Looking all around me and becoming more aware,
Of the people and surroundings at which many children stare.
I come to terms and realize the acts of hate I see,
And now I fear that this same scene will soon envelope me.
Walking on a lonesome road, though crowded it may seem,
I pass through silent hordes of people hushing silent screams.
Beside me standing hand-in-hand, older man and wife,
I wonder if they thought like me, what happened to their life.
I reminisce now further back before these broken days,
A time of wasting food and drink and dressing different ways.
But now we all look just alike in tattered grays and browns,
Drifting through these damaged streets and sporting matching frowns.
I thought we'd left the two world wars and poverty behind,
To linger in our broken books and fill an older time.
A time where death would cloud the world with sorrow and disease,
And fear would plant itself within the innocent with ease.
This made me think and look around for Noah and his arc,
And for the first time since the night I heard a flustered lark.
I quickly turned around to spot within a child's hands,
An injured bird whose time had brought it here from other lands.
The child stole a piece of thread from a redbreast robin's nest,
And wrapped around the ailing bird a splint so it could rest.
An hour past the lark took flight and answered to the wild;
The only resting place of hope is in the bright eyes of a child.
Copyright © Elaine Ho
Farewell, then, AUKN boss,
The next this year makes three.
By the time they find a substitute,
Slovenes will be at sea.
He tried to cover his behind;
AUKN boss of bosses,
As every week, balances grew bleak:
He weighed merits and losses.
With all this he'd no time to eat,
And round and round he flew.
And now he's split in a hissy-fit;
So helmsman, too-de-loo!
Day after day, day after day,
He drifted on the ocean;
Guano-vernment rained on his ship
Their suggestions for promotion.
Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Corporate boards crosslink;
Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Let's take you for a drink.
Accountants talking rot: O Christ!
Missions, visions - oh please!
Yea, slimy characters need legs
And slimy policies.
So has he done an hellish thing?
Not hired who? We dunno:
Was it absurd, to have a separate curd
From the whey Slovenia owes?
This wretch won't play, after 60 days;
Pissflaps, he'll have to go!
God help ya, gospod Bencina
From the fiends, that plague us thus! -
It's time to go — shot like cross-bow,
The AUKN boss.
Ah! walk-out day! what evil looks
Had I from Ernst and Young!
Who's at a loss? AUKN's boss
Wouldn't take a bung?
"You'll be" quoth one, "abolished - no
Stigma to double-cross."
He chose to go - why? We don't know:
Harmless AUKN boss.
Re-reading the original gave me a great idea for dinner until I realised all the storks have all flapped off to Africa for the winter. Pity, as I have some ancient marinade from Tuš. Like the subject of the poem, I didn't have the stamina for a Coleridge-length effort.
The National Poet Of Slovenia In A Language People Understand interprets important Slovenian affairs for the non-Slovene speaking world. www.maria.si
Copyright © Julian Bohan
The mighty eagles soar high in the sky.
The penguins explore the sea.
The loons are in Congress.
Copyright © Jerry Stevenson
Arise, you song birds sing in morning dew;
The flow’ry host to colour fields and furrows,
And sap of Spring runs gold in willows veins;
As tender leaves unfold to speak of birth,
Fresh mountain ranges iced give life anew—
While waters melt and stream through cricks and borrows
The gleams of light will melt the winter strains
Though spills of oil have quenched the songs of earth.
The corporate sting of greedful revenue,
Has bankrupt natural wonders—greedy farrows
The eagle has no pow’r to save her eggs,
Tall forests fall and crush the robin’s hue
When flow’ry petals change to black on yellow—
The spotted fawns arise with warbled legs
Copyright © J.R. Dawson
globalization’s bird of slavery
migrates south for
metamorphasizing into bird of freedom
which migrates back north
singing its tale.
Copyright © John Goodman
To U.S. born both wild and free
There is no worse place one could be
Than in a prison cell for years
For most men ‘tis a gruesome fear
But to souls in other lands
Where freedom’sjust a word that stands
On paper-- but an object dead--
With it you cannot bake your bread.
In movies in these lands they watch
Thugs whose pants fall off their crotch.
Who off to court they go-- then jail--
No mention made of tears or bail
Third Worlds watch the U.S. cells
That should resemble Dante’s hell.
Instead they look so germ free clean
Like the quarters of a Queen
Luxury in killer's cell?
How can thieves live-- oh so --well
U.S. jail is no bad life--
Well, you might miss someone's wife
As one boss of one small store
Told me-- as he scrubbed his floor:
“Me, I'll fly to U.S. land
Kill some guy and live so grand."
His tune said joke-- but it was not--
(U.S. TV makes brains rot)
But-- twas no secret-- truth could tell
He'd snuggle in Obama's cell.
Victoria Anderson-Throop © December 1, 2012
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop
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 prophets forewarned us in ancient words
Of monstrous, metallic, reptilian birds
Igniting skies with a flight of fire:
Below them the smoke of charred Earth will spire.
These death-pterodactyls are coming true:
Their pilots turn bleak the horizons of blue,
Sleek avian avatars, spilling down
Their droppings that cinder the field and town.
The creatures themselves are consumed in flame,
And man is a dinosaur, obsolete-name,
Forgotten as prophesied, slain by sleek
Low-swooping pteranodons, bones-in-beak.
Copyright © Steve Eng
My son, speaking like a true griot,
A body of things rejected
By the sinister profile of language
Spoke one clear prophecy to the riot's
Heart, before he from this world was ejected
He named the bagage
He carried unbowed in his lineage
But did not name the bird
With the cold and ominous plumage,
Now I wonder if he heard
That after his hope was long deferred
He is waiting in sleep for a better world.
I saw the feathers of the bird
A vulture sifting the sky
Over swelling carcases, it was all
The hurrican had left.
My son has left more bereft
Than thousand debacles that this day palled,
But I will read his last poem again
Against the cancer of this pain.
Copyright © David Smalling