I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree, the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries.......
I try to mute the sound of them
For..., I was there, I hid in fear, was somehow spared, but now I look for
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope.... but nothing, nothing left.
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.
Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I
live in fear with no one here.
I'm just a girl, or at least I was.... for just a while.
I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling
blood as if for fun? For thrill? For what?
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust. They poisoned our wells, burned out our land,
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......,
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet, across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me
There are no flowers, there are no trees,
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned,
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me
Inspired By Cyndi's Challenge on Genocide 8/28/2014
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated,
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.
Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed
throughout the world.
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
I do not know?
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:
Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.
He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.
After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.
In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.
Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.
He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.
Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.
On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.
Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.
His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.
In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.
On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:
‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.
Tell my people that I love them.
They must continue the fight.’
Mahlangu died for a cause!
The Struggle Continues…
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
THE SMOKESTACKS OF AUSCHWITZ
A trail of smoke fades to an autumn dawn,
as sounds of morning break unearthly still,
arising to the day, some life goes on,
while others have the fear it never will.
Some ashes drift about the morning air,
appearing as do snowflakes in a stall,
to restless breezes they drift everywhere
and they are spread about before they fall.
Each life that was, is slow in pure descent,
and longing for the earth turning below,
the mother of all life, where time is spent,
until time's all run out--it's time to go.
Down in the valley echoes from a train,
awhistling, here come the dead again.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
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.
A thunder-clap, the storms approach
Each eerie revelation
No hope for man
Nor none for 'roach
A prophetic annihilation
The World awaits, a harrowed end
Mans soul, it hangs
Tentative, it bends
Ensnared, in its false treasures
The evening veil of darkness
Accomplice, to the Moon
Covers up its naked secret
A portent clear
A harbinger of doom
His end, long in the making
A teardrop in the Ocean
He waits there, shaking
Unsaved, in his devotion
Arch-Angels, weep eternal
Both wings and hands are tied
The Wind it cuts
The Rain can never
Wash clear Infernal ties
Faith, leaves you , at the Alter
Tattooed, in your own shame
In Times of War
In Trial by Fire
Death, calls you by your name
A Tribute to Edgar Allen Poe...
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
I do not know?
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)
Look upon city once known by name,
ruins that I called home, streets swallowed by flame,
in time alive shell not witness less of what should you understand,
reach on to hand of a stranger, scroll remain;
in signs that might be changing welcome,
different of a man.
When dawn awakes and there is no light,
upon dusk of man darkness will be spread by sight,
in time not different change will arise, life we thought you knew,
death would recognize.
Hearts will bound to King without a Crown,
why do mothers shed tears, echo rooted in the ground,
is there reason of a foolish wars, contracts written in blood,
new born babies died breathless, can't even appreciate the Sun,
don't deserve to live, not worth of the land,
existence will be scattered in ashes,
you will be remembered
Ukraine was a beautiful place, I was told.The rolling fields of green, the flat
squares of wheat.Small farms clustered along dirt roads where children played.Now
filled with the lingering stench of death.The farms once overflowing with hard work
and laughter now sit silent.
I'm speaking softly to myself so my thoughts will be heard by someone.I'm alone
and dying of starvation.Yesterday I turned nine years old, there was no
celebration.Tomorrow when the glorious sun slowly rises and floods the empty
fields with light, I'll be dead.The cold hearted Russian soldiers came with anger and
frustration and took everything.My village, once a moving breathing community has
been slowly starved to death, without remorse.
This night seems colder than most, my mind keeps floating in and out of purpose,
I've found none.All have died and I'm the last of my family
Yesterday when the sun was setting I heard scratches and whispers at the front
door,asking for food, I had none.Within hours the sound stopped as they died
laying upon the cold wooden planks of night.
No one is coming and the pain has stopped.I'm tired and going to quietly drift into
a deep sleep, foreverThey say I am a pretty girl, but I'll never know
Tomorrow the Russians will sweep through and burn our village.No one will ever
know we were ever here.They'll be an emptiness where there was life.
Death is welcome.These rolling fields will be filled now with the ghosts of
innocence searching for a place lost in the emptiness of time.
Contest..Genocide ..Speak for the Lost
in a world spinning
an unlikely dream,
running to and fro
knowing all is not
what it may seem,
o’er wishful soul’s
a futureless heart’s
afore life’s destined
twisted fearful chill,
poison suicide pill,
a wistful breath’s
free spinning wheel
siring inherent lies
o’er imaginary time,
yet fiery destination
froward final crime.
© Eugene Harvey
Fishing in Black Sea
We found the old emeralds
The tears of lovers
In hope to cover the Earth:
Mountains of leather,
Summit holocaust landscapes:
Valley of dead soles.
Inspired by the piles of shoes
in the Auschwitz concentration camps
A relief from stress, such a sweet paradise
A deafening crash then a blinding light
Poor boy, your fate is sealed like loaded dice.
Due to beastly luck this child I must smite.
Perhaps he'll go where I have yet to behold;
This kind, bereaved, extinguished progeny.
Ill-fated boy, please reach those gates of gold.
Oh, child! Why walk the streets of Germany?
Fully at rest for all eternity,
All I can do is hope forever that
Maybe the last thing you saw wasn't me.
My last image? Your torn figure laid flat.
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
Cast in stone and written in blood
Are the ideals of a lost nation?
Paving the returned ashes of the ancients
Their patience wore thin by the actions of the passionless
Armed in tools for a journey with no set direction
But their steps forward
Matter to no particular purpose but a means to no end
Instead to destruction
Is their surrounds with earth shattering sound to deaf ears
In the hope
That the blind see and fear the renowned vision of tears
And overcome by what comes over
With a super nova of banished spirits carving out time
In hope to expos
The sickened seconds and momentary minutes into hours
Those who have powers
Will note the swinging vote they wield
Those who are in this field
Have only the word as a shield
Blood spilled and dead, limp, bodies
Will be served on the far vision
Will be the cutlery of the day's dishing
From the table view only red is seen
Because all that within is left on the scene
Those who were framed in this picture
Can only refer to the Revelations of scripture
Those who were in erratic panic
Had to mirrored the ignorance that of "Titanic"
How can men put their belief in false security?
As survivors of today were fooled by the hope of tomorrow
Let’s not borrow the bravado of a lost society
Because Christianity is the true model we should follow.
being in this tin womb, dark and safe,
that's the thing; inside the dark corners
and air-lock doors, it's a floating life
toothpaste and pureed stew float by;
still, here's not to dwell on the minutiae
and other small things
and the silent solar-wind powers on,
while below, the earth, the sea, the clouds,
the blue and green, the tempered purple hues,
and if from the land you peer up here,
from where the earth is dying, you'll see
me sigh, through flocks of hope,
and notice that I'm crying
Hordes of screams sounded out all around and masses of slashed bloody villagers staggered into our village. Grownups started running to finding stuff to clean them They kept saying “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” and talking about running away so they could live.
They said that hundreds of men had been hacked to death and they were the lucky ones. There was rape…and death…and starvation…and disappearing thousands, not just in their village, but in other villages in Dafur, too.
Since Uncle Sofarlo and grandma hadn’t arrived, yet, Mom became histeric. Then, someone said a man with an old woman was still in the desert and they weren’t hurt. Mama raising her eyes upward and thanked God.
I didn’t understand exactly what was happening, but a few years later, I learned first hand. One dreadful day, the Arab militia rode into my village. The first thing they did was ride over to the well and start cutting off people’s arms and pushing them to the ground. They laughed as they drew water for themselves and their camels. Then, they cut off my father’s head and started grabbing my playmates and their mothers.
Terrified, I slunk back into our hut. My parents had dug a hole in the floor beneath each bed shortly after my grandmother and the rest of the survivors had come to live with us. They told me that if those bad men came to our village that I must hide in the hole and not make one sound. So, that is what I did.
Sometimes, I would lift the cover and peek out. I saw one of those men slash Uncle Sorarlo’s head with a hatched and throw it in the well. One of them grabbed my mother by the hair and slung her into a nearby hut. Then he dismounted and went in. Her horrible screams still flash through my memory. I saw and heard appalling things happening to other women, young girls, and even the little boys.
I could hear loud voices and laughter as the Janjaweed savages watched the survivors scamper like rabbits into the desert. Next, they set the huts on fire and rode after them. Then, there was silence.
I stayed shivering in that dark hole what seemed like forever. Then, my older brother came over to help me out. He had hidden beneath his bed, too. We never saw our grandmother or cousins again, but we were alive!
Survival was the next challenge. My big brother was smart and had faith in God. It is because of his strength and bravery that we are both alive today to tell the story.
Please help the people of Dafur.
I chose Dafarian Genocide.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE Sponsor Cyndi MacMillan
PART 1 SETS THE STAGE. PLEASE READ
Another example of Western hypocrisy,
Is Bahrain where they claim "Democracy",
A self-designed "Democracy" of dictatorship,
Which actually started from a pirate-ship,
In history you will find that some pirates,
Who were the robbery and theft laureates,
Through cheating, fraud and deception,
Killings, aggression and corruption,
They came into power to abuse everyone,
Before was with sword and now is with the gun,
They thought that their kingdom will last,
Because of their savagery, which is vast,
Did not imagine that they would be faced,
With people's protests and be disgraced,
And that the whole world will come to know,
About the truth of Bahraini Kingdom's show,
This show is about the killings and rapes,
Bodies with signs of torture and scrapes,
Children, men or women have no difference,
In receiving this torture for-instance,
They raid the houses with troops anytime,
And become altogether partners in crime,
The news are filled with photos of tortures,
But Western governments are just the watchers
They have no movement or any gestures,
Perhaps they're waiting to eat like "Vultures",
West have been playing "Divide and Rule",
Thats how they fight with this tool,
But they couldn't start a Shia-Sunni fight,
So they created "Takfiris" or "Salafis", despite,
Now they just sit back and enjoy the show,
Because they sowed this decades ago,
O' Muslims! We must wakeup and realize,
Or we will, from earth, vanish, otherwise,
O' People of Bahrain we are with you by heart,
Every hurdle has a comfort in a part,
Even though it is Eid, tears are dropping,
As if the humanity is itself plopping.
Eid is a word for Muslims happy celebrations specially after Ramadhan. The Bahraini people are facing aggression and brutality of Bahrain's government forces since many decades.
From the book "Take Your freedom" 2013
Available at www.amazon.com
Unrecognizable breathing carcasses
March to the graceful beat of death
A welcomed sentence to their
Savagely tortured bodies
And extinguished spirits
Unjustly slaughtered by lunatic men
Self-created superiority based on
Flawed, foolish beliefs
Manically smug smiles grotesquely displayed
As they watch the skeletal scum
Forcibly assembled for
Violently chaotic stampeding unfolds
Blood chilling screams forever echoing
Through the chambers of hellish horrors
Martyred smoke clouds the sky
Fast fading in sight
But eternally haunting
I do not know?
Just watching my TV
New York City Centre,Jet Crash.
News Call,Broadcast stall.
Drop the headlines!!
This is the new line
Look up on the Skyline
Right on the building top.
On another line
Pentagon now a exagon
Another plane drop.
Whats that?whats that?
Beam in on the spot.
Another streak across the sky
Sliiced another tower
Whats going on?Whats going on?
Another crash,big explosion
Switch broadcast over to Washington
Whats your impression?
Whats your emotion.
"Whats your reaction"?
Can't believe my eyes J
Just as it began,I realize
This is an atrocity
Right here,in the heart of the city.
Terrorist Attack!!Terrorist Attack!!
Then the burning Walls a falling
Like crashing dominoes
Right to the ground.
Armagadeon has arrived,without warning!!
CIA, FBI,Home Security Then the Guv
Blaming intelligence,asking why.
Collate and evaluate
Then the appropriate reply.
Calling the president for a comment.
"What do you think of unfolding events"?
"WE will find the perpetrators one by one
Whether he is hiding in Iraq,Iran, or Pakistan.
We will call up the troops,assembly the galleon,
Then bomb them ,blast them Clean up their land,
Bring in new administrations,
Thats the plan
Fireman, Policemen,all on the scene
"This is total disaster,the worst we ever seen.
Engines,sirens,surgeons and volunteers
Combining efforts in a stream.
Such a nightmare, awful dream
But in the present,
the on going theme
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
I do not know?
Salt soaked eyelids sagging
Unceasing streams of liquid
Tears stained the silk face
Painting the terrors of the day
Hush my child, I'll sing you a lullaby
Caressing you with the heavenly chorus
The ground does not desire anymore sorrow
But the stars crave your twinkle
Steadily, curtains of skin descend
Masking the pain etched into the eyes
Lips tremble, uneasy slumber
No more teddies, no more light
Hush, I'll bathe your dreams in white
Let the skin slide from your shoulders
Ease the suffering of physical wounds
I'll mend your broken winged heart to fly.
Tranquility overtakes the mind
Scattered breaths steady to an even beat
A rare peacefulness discovered
Yet the burning sun shall overtake the night
Hush, I'll cradle your bare heart
And fly you to the heaven of stars
Laugh as though you've never uttered a breath
For this shall not last
The morning blaze arises chasing the night
Ashes of humans piled up into mounds
The remains of dreams and lives broken
And one little child
Hush, my child Hush.
Single file in a row
bare feet freezing in the snow
in a pile, bodies burn
all wait fearfully for their turn
ash and smoke clog the air
ringing with screams of despair
moving closer to their end
their minds begin to slowly bend
the snow is stained with crimson red
drinking in the blood they've shed
in the trees, starved ravens wait
to feed on those who've met their fate
more bodies burn, the bells tolls on
the moon reveals a scarlet dawn
as all the corpses burn in heaps
just for now, the darkness sleeps
By Morgan Mise
Written December 3, 2012
Scheming together years ago, before the weekly executions,
dreaming of days we'd lift the fog of ignorance from the masses
and paradigms of stagnation shifted with cerebral solutions.
To no avail our heady course in theory only passes.
We knew the day, the hour, the minute how texts would be rewritten.
The generation of our spawn in classes they would read it.
History so enthralling, with learning would they be smitten.
Instead the propaganda beast so ravenous and we must feed it.
The old men while away their time with tales of a foiled coupe,
and students smile and avert their stare, it's better to be a number.
The One he loathes such minions who wish to think or do,
so all the day of arduous labor leads to fitful slumber.
Yes you and I, my loyal friend, matyrs in the making,
outwitting cowards that march us to the death of liberty.
But threats and greed lead to your word finally forsaken.
In brutal death at least my soul will wonder this world free.
The coming times can unfold,
far accross to all lands,
the casting shadow has fallen,
with it's far reaching hands,
accross our four cornered world,,
Humanity progressed to progressive sufferage,
that comes with many names,
the ideology won without a shot,
convinced populations into guilted shame,
lost are voices of courage,,
The warring world will arise,
between makers and takers,
parasitic ideology's green eyed mind,
re-writing regulations by progressive thinkers,
big brother's utopian great enterprise,,
Dependent we all become, parasitically,
even forced fed into submission,
by governmental state so enlarged,
numbered you are by institution,
nothing owned, only redistributed cynically,,
Paupers suffer under progressive fortitude,
soulless programs of living propaganda,
your worth, what you produce,
socialized into this living agenda,
living taxed products of servitude,
, and then...
The rise will come independent,
carrying courage and freedom proudly,
with wisdoms weapon in hand,
knowledge in the other soundly,
honor reclaimed by the sentient,,
Independent declarations germinating from seed,
feared by any progressive regime,
warriors in freedom stand tall,
threatened is the progressive dream,
renewing freedoms that will breed,,
The liberty that spawned revolution,
alive from all moral conceptions,
viewed as evil that's progressive,
feared are soulless seeking redemption,
the light of liberty's salvation,,
Beating freedoms of sentient heart,
the salvation of fighting worth,
a force greater than any darkness,
warriors of liberty step forth,
champions of honor that impart,,
, next, the final chapter of...
Ideological war of the worlds,
eye to eye never seen,
the hatred between clearly drawn,
problems with peace to intervene,
the conflict as it unfolds,,
Coming as thieves of night,
armys on both sides comes,
fortifying and building societial walls,
truth and lies propaganda welcomes,
armored suited masses to fight,,
Emerges the lights of honor,
the independent class called defenders,
private elites of character gold,
the shadows behind all pretenders,
opperatives that's far more superior,,
Defenders are warriors of light,
core beliefs that's solely independent,
religiously organized they never follow,
thorns in a crowned tyrant,
independent wills of great might,,
They are why freedom thrives,
true leaders leading into tomorrow,
that govern by liberty's will
that invites everyone to follow,
founding fathers of our lives..
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. . .
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.
I do not know?
They say it did not happen
That we did not really see
The horror's and the sadness
That the Holocaust would be
They say it's just not true
That there was never any plan
To kill every boy and girl, woman and Jewish man
They say they were simply, casualties of a violent war
But the proof is there for us to see
In what they had in store
There are pictures of the death camps
Of the survivors thin and pale
Of the ovens that were fired
And the smell of death so stale
In the mass graves that littered the land
In the experiments that they documented so freely
In the letters from loved ones, long gone
In the asset's seized
And to the victor went the spoils
As the Jewish people died, staved and toiled
In the concentration camps
With names we should always keep in mind
Mauthausen and Gusen
Like letters of the alphabet
Should be stored in memory for all time
Yes, they try to say it was not real
That it was all a lie
That six million Jewish people did not really die
But the simple truth lies waiting for the world to find
So remember our history
Pass it down your family line
Our children now so far removed from these tragic times
Need to have reminders
To ensure that they don't develop blinders
To the evil that filled the land
And of the dictator Hitler with all his mass destruction plans
Yes, it did happen
No matter what they do or say
History can never be erased
As long as we remember it that way
So for all the lives and families that the Holocaust destroyed
We must continue to remember the suffering and the pain
So we can be prepared should such evil call on us again
Lest we forget
And others will die
As evil is the only thing that could tell such a lie!
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