1984 Has Gone.
Nineteen eighty four has gone
But still it's not too late.
George Orwell got the date all wrong
But he recognized our fate.
His words are being acted out
You can see it everywhere.
George Orwell was a prophet man
His truth's at you they stare.
And so we sit, the TV on
As we stare into it's rays.
And the adverts roar so loud and clear
and with our minds they play.
"You must have this, you can't do that
They tell you how to live
And all they think you need to know
Though they haven't much to give.
And everyone be taught to think
Just like the one, the other.
As little bricks they each be formed
But the truth's kept undercover.
And not too many want the truth
Or even think at all.
So me, I turn that TV off
It drives me up the wall.
Copyright © Peter Duggan
Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for
Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain
Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin
I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail
Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled
Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss
How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run
I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance
James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "
Copyright © James Fraser
Did our Age of Aquarius evaporate,
fail to regenerate,
fall too far short of what our parents
knew we should anticipate?
Free love could not sustain
weak non-violent resolutions against
whatever they were for.
Yet, if love is synergy,
and creation is this co-passion's regenerate transgeneration,
how could love cost more than free?
How could co-redemption not invest everything
in learning how to cooperatively Be,
free of enslaving supremacist becoming,
free to come together as ecological We?
Those who stop to count these costs of love,
look for ways to divest of co-opportunity,
ignoring Earth's mentoring economy
of light's photosynthetic comprehensive consciousness,
of neutral's dark unconsciousness,
a fog bank evaporating as double-binding time and rhythm
pattern and color RNA's free-fractal love connection.
If Time's eternal unfolding presence is 0-dimensional,
and Nature's bicameral perception is 2-dimensional prime,
bicameral form with function,
ego emerging from eco,
yang incarnating double-yin,
reiterative communicative processors
borrow RNA's decomposing 3-space with 1-time prime bilateral dimensions,
Shy winterish Uracil of Universal freely decomposing love
greets Cytosine's full summer-formed regeneration,
as objectives greet their past and future subjects;
while Adenine painlessly springs
for Guanine's lavishly com-posted integrative harvest,
as verbs form fractal-recycling nouns,
verbal con-science revolutions,
relearning Earth's organic language,
by echoing universal polypathic syntax.
Universal monocultural power of governance
becomes a Left-brained dominant and reductive tyrant,
an Emperor reified of clothes
to cool His naked Ego-thirst.
when power remains integral within co-passionate,
synergetic uniting cooperatism,
then naked power conjoins dark yin-time-ations,
shy bigendering romantic camouflage,
re-birthing this post-millennial
Age of Aquarius.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt
Footsteps heard from afar
Caught in the glimpse of
Strange shadows on walls,
the unknowable visor of
approaching men in uniform,
wedged in the unbroken frames
of those shadows;
Carrying their guns and arms,
They throw a basket of broken
Legs lost in the war, a dump yard
Of human remains
And there through the window
Struck by the very first sight
Are those pair of peeping eyes
That seek answers for all that is
Left and is yet to come,
They speak of all the pain
Felt in the anguish of the bygones,
A struggle to fight for
All that is fair and just,
To level the men of his ‘breed’
One amongst many born unequal
They see affected patterns of color,
The raunchy division of scattered
In moments of solitariness, they
Look ahead into the future with a
Vision so pure;
a utopian ideal it seems
To many of his kind, unachievable yet
Worth fighting for, for years
Of unsolicited beatings, they
Only wish to see a world of
Equals, the world as a homogeneity of
Dark and blank pieces,
Men of ‘his breed’
Stand up to wrong all the
Blank pieces covered in shadows
By the ‘darkness’ of their own
So a world without
Fear would be created for once,
The end of a gruesome chapter
And the beginning of a liberal one
Copyright © Ankita Dhawan
A poem wrote by me, based on Person who is a deserving icon but still struggling hard with his career life and addressed as disturbed creature.
DISTURBED CREATURE--> Am I ?? BY Mrs.Madhavi Suyog Pagare
Am I so insane, Am I so mad,
Dramatic mood of mine is so die hard.
Destroyed my peace, Shattering my dreams,
People call me as disturbed creature.
As like mounting the pain, attenuating the drain!!
Digesting my feelings lying inside me,
Strangely nobody cared, call me sick.
Teasing me lavishly and my heart is pricked,
Hurted me like hell when addressed me as stupid.
As like showering rain, missing on the lane!!
Time lapse in journey of life,
Can hamper anybody on its path.
When I see innate reflex of mine,
I always use to brightly shine.
Though possessing every job attributes of mine,
I never thought the authorities will ditch and hamper my career line.
Falsely acting bloody swine, making my image as fade as wine.
As like affecting harmonious divine, my soul was, as is transparently pristine!!
Destroying me and testing my patience, Never wanna give up.
Transformed deviations, wanna rightly screw up.
I wanna raise up, I wanna shake up.
I wanna wake up, Tranquilize my mind.
Unzip the professional life compressed by the culprits.
Wanna explore myself, driving the motivated heights of journey.
Lastly waiting for the optimistic opportunity.
Cuffing the suspect ,I wanna rejoice by my pattern of life!!
with Suyog Pagare
Copyright © Madhavi Sarjare pagare
Is It God We Trust? Or Leave In the Dust?
As our courts remove God from this great nation.
We are left with a confused and lost generation!
As God is taken away from our public schools.
A huge tide of immorality is what “rules.”
The Bible is often mocked and discarded.
It was on it’s principles this country was started!
Just about anything of God seems to get scorned.
So many “rush” to worship many ungodly forms.
As God’s name is often tossed and thrown out.
We tend to forget what HE is all about!
Too often, his plans for living are tossed and abused.
No wonder, there’s many who are lost and confused!
As people forget God and worship the fallen creature.
They look to themselves and “glorify” their features.
Many ignore God, and get involved in deep addictions.
And with this, come disease,
heartache and afflictions!
As God looks and sees this nation “bleeding.”
It’s his righteousness, that we need to be seeking!
If we would humble ourselves, he would hear our prayer!
He loves all of us! And he really does care!
Won’t you come to HIM, And invite him in?
Won’t you allow him to be your master and friend?
He brings strength and nourishment to the soul!
It’s only in him that we can be made whole!
By Jim Pemberton
Copyright © Jim Pemberton
Those damn old people with their applesauce, and need for retirement
I giggle at the sizes adult diapers come in,
They haven't worked hard enough for me yet,
We need more cotton picked more tobacco chopped
And more polyester pants
AARP sounds like a senior citizens sorority to me
Oh! how I chide in laughter,
Nothing like a hip replacement with no coverage really tickles the funny bone
I was talking to my grandma and she believes the government does her wrong
But how is that; when you can't even remember what happened yesterday
For all you know they have given you lower prescription payments
I'm snortling to the point I have urinated in my pants
Just remind myself to pick up grandpa's extra big boy bladder briefs
They shouldn't be able to live off of years and years of labor by social security
Besides if they can remember back in their day, they can remember to go get...
A JOB! and while they're talking 'bout the olden days, would you like fries with that?
Copyright © shane solomon
the side hunt of another being distracts from the main goal the bigger picture new blood in the tribe all ways brings new thunder in the lighting storm of a cloud to rest tribesmen warriors questioned on there Integrity coucils held in different ways non
traditoal ways many societys in the past life many crumbles many edgeings craved in stone from past generations in the over all lifeform many civalazations crumbled before the one being build before the eyes of the laborers the laborers of the temple the foundation of the
lifeform The structue of which u create for ur self the old carpenters saying mesaure twice
cut once comes to mind we all might not come out square every mock up but the
ability to adjust and measure up time and time again to become the master piece
we all want to become is the test of the builder within
Copyright © Joseph gaydon
The old, the new barely meet on the street of Bardstown road, yet diversity so unique, from Cherokee to the rarity, stepping forth in time with the antique structures surrounding you, from magnetic tape recordings to punk truly a highland of culture. The Victorian and the shotguns the two guns blazing an electric mix of the streetcars undesired prelude to hate Ashbury a lower height, thinking how Hunter S. Thompson may have mumbled a few gonzo words, on the way to decadent and depraved Kentucky Derby but where was I. The greasy spoons all in a row, out wrestle the dining rooms but the salons collage with saloons, somehow the college student gets passed the culture shock. A young man sits at the bus stop his guitar propped on the glass, maybe he is writing a hit single or maybe just hung over, as a young girl in a miniskirt with a quick flip of long hair and a glance over her shoulder hurries somewhere. My friends just want to look at girls and crack a joke or vice versa.
On a white board scribbled meet the author of Cornbread Mafia sometime in November. There is just a strange feeling about this road, as the politically correct are begging to slay the political satirist, like a living far side cartoon, making a statement, about which is more corrupt.They say, it takes one to know one but even more to know what you are not . Will corporate media continue to slowly suffocate journalism, with wet rice paper slowly, layer upon layer until journalism is dead? Then they will come for individual’s rights of free speech like a snail over a razor blade until the sword rusts with mucus. This began about Bardstown Road but ends as a Bard, a Town and a Road.
Copyright © John Beam
Regarding the alleged naughtiness of Lord Sewel, former Deputy Speaker of the House of Lords and Chair of the Privileges and Conduct Committee...
“Order, order!” he shouted “We’re all out of line”
“I’ll see to that” quoth the whore
“And if you’re a good boy we’ll do three in a bed,
You can snort off my ti**ies and more”
Oh silly old Sewel you poor addled old fool
So clearly misguided and randy
That the question of cash and the secretive flash
Were obscured in a cloud of nose candy
Copyright © Gail Foster
I do not know?
Society still sets the stage,
So anxiety will feed our rage,
With something we cannot digest,
That makes us feel like second best...
The prize we win in this charade,
Is summized by who is less than paid,
Divide that by your social class,
And become a product of the past...
Buffeted by all the poor,
That stand before a half closed door,
Not concerned by what they see,
Since we're the ones who want the key...
Not the one thats made of lead,
But the one that's gold instead,
Elitist think we'll steal their wealth,
To have a chance to free ourself....
But it seems our debt is never paid,
Until we're dead and left to lay,
So they can make another million,
Backs forfeit another trillion...
Copyright © Terry Ledwell
Who Is Your Neighbour?
When I was young and lonely,
Sometimes it was me.
But as I got older and became more conversational,
It was whoever I stopped to talk to on my weekly constitutional.
And at college it was most anybody on my block;
When relating to them, I hardly ever watched the clock.
But really its anybody and even more so, the nobodies,
No matter what difference or diversity, they're somebodies.
And until governments get their political systems right,
It's the Syrian refugees who only find cold in the night.
Written 9/13/2015, posted 9/13/2015
For the Trashed #2 contest, sponsor Broken Wings
Entered for the Who Is Your Neighbour contest sponsored by Mystic Rose judged on 9/14/2015
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan