steady…
My palms bleed with the urge to stand still…
I see the man with the whip…
You can see the greed within him…
Lashing as they throw the bodies away…
Until the last leg trembles…
We keep watching the ‘oh so obvious symbols…
Oh how Grendel would be proud…
as the earth mourns
alone among the stars
its fountains teary-eyed
yearning burst forth living
dreams rising in silent mists
as time remembers her lost sons
till even yawns
awakens the moon
its gleeful heart uprising
sees the dusk aglow abide
amidst starlight into the east
while seasons concede unsaved
as wind births new kindred souls
of the sun ere aflame
in streams of stellar light
over vast oceans of darken
shadows melancholic rhythms
against the tides enduring smile
as dust once twine comes undone
as sweet incense rise
mere streams in the desert
naked trees hidden in stillness
a daily rhythm constant unheard
questions spoken in silent solitude
as myths ancient now long forgotten
in wary corners
across seas of hope
bequeath dear rainbows
dancing over sunless skies
while below existence suspires
as mankind’s light shines no more
© Eugene Harvey
A Painting By Hitler
How did you make such beauty
Such perfect colors
Light and shadows set in just the right places
What were you thinking
Did you see the beauty of Austria
Did you imagine the people who lived in your art
Were they the blue-eyed blonde people you loved
Was your mind set away from the world you made
Or did you see every dead soldier in the colors
Was each brush-stroke marking someone else sent to the ovens
Why didn’t you paint the suffering you caused
The children and babies being killed at your whim
The old people who lived too long
The Jews, gays and gypsies who you hated for no reason
Why didn’t you paint them.
You will be remembered for all time
Not as an artist
You were never that good
You will be remembered as a murderer
You will be remembered as lunatic
We will remember the millions you killed
The tortures you inflicted
We will mourn the people you killed
But no one will mourn you…ever
The path is winding,
Twisting and stretching.
Reminding us all to keep minding
The things we do.
Our lives -
Are coming to a close.
This we know,
As we all march along.
The world is drifting,
Slipping and falling,
As it comes into view.
No life is better,
Than living this way.
I hope it is swift
And I can leave today.
The whole of us all;
We shake and shiver.
We know this is the last,
The last of our tremors.
The path is winding,
Twisting and stretching.
I hope it keeps reminding
The things that I did.
If a leaf lives in Canada, does more than one look like a pile of leafs?
If I were to take those leafs to America, should they still either be called leafs or really be called leaves?
To read about subject, more pages someone leafs.
It is in beliefs that someone believes.
There is a chief who is chief over a tribe of Indians.
He has a meeting with a council of chiefs where each one achieves
what they had in mind. The chief grows old and they have to relieve from his position as Chief and the chief reason is due to poor health.
Should they leave the Chief in his current chief position which is the highest one of all?
What happens to the Chief's wife when the chief dies? Does she still retain her position as the past chief's wife even though the past chief is deceased or is she only widow of the past chief?
Is the wife either Mrs. or Ms. Chief who now misses the Chief who did die and pass away?
Now that the Chief is missed and not wanting to make or cause any further mischief or alarm, what do you think? I am going to leave the leaf and Chief issue up to you. Will I ever obtain any relief from the whole thing. Put this whole thing into whatever poetic form you want to. I will defer to what you prefer.
My mind and head I just had thumpted
Was I politically correct or poetry bankrupt?
James Thomas Horn
Muchly Retired Veteran