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Prose Poetry Political Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Political

These Prose Poetry Political poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Political. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Political poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

L'Italia del Nonno - Drunken Pen Contest

It's addsurd! Who's going to veliebe his lies? Who's going to bote for him? Plutocracy in these times? To besmear American reputation?... with just a cl-ass... exercising its power by birtue of its wealth...and the legislators...aligators... those who considered themselves... the best...to receive... hiccup!...from lobbies. Or is it Oligarchy? ... or Aristocracy? It's one of those "cracy." Or is it this glass of wine? The old Lady from Arizona had endorsed him. Ha! He must not ve bery happy with it. Wrinkles of xenophobia... legalized discrimimination. Excuses, lies, and negligence... Somebody has to pay for the vroken dishes...in doggy perceptions without style... knocking at the door of their prejudice... trespassing upon their addsurd generalizations ... satisfying their own prommmiscuous imagination...they tend to destroy the ebbidence ... coloring just coloring, coloring, coloring. Pickpocketing their errant misconceppttions... their exiled spiritualility... their mind in poverty...guilty of  larceny, of stupididity, of biolence...On the other hand, an extended hand at traffic lights trying to get what they could ...some change...coins...rusted coins which were never thrown into a fountain... no need of wishes. Trevi fountain and Anita, Marcello, Federico...La Dolce Vita. L'Italia del nonno. Another inmigrant but in another country... Argentina, where foreigners went to work the land and were accepted with open arms. L'Italia del nonno. I need to go to visit his streets, his old towns, his Mediterranean sea, his Sicily... Rome and the Trevi Fountain...Anita, she reminds me of another woman... I thought I had forgotten her and her plunging necklines...sophistitication, style, glamor...lip balm, lip boosters, lip conditioner, lip gloss, lip liner, lip plumper, lip primer. Arden's Red Door never considered  the gag reflex for a pearl necklace. That's elegant; I should use that line. She should use the makeup remober at the morning vefore she wake up to sleep. Sleeping veauty: a porcelain...gorgeous outside - empty inside. Was it Arden or Rubinstein? or Lauder? "Pleasure"...her perfume still lingers... memories from a vuried past. She used to call me but I let her go. She knows how to cuckook. I miss her Cannelloni and Lasagna.L'Italia del nonno... The land that he had to leabe...Nero, Caligula, Machiavelli, Dante's Inferno,The Borgias, Mussolini. Hiccup!... Who's going to bote for him? Re-election never sounded so good...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here is a story about myself

My mind went on a trip one sunny day
In that trance I was president
Papa was proud of me
Mama felt pleased too
“You are a natural leader” said my neighbor
“I knew you would make it, it’s not a fluke” commented another
Frenemies surfaced in haste


My face was on TV
I was a president on the move 
Ain’t nobody stood in my way
I travelled far and wide
My term was short
I had to make an impact
Etch my name in the hall of fame
History had to have my name

Time is a march and the powerful are drummers
He who drums loudest leads the song
His life is lavish and his abode magnificent
Look who is drumming
Would they be drumming if I weren’t president?
Are they friends or foes?
Only time will tell
Then there was a reality check.
The chimera was over

I am just who I am
The same old nobody


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MOTHER TONGUE

We had a steel-coiled fence 
that kept us apart;  kept in purity,
spoke out in purity.

We played Barbies in a tree that
bordered each side, not knowing
it had a
zone.

Our Barbie world was created; 
dresses hung on branches
little mirrors for wee doll hands;
leaves assigned our closets.

I gibbered and you jabbered, and
the worst thing happened, I learnt
English, but what happened to your
French?

Language traveled through the holes
of our steel-coiled fence.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

Benefit for all is converted for the use of a few their pockets are included in national budgets and their wants, top the country's priority list. Even the Cock's raw corn is highly coveted by the Cat. An old plantain tree, preventing its suckers from growing or a father, who frustrates the welfare of his family is exactly the hell, created by these money and power mongers The political system is all about a game of cards. A particular clique fixes their huge pipes as the fatherland shrinks under no mercy. Leaders they call themselves, yet they invest on the hunger of their people profit in the poverty of the land and trade on all forms of artificial instability. Acquisition of a generation's sustainability turns out to be a hobby as they still fight for the crumbs with the weak and go for the meat, no matter how hot the soup is disregarding those who cooked it. The same citizens who once lined up to give their confidence which has now become a fatal sacrifice are gradually reaching the wall. So know ye this! A hungry man is one that is angry and when millions of angry men unite nothing can stop their quest. A people once treated less than animals will hunt like vengeful kings taking what is rightly theirs marking a restoration, stained with blood. Blood, far from innocence and purity!
Dedicated to African leaders, especially Nigeria!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Patience

PATIENCE

We hear that patience is a virtue 
Is this true, or simply virtual reality 
When leaders are teaching our youth; 
do as I say, not as I do 
Regression to a version of the American 
truth

Impatience is becoming intolerance 
But to be patient is viewed as ignorance 
In a blind world conforming to violence 
Very few see need for benevolence

Many view crime as way of life 
Government fuels fires, causing strife 
Committing true crime with their lack of 
pride 
Our country torn by those who lied

Promoting bigotry and distaste for the 
unknown
 But these days color and homosexuality 
are lactose free 
Intolerant of equality, it’s a problem, 
clearly 
Love is love, embrace the hate 
Hold it tightly until it sees the light

Peace pushed just beyond our reach 
We realize that “hope and change” was 
just a speech 
Wars raging through the land we call 
home 
In God we trust, not this powerful regime

Speak out now with virtuous impatience 
Change is change no matter how small 
the feat
Restore hope with unfaltering acceptance 
and grace 
Serve what you stand for, no time left to 
waste


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What is truth?

The question posed by a politician to Jesus after his arrest
It was Pontius Pilate Governor of Judea from A.D. 26-36.
To this day the answer still eludes politicians 

The politician and the diplomat
Two different tools used to make ugly truths palatable
And beautiful truths unrecognizable 

Politicians and diplomats never say No
Their Yes means maybe and their Maybe means No


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WOMAN

Day by day we pray to stay alive, ladies, the face of this world is slowly changing, no longer do we need to hold our heads in disgrace, and it’s about time we take our place. No longer let us be connived, nor let us forget the silent cries in trees that our sista’s souls are still hangin’, see the true in others denies rather waistin’ yourself complaining. Nor keep us from strength to stand by man, strength to leave if struck by hand, no more bruises upon our face for we also help to make this race. No more scars upon our souls for only marked with beauty moles and let our stories be fortold for we are women who behold, a key to inspiration and moral pride, coming out of our hide, Gods rules are to which one should only apply, but most chose pain to keep inside, left alone and died. Your elimination of God’s creation, we are but faith to this nation. Men of ignorance we are sick of belligerence, cuz we prove intelligence, cuz where there’s no woman there is no man strong and on this land we belong as distinct and separate persons walk along. Before your ignorance get the respect that you so vainly seek, practice what you claim til' all things you do or speak shall in reality be the same, nor let us be so eased to blame and give us our well earned past due fame, all musical and sorrowful stories contained. My people, make me proud to know your name and I’ll return the favour by doing the same.
For all men whom think us fast, remember the good ones always finish last, we women are still raped future and past so personally you can kiss my ... In us your babies wombs all your life fluids we consume, to mothers growing up too soon, to those mommas babies and daddy’s maybes.....REMEMBER, when your round to actin' shady, we are the ladies of this land, women with pride we stand, I am a WOMAN and for equal respect, I would do it again!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FACE TO FACE

I FACE YOU / YOU FACE ME 
THIS IS A PHASE OF REALITY 
PRACTICALLY DEATH IS ETERNITY
HOPE YOU GET THIS CONSTANTLY

THAT THE TRUTH REVEALS TRUTH AND LIES ARE DEMONIZED 
VISUALIZE THE TRUTHS AND OPEN ALL EYES
‘CAUSE THE FACT WE HAVE TO FACE IMPACTS ALL MINDS
BUT THE PRICE WE HAD TO PAY COST MORE THAN OUR LIVES
AS WE CRAM KNOWLEDGE IN SKULLS IN HOPE THEY'LL TURN WISE
BUT LIES FOR THE WISE ARE UNSPOKEN TRUTHS UTILIZED
THE STREETS ARE HARD AS OUR NEIGHBORS CLOSE THEIR BLINDS 
LIFE IS WAR: YOU AND I ARE LANDMINES
AS DISEASES OF LOVE MAKING KILL HUSBANDS AND WIVES
THE BOOKS WERE RIGHT, WE ARE LIVING IN HARD TIMES
AS THE WEALTHY STAY WEALTHY BUT THE POOR ECONOMIZE
THE INTELLIGENT STAY HEALTHY BUT THE IGNORANT ARE OTHERWISE
FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH THEN THEY REALIZE
THAT LIFE IS A TRANCE WE ARE ALL HYPNOTIZED
IN THIS RAT RACE OF HUMAN DISGRACE 
CHANGING THE WHOLE PLACE 
TO PACE THE CHASE OF THE FACTS WE HAVE TO FACE 
THAT LIFE IS A TEST WE JUST HAVE TO ACE
AND LEARN AFTER DEATH THAT WE ARE
FACE TO FACE

I FACE YOU / YOU FACE ME 
THIS IS A PHASE OF REALITY 
PRACTICALLY DEATH IS ETERNITY
HOPE YOU GET THIS CONSTANTLY

THESE FAT CATS WITH STOMACHS FOR TIRES MUST RETIRE
AS OUR LEADER’S FACING THEIR OWN DESIRES
WHILE THESE LIRES FUEL THE WRONG NATION’S FIRE
LET’S REHIRE ADMIRALS WE ADMIRE
THIS NATION USES COMPASSION FOR FAME AND FASHION
GOOD IDEALS COME IN RATIONS
WHERE DOUBT IS BROUGHT SLAVERY IS BOUGHT
NOW WE FACE FEELINGS TAGGED BY PRICE
AS THE IMPRESSION OF THE RECESSION SLIGHTLY RISE
THE VALUE OF A GESTURE ISN’T A JUST REWARD
CAUSE A SIMPLE SMILE NO ONE CAN AFFORD
AS THIS WARNING IS FUTURE’S COMEDY
THE TRAGEDY OF THIS PARODY IS NOW SOMEONE ELSE’S MISERY
AS SOME LIVE REVERSE TO EVIL
TO ROCK-THE-VIL ON THE SOCIETY NOT CIVIL
CHASING ILLUSIONS ONLY TO CATCH NIL
FACING FACT FROM FICTIONAL THRILL
IN THIS RAT RACE OF HUMAN DISGRACE 
CHANGING THE WHOLE PLACE 
TO PACE THE CHASE OF THE FACTS WE HAVE TO FACE 
THAT LIFE IS A TEST WE JUST HAVE TO ACE
AND LEARN AFTER DEATH THAT WE ARE
FACE TO FACE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fooling us All

Dumbing us down
no wonder we don't know
unaware for so long
feeding 
on what's been eating us

"but the bait tastes so good!"
we say
drooling diabetes down lazy lips
entranced
by high definition devices
all the world's shiny entices

and then there's addictions
the medications 
vibrations
frequencies 
they're fingering Mother Earth's atmosphere to
seducing mankind 
with the silence of her screams
raping our nurturer
as we remain oblivious

these elite thugs
conducting violence above the law
fooling us all


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Almost Remorse

The slowest clocks bind the official wound,
An azimuth of the flesh, trust, first contact,
She blinks but no face appears, 
Does every mistake ask for such an ordinary end?  A seed cannot forget.
Cold, weeping statue of lifetimes, suckle her prayer in the erupting bed.
Fallen beside the tear of the flower blight, lips against the penetrator,
Learn to forgive the righteous terrors for an idle comfort.
What numbing freedom presses the soft lump pulse?
Tongues rally to expose the ghost of private remorse,
Who conceals the dignities of a suction thigh grave.

			--2009


Details | Prose Poetry | |

O! America Reverse

My opinions are changed, 
My heart lacks fervour, 
For you lunched the war, 
Purposeless, 
To liberate who are already free,
To enrich who are already rich, 
To make the fierce, more ferocious.

When will the time intrude you,
Make you see the brilliant aspect of the affair,
And humanity will sing the song of peace?
When will you peep into your inner-self 
To see the reflected image of you own?
When will you obey the divine commands
And make out them that God forbids pollution
Smog and fumes of turmoil wrapping His fair Earth?

 Now open your eyes
The shores are red; 
The lands are coated with blood,
The skulls are scattered like stones, 
For the sake of oil or the reserves of gold,
Be aware a single drop of   human blood 
Possesses more worth than all treasures
That the earth contains. 

Now stop killing; enough, enough, 
You neither surrender, nor do deprive others
Of the rights which the divine commands allow,
Go through the lanes with moderate bearing. 

Live like a benefactor among the nations, 
Share with them your victuals,
Stock of knowledge and skills,
And snatch them not of their own.
Return fathers to the orphans,
Husbands to the widows,
Brothers to the waiting damsels, 
And sons to the aged mothers,
If not then compensate them all,
For the broken hearts, shattered dreams.
 
Hatred against you thrives, 
Magma against you grows,
Let the volcano sleep, 
Beneath the layers deep, 
And only once apply,
The strategy of the weapon of love 
Discarding the old devices of uranium. 

The amount you spent on the arsenal 
Would have been enough to feed the world 
Though ten times bigger; 
If you had ruled the hearts,  
The world might have been a different place
Of love, peace and harmony. 

Through force your aims will never be gained,
So amend the ways and stroll on the route 
That enhances you in respect and esteem;
Review and revise the modes of actions,
 Follow not the path that leads the world
To the chaos, and on the point of no return,
For there will be a dark dungeon of curse,
O! America, for the sake of humanity reverse.  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Next

The height of science and the width of commerce in my dwelling place they merge with the ambassadors of understanding giving me their pledge. Capturing the seat of the wise and sitting over it, covering its edge as I wear the garment of knowledge. So what's next? My hands are filled with gold My pockets, heavy with silver these make me the Diamond myths and the greatest team player to financial strength. I've been owned and followed and my shadow, replaced with good health as I'm possessed and romanced by wealth. So what's next? Occurrences and happenings, I'm the doer Planting the seed of what's to happen next, like a sower with all authorities and rulership placed lower is the extent of my unbelievable power. so what's next? Acquiring all possible knowledge accumulating unbelievable possessions and becoming the greatest principality the world has ever known without positively touching a life and making a soul smile is going through a clothing store naked and coming out naked with everything in the world just strings. So what's next? DEATH! Leaving behind all the attachments as they drop in command of hades vanity upon vanity; all is vanity.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SONG OF DEMOCRACY

Democracy In Nigeria
It’s been ages you passed into deep slumber
Or rather you were long dead, democracy
You have striven to rise but fall many times
Your limbs were over-powered by some political demons
You have been crushed in the dust by some powerful beasts
The people with green skinned body, white spirit and green soul
Are eager to see you come alive again and take your full course
Take control to the fullness you place in their leadership
They know the time has come and now is the hour
They cry, they sing, they shout, they talk, they pray, they hope and believe
Equally important, they are ready to work, support, and vote
To see the emergence of a new democratic Nigeria
The reality, evidential rebirth of democracy in a new Nigeria

(c) 2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Distant Warrior

I get this wondrous chill as night falls
in mountains or desert sand
and I find myself dreaming about
home, my fondest memory
from this far away land.

I miss the special lady who 
stole my heart, my thoughts
and all there is of me;
and I deeply cherish 
our final moments together.

I think about the children 
I left behind, how I miss them 
and pray they’re  fine -
and it’s hard Lord,
it’s so very hard.

It’s times like this that I wonder
why I volunteered and I
get this knot in my stomach -
then I cringe and find myself 
trying to hold back tears.

Soon the battle will begin
when I’ll hear my own heartbeat
through the creepy sounds 
amidst treacherous mountain sides or
drifting sands and whirling winds.

It’s  time spent in worry,
fear, and some regret
as I encounter my fate
in the war so near
and I must admit, I’m scared.

This stench of war, 
the sight of it all,
it’s that awful image
of how I imagined hell
after Lucifer’s fall.

I wonder to myself,
“Does it have to be
that generations of people 
can’t seem to agree 
to the simple concept of peace?”

Soldiers don’t start wars
but they surely fight them,
making all manner of sacrifice
and I doubt that even once
did a soldier ever like them.”

Then I think of  “Old Glory”
and I’m filled with pride.
It’s a warm patriotic feeling
which overcomes me
from deep down inside.

I’m confused, scared
and battle weary.
I worry about those I love
as I cling to my faith  
and pray to God above.

I’m a distant warrior,
an American fighting man;
not an aspiring hero,
but just a simple soldier 
trying to do the best that I can.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fable Tenth

 Fable Tenth 
Fable Tenth 
 
Administration 
 
Fables of CharlaX 
Truancy was the problem for the General Police the task force was taking 
surveillance of the children in the world loose from schools at much too much an 
age so young to be locked up to have any fun on streets so tough. The use of 
drugs just cigarettes is up the money comes from illicit sex and theft just petty 
theft can be a problem to the poor. When a wallet leaves the pocket it becomes 
the community property of gangs. They usually toss the identification away. They 
have no reason to keep anything except the money. Some more sophisticated 
groups will use the credit cards but most children are only after wine beer and 
smoke and cash is there quick fix. The police van eye noticed in the back was at 
least two errant children there taken under guard to some detention center eye 
suppose they were handcuffed and treated like any other criminals hopefully 
there parents want them back at home. 
In 1963 milk for students was 6 cents. 
It jumped from a nickel one day to 7 cents but eye got mine for a long time for 6 
because eye am cute. Wait it was just a nickel then eye just realized eye have 
been robbed they was stealing all them pennies and hoarding them telling me 
eye was cute to get the goods. 
Eye the yew used to place the dimes in the march of dimes book the coins was 
then taken from us once eye had a Quarter collection someone stole it. Eye am 
sure it was the police or the Sheriff. 
Eye put money in the envelopes at the Methodist Church but it never made me 
wealthy in fact it seemed the wrong thing to do they took it and kept it no one ever 
got it back. 
Once when eye was trying to stay sober eye went camping with a dollar in my 
wallet and kept it even when eye went in swimming and the dollar never got wet 
and if it ever got wet then eye dried it on a rock wall to make it good again but eye 
was from a small town and money was hard to find. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

KONY 2012 PLEASE READ AND SHARE

It only takes a moment
One second of your time
To make a change
The invisible children are starting to be heard
With your help they can be saved
Just take a moment to listen
Joseph Kony is a villain 
A terrible, terrible man
Take a second to find out why
He kidnaps children
Right from their homes
Puts them into his armies
But thats not all
He forces them to kill
Sometimes forces them to kill
Their own parents
He has no cause, no worldly plan
Just wants to grow his power
And he MUST be stopped!
If enough citizen support is gathered
We can make a difference
We can assist in his arrest
All it takes is a second
Look up the Invisible Children Inc.
Look up Joseph Kony
Look up information and join us
As we fight for these children
Who alone may not be heard
And as we fight for the capture and arrest
Of Joseph Kony
....................................................Joseph Kony 2012   We WILL make a difference!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE ON DEATH LINE

I have not eaten today,
But my heart is filled
Not hungry of affection.
I had a fill of you last night
A fill of you for a life time

All around us are walking corpses
Corpses of political disregard
Humans of no nations
Even when they are bona-fide citizens
Your blood and mine flows in them

The government abhors the poor
Feeds them with empty promises
Shoves them through the door
They pay the bills
For social amenities they can’t find
Pay taxes for their castles 
Government built in the air
But we know their ancestors
Filthy dogs eating from the king’s crumbs
No; Lets not unknot the knot
Soon a messiah might heed us

In heaven’s book of life,
I heard the poor names are there
In here’s book of life
It is deleted.
Thus, in your head,
Lays your kingdom and glory 
Get rich or die trying
Or; be their poor and keep sulking.

Well, like them I saw… 
I have not eaten
Flesh gone weak to skeleton
Nevertheless, 
The solitude of love within
Keeps me living; I am breathing
But I am moving,
Towards your direction
I see your beam

I feel new
When I see you
From my heart 
Seeps through the rays of the sun
Its fun; this love on death line
We survived the genocide
We survived the war
We survived love
We survived us
I love you too.

This poem is dedicated to the abused tribes of Rwanda and Nigeria during their respective civil wars resulting in near human annihilation. Though time has passed, we still feel your pains chilling our bones. The survivors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cottons Southern Man

More than a man, the south made.
Black and white, south one started, 
great oaks refused no man a child
to hang about it, call dark christmas.
Hallow was a name, old now hollow.
Stigma inside wears grey cotton
memories, alive die uncompensated.
Here, electricity has that sick sweet  
smell about it, as if it were once alive.
While morality, debates in pockets 
of isolated votes packed together.

Is It Poetry


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THAT OTHER CHURCH

People rushing ~ church on the corner
being on time ~ sits empty all week,
I walk there, around the building
new parking lot ~ I could roller skate!

My friend, she attends, I used to
remembering my legacy, as a kid
big Cathedral, choirs, altar boys
family reunions ~ stock principles!

It was strong, loud voices, even then
finding cars in parking lot,
the War (the big one) was ended
we forgot strife ~ remembered being together!

Years past ~ family almost gone
a survivor, Son who doesn't worship,
go to Church ~ big oil company employee
taking over U. S., ruining waters!
`
And I fight back, Nebraska midwest,
where once we fought & stood together
now land marks are at stake
not just church worship!

But it seems demeaning, churches full on Sunday,
Then fighting for land, water quality
why doesn't big Pharm and Ag pray with us,
we won the big one!

Why are we fighting them now,
equal rights for nature, God at rest,
maybe picture changes overnight,
Nostradamus gone mad from insight!

Are end times just a vision
land at stake ~ churches empty
and it's still a social issue,
politics and presidents ~ never good enough!

One man, putting his life at stake
used to advisors, good and bad,
is anyone's conscience driven back to God
Every day ~ every way!

Or is it ~ just that other church 
~ they're in the way!






Details | Prose Poetry | |

BOOMERS

They were hippies 
and societal dropouts.
Scholars, poets and 
pot smoking draft dodgers.
Civil right activists,
and anti-war protesters.
Patriots and soldiers
fighting an unpopular war.

Relationships were confused
and marriage became open.
Morality lost meaning and
God  was largely forgotten
except to grape Kool-Aid drinkers.
They liked to “groove”
on a Sunday afternoon
and kids hid under desks
for H-bomb drills.

They were good and bad
and pretty and ugly.
They were raised on Dillon, 
Joplin, Hendrix  and Doors.
Motown was happening 
with The Beach Boys,  Zeplin,
and the Rollin Stones.
Paul Revere had his Raiders,
Love was a Spoonful and
Three Dog was the Night.
The Beatles reigned supreme.
Sullivan was a king maker,
Elvis was a soldier,
and Archie and Meathead
were "All in the Family."

They welcomed the British invasion
and hung out at Woodstock -
sometimes in the nude.
Many were students 
who got high and
routinely cut class.
Most of them were psyche majors
trying to “find themselves?”
LSD was a bad trip 
that many took.
Sex was free 
and there was a lot of it.

They were spoiled, selfish,
lazy and genius.
They grew up late, 
but at least grew up.
They hid their past
and regretted much of it.
They were artistic,clever 
and very  inventive.
They are also to blame for 
much that is wrong.
Many are in denial
and most have regrets.
They were the boomers
of the baby boom generation.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Used To Be

I used to be a somewhat normal American. Divorced, three kids, and a job. Looking into others souls. Making evaluations. Notes in charts. Different backgrounds, circumstances, degrees of madness, more true than some realities. All had one thing in common. A need for love. Though searched for high and low. Not found in the liquid, shot into arms, or the spirits contained in a bottle. White puffy powder, not snow. Legs uncrossed, inviting love that doesn't last. Now receiving medication, served up in a cup. Disillusioned. In need of a solid love, like a tree they can climb up in. Well rooted and grounded, stable and secure. Fed by living water, to quench their thirst. To help them back up when they fall, or are pushed.
A locked away society cry, and the government doesn't hear, doesn't see. What will become of all these people, or you, or me. Looking to be broken out, from without, by what is only found within. Playing a game of hide and seek, some times no one wins, yet others are found.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RELIGION AGAINST MAN

He hated his brother
Because he practiced another
Men of same wombs
On each other, inflict wounds
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw; eye sores
Men beheaded… burned
Women disemboweled
Bombed
Drug traffickers and the mafia
Show more angels heart
Men obsessed with religion
No place free of them
Hold this illusion
Four virgins and a mansion
For just one man in heaven
So die a martyr
And make it even
In the beginning, was this so?
When men die, do they go?
PLEASE: give me no fairy answer
Except self proven ponder

On the other side
I heard Christ died
Men turned it merchandise
One name, many voices
As the voices, so the vices
Repent. Be baptized
Or die ostracized
Yet in sex, their leaders
Abuse youths and feeders
Adultery in the upper chambers
Sucked the poor dry
So the rich benefits and not die
Name not names
Lest you give them more fame
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw…eye sores
Grieve not alone in chest
It’s same in north; south; east; west

I heard God has his own powers
And he for himself mighty might
So why do for him men fight?
I heard also, the goat can bite
When pushed to the wall
Be that so,
Then there is:
The goat-
The applied force-
And the wall.
Who is the Goat? Man
Who is the force applied?
Circumstances against man
And who is the wall?
Religions against man


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"The Snakes"

The Snakes are moving to Washington,
where they'll buy real estate and visit
the Smithsonian,
They'll set up a residence next to the President,
trying very hard to be his best friend,
Mrs. Snake will befriend the children and the First Lady,
but their motives will be quite shady,

The Snakes are getting ready to make their move,
with their spyware and smoothe grooves,
part of their plan is to win over Capitol Hill
so they can make their "Big Kill",

The Snakes are coming!
slithering slowly,
when their cover gets exposed,
things are going to get ugly!

They will sneak in the nooks and crannies,
They may even try to upset Granny,
but they are coming in disguise,
while their daggers are traveling behind in the skies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Organized Chaos

over 20 yrs of planning
using the very terrorists created 
to divide and conquer
try to fool the world
forget not that God is above you
organized chaos
not all are led by their noses
third world order
pretentious heroism
send more troops
tanks and armour
finish what was started
in poland where zionism was born
place puppets at heads of nations
while controlling the strings
divide then conquer
the real terrorists
it's a matter of time 
then peace will reign
while you send innocence too martyrdom 
you come closer too your end
Syria will rise
Middle East will rise
Palestine will be free
Africa will unite
the world will see clearly
the truth of who is the iron fist 
the very heroes 
the creators of organized chaos


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Survived Janjaweed Part 1

I was a girl of only 5 years when I looked across the desert and saw a cloud of smoke covering the skies off in the distance.  I remember being afraid that my grandmother might be hurt because she lived there with my Uncle Sofarlo, his wife and my cousins.         
     It was during the season of the drought, so the sky was bright blue everywhere except above Grandma’s Village.  I thought that the blazing sun had sparked a flame in one of the huts.  All I could do was hope that Grandma was okay.
     A few days later, one of my cousins, Lekelo, stormed into our hut and collapsed on the ground.  He said that Uncle Sofarlo was a little way behind and was bringing grandmother in a cart.  
     I never saw Lekelo so thin.  His face looked like leather stretched over a skull.  His skin was scorched and terror shown through the tiny slits of his sunken eyes.  They were almost swollen shut.  His tears had made mini-gullies through the ashes that stuck to his charred face.
     He fell to the floor of our hut and Mom ran over to put a blanket under him.  My oldest sister drew a bucket of water and brought some leaves to wash and soothe his wounds.  Everyone was running around trying to help him revive, but it did not look good.
     Of course I was terrified.  I might have been only five, but I knew that something awful must have happened.  He kept muttering the same thing over and over, “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” until finally, he spoke no more.  
     Dad frantically sounded the drum.

Copyright 10-13-2014

I chose Dafarian Genocide.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE  Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan

BE SURE TO READ THE CONCLUSION IN PART 2.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Our Dreams are Not for Sale

Our living is in your pocket but
Our hearts are not for sale
You have taken from Peter
To pay Paul for far too long
Now our house is up for sale

As we become transparent
You try to disappear
Promises and answers
From people that couldn’t buy a clue
Hear our wakeup call

Our dreams are not for sale
We believe in the Red White and Blue
But we have lost our faith in you
To you it is only about getting elected
But there is so much more for you to do 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Game

Rap is quick, witty and fun.

Poetry is smooth, rhythmic and heartfelt.

Rap and poetry had a love child.

A daughter, named Spoken Word.

She grew to maintain the better characteristics of her parents;

From Rap, she took freestyle, freedom, and grass roots movement.

From Poetry, she took imagery, theme, and voice.

Together, all three, as common forms of expression,

spread to every rapper, poet and storyteller in the world.


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Gerrymandering

Those spoken words that can't be taken back come back as incendiary 
attacks.  How many rough relationships must one go through before one 
finds smooth?  Is it me or you? Don't be fooled. We are the key ingredient 
that our kids feed on. Do they grow strong or limp along?  
Is there life out there? Is there hurt after mistakes?  
Is the Lord's day really all that great? What about the other days of the 
week?  The world continues spinning,  this concept of us is 
revolutionary.  Together we find balance in give and 
take, the reorientation of space so that the stars you look upon don't crumble 
and fall. Heaven is two feet from the ground.  A morning fog we walk through 
daily.  Good quickly dissipates and we're left wondering how heaven drifted so 
far away. What happened to Sunday?  How did the Sabbath move from 
Saturday?  How did we become disenchanted?  Separate but equal,  so 
political our lies are believable.  Can I count on your vote?  Sure (not really). 
Stop gerrymandering.  What's mine is ours. Erase the lines that divide. 
Come close to close.  Let me peer through you, stir that ocean inside of you. 
Let our problems fade in the distance like a pier five miles away.  
Rise above crosses and steeples above the morning mist that evaporates 
when the sun first kisses it. Let me hold you in my heaven till noon, 
lay with you in evening, give you that resurrective feeling at the first stroke of 
midnight.  Your dark knight with whispers of goodnight, choir preaching, have 
you heard a good word? Even after all that we see reaches oblivion,  
I got you. Going to ride it out until the waves become smooth. 
If still waters run deep, sit down so I can quench my thirst in your 
baptismal pool. Dive into your postrapedic positions and serenade you with 
what is coming next. Rain falling on violet painted window sills on the inside it 
sounds like a lullaby. We've mastered this concept so hard to come by. We 
can't do drive-bys,  can't duck and hide. Us and we go together the way 
summer follows spring. What you take away, give it back new. Be my 
solstice,  a day that separates and joins seasons. My soul sister,  soul mate 
and soul date: expiration of forever and a day. Together you and I with 
mountains to climb,  storms to soar beyond, and a heaven to get into, 
mornings to walk through.  No more gerrymandering.  A hope you can believe 
in. I am T.S. Lewis and I approve this blessing. Let's make it smooth.


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Who Needs You Now

You have fought for your country
You have heard the calls of death
And felt the loss of blood
And now, no one hears or cares
About the tears you cry
You fought a fools war
Inspired by heroic deeds
Majestic words of honor and fame
From people who never knew your name
Many were those who fled
And endured behind their protest signs
But you, you fought the war
Lost your limbs and gained insight into reality
It was you who came back less than human
And now you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
Tell me, tell me who needs you now
Where are the people
Who gave you hell
Where are the people
Who cried to bring you home
Who marched for your life
While you marched to your death
Where are the people
Who loved you when it was the thing to do
And fought for your cause
While you wondered what it was
As you watched your buddies fade away
Heroes and medals
Tell me, what does it all mean
Now that you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
And tell me, tell me, who needs you now
Now that our memory fades
Of those who served and the reasons why
All we seem to do
Is stand aside and watch them die
And tell me Brothers
Who needs you now?


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Freedom Fighters: The End of an Era

America fostered a generation of people that cared,
Time has passed, and suddenly,
They are no longer here,
The next generation is dangling on a string,
because no one truly cares about anything,
They take civil rights for granted,
Freedom of speech gets no respect,
The young generation abhors conflict,
even when the Constitution is in jeopardy,
They are still relying on the past efforts of Freedom Fighters
to set them free........,
One morning minorities will awake 
and find a fate worst than Haiti's earthquake,
They will find their "say" has been taken away,
Then they will wonder if the "old timers" took a Holiday,
The progress only continues unless the youth stay on task,
If not.......,
History will repeat itself, and Freedoms won't last,
The dream will die and minorities will find themselves
succumbing because they all need help.


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Art of the Possible

Across the Pond vetocracy makes the usual gridlock look more dangerous than any noisy 

radio shockjock as this side of the mill Pond the 'Mother of Parliaments' that if it was would 

make the scandal of expenses even more expensive in public esteem, is having a set-to 

with the 'Gentlemen (and Ladies) of the Press' that wants no effective redress against its 

excesses against the innocent young and old, the brave and the not so bold, so we come to 

a pretty pass, that makes many despair at the hypocrisies of both the politicos and the 

hacks....ur! ratatatat! or as you on the other farther shore may say, 'You dirty rats' to your 

gridlock as we grimace and gripe at our less severe blessed island - and a bit -local fight.

Politics is 'the art of the possible', knowing that the way to hell is paved with good 

intentions and that good people do disagree as to ideals as well as ways and means as the 

moral high ground can be a disastrous landslip unless we think, we act, we try to 

compromise without selling out others as well as ourselves, by avoiding that old curse of 

self-righteousness that is often taken for being so damned righteous in our own myopias. 




 

 


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untitled

Ten years after the bombing of our land
Still the heart feels so broken
Tears still fall as loud and
painful as the day it happened
so long ago
We must never forget what
happened on September the Eleventh
The world will never be free
of bullies cowards and underminders
The fight for freedom never ends
it is a constant struggle my friend
We must never give up the fight
for independence everywhere sir


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Nelson Mandela

He was a great poem
A warrior for the freedom of the oppressed 
A work of art
His charismatic aura luring both man and woman
He was loved by millions
Not only for his sacrifice but for his forgiving character
When he walked
The flowers admired and wave
The leaves quivered
The doves of peace release, flew up above
A man as great as he will never again be
He was peace poetry 
A work of art
Still the greatest example of what democracy should be
Freedom was his soul
A seed of which he planted in millions of hearts 
His name Nelson Mandela is a universal echo
No more will there be another like him 
He was the great poetry of our time


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Boston Marathon 2013

Boston Marathon 2013
You know I think that terrorism is good for business. The media goes wild. Tons of soap is sold. Look back at Nine Eleven. Look at it and look at afterwards. Halliburton got fat. Cheny, already fat, got fatter. Really fat. Is al-Qa'idah on the government dole? I did not think so at the time, but later attacks have made me think, “Hey?! Corporations are making big bucks off these small time hoodlums. Hey! TV is doing great--my wife watched the whole stand-off in the boat in Boston. What else did she see? What will she buy next?” Do you think that Seven Eleven hired those thugs for Nine Eleven, and the thugs got the date wrong?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose Mine Prys

‘At play with words’

Cork thine eyes 
Cloaking lucent verbose halls 
Surely binding shutting tight 

Cork thine eyes 
Clutching goblet sipping falls 
Drunk seduction bending sight 

Prose mine prys 
Gather up my scrolling drawls 
Paging through the spite 

Prose mine prys 
Splitting metaphors with mauls 
Swindle word codle the blight 

This poem explained

Shut your eyes 
Shade your bright and wordy thoughts 
Absolutely shut off your mind 

Shut your eyes 
Drink from the fountain of lies of the rich 
Allow yourself to be seduced and become blind 

My ordinary words chip away 
Read what I have written 
They are memorable moments of contempt 

My ordinary words chip away 
I chop up what I write with metaphors 
The negative meanings of what I write deceives with tenderness

T.R.Sevrens


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The Un-American

The Un-American has no say,
he/she has to put up with anyone
or anything that comes their way,
They better not fall in love with
an American girl or chap,
or else they'll experience harrasment until
they give him/her back,
This is the prejudice that exists in the great USA,
even in 2010,
Today, as we celebrate The Constitution
and Independence,
Americans have to look deeper within
themselves,
"Although a parson may christen his child first,"
We should never promise resoidents better and give them worse,
There is no need to omit hard working foreigners from having
their fair share,
They are not the people Americans should fear,
Many times its their own, that seem picture-perfect
with all the right words to say, that will defect,
They are the ones who will cause America
to have a Dooms Day.


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mailbox full

stopped in a crowd
didn't go with the flow
a brief second 
lifted my head
from the ground
from the neon
the chitty chat
all the glitter and glow
nonstop static
from madison ave.
from hollywood and vine
(especially up pennsylvania ave)
beating up 
my soul
abused spouse of life
government
family
your insatiable gods
a tax on the very air
(exhalation is free...for now)
as we squabble 
we crow
we throw in for all our -isms
occupy
don't occupy
throw those bastards out
or keep 'em in
I don't care
'cause it's all about control
not about your sophistry
your jacking off into a microphone
a chemical imbalance
an ounce lost at death
but as we all feel specific gravity
of an unnamed need or pull
warm blanket
higher cause
justification for
all those purity laws
we'd all put someone up against a wall
and pull the trigger of our righteousness
(don't we all have a pair of jackboots
in the mossy closets of our minds?)
even Mother Theresa 
had to wonder what it would be like
to shake the living hell outta someone
when they passed a leper by
and nothing is as easy 
as it was yesterday
but no one cares 
that it's not that the cage isn't there...

it's just too big to fly across.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stop it

war is a constant
has been, all ways will be
power dictates the winner
who finished last
who's next in line
who controls you
it is the victor
he who writes the past

war is an epidemic 
created by humanity
destroyer of families
how ironic
how war ties us together
how demonic, are its ways
war manipulates the pawns
this is how division equals multiplication

war is a weed
population control
the slaughter of good and evil
needs no rain
needs no sun
a means to harvest
the "lesser" men
war dies only to rise again

stop the wars 
your not gods
stop the wars
before we lose what matters most
the possibility and beauty of unity 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nobody's Blame

I find it funny how we each blame
Another for our woes
Don’t quite understand
How it can be everybody’s fault
And nobody’s blame
How can anybody be right
If everybody’s wrong
If it weren’t for George
If it wasn’t for Bill
If it weren’t for Ron
And what the hell
Was Jimmy about
We should’ve listened to Ted
And forgot about Dick
Now today we hear it’s them to blame
Countered with
It’s their own damn fault
We hear so many promises made
Yet so few are kept
We see executives paid
For jobs well done
That were never done at all
While those around them fall
And yet, nobody’s to blame
But the other guy
Just how was it
And when did it come to pass
That mirrors looked into
Quit reflecting back what is there
To those looking in
When was it common sense left
And a man looking himself in the eye
No longer mattered
Just so long 
As standing near by
Was someone else to blame


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Scientific way of canal digging

The governments should adopt scientific way 
Of canal digging with an eye to 
Solve flood problem, mitigate irrigation crisis
And open up new avenue of fishery.

At first the area where flood water overflow
From the rivers should be pointed out
And nearby barren lands should be identified
Then maps of the required canals can be drawn.

Subsequently the canals should be dug up
From the last points of maps
Which will end at near the mouth of the canals
Then with the aim of joining the canals
With the rivers dynamite should be blasted off.

The government will compensate the people
Whose lands will be acquired for the project. 
 
In this way 
The government will be able to give its people
A great relief and satisfaction.


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A Time of Violence

A time of violence has pounced upon this country,
Folks are angry, hungry and craving prosperity,
The change they wanted never showed up,
Now, many are sad, melancholy and "tore-up",
The youth are becoming restless because they believe
there is no hope for a promising future,
All they hear is Politicians' lectures,
The wee ones are becoming infested with
feelings of despair, as colicky babies do,
They need to know that safety exists everywhere,
A country without a plan creates angst and restlessness,
Nevertheless, citizens forge ahead with optimism,
despite the whispers of skepticism.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bardstown Road at a Glance

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Coup D'etat

You’re the stain that scars the silence
Evidently echoed in everyone’s eyes
The whispers articulate the evidence
That results in my elegant demise.

It is the shadow that tailgates the night
Annihilating every anchor I have in sight
The catalyst that induced instant confusion
Right from the start of your epic intrusion

The remains of your anarchy are engraved
Unrepentant steadfast they remain
So I surrender seeking shelter for my shame
Allowing only my suspicions to be displayed

I will watch as they crown and cloak you King
Audience the occasion and applaud your victory
Watch as they bow down as kiss your ring
But I solemnly swear I will not repeat history


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr. Belvedere Doesn't Live Here............

Parents are so busy and pre-occupied with their 
own lives,
They never flinch when the doorbell rings twice,
They yell for the children to open the door,
Chastising them forevermore.......
Yet, parents get upset when the children disappear,
When they vanish into thin air,
They blame everyone except themselves
for not doing their due diligence,
If parents really cared they wouldn't
throw their children to the wolves,
Who knows what lurks behind the doors,
Sometimes vagrants, up to no good!
If parents aren't able to handle their tasks
and have responsibilty for the kids,
They should seek a Mr. Belvedere
whose only task would be to bow and scrape,
and opening the doors so the children won't vanish
or escape.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

F51Part Two

Show me what eye must do now? Just believe in Jesus and see the miracle of 
life. Eye took Hitler in the air with me flying is not hard when made of Titanium 
steel and brass rod. There is a small town in Arkansas and eye took the Fuhrer 
there and placed him with a Family the woman and the boys. He lived there until 
1963 and was buried in the cemetery south of town near Morrilton and the five 
mile creek. The grave stone says Milton Stone upon it and Mrs. Stone was never 
home she always worked three shifts at the cotton gin to make a house into a 
home for her boys and her strang guest. Eye chose to call him Milton Stone. He 
sat most days upon the porch and rocked there back and forth like any self 
appointed guardian of boys. He was so thankful to escape the Air Patrol. The bits 
and pieces of the parts of Hitler that they found was only just a long stray dog eye 
found and let him follow me into the pit the bombers hit the android eye was 
rocked a bit and the poor stray looked up at me in wounded horror but the teeth 
looked enough like the Hitler to fool the German Officers. Jesus saves one hard 
hearted android and the Fuhrer from a early grave. Adolf Hitler is Born - April 20, 
1889 Milton Stone was buried April 20, 1965. He stared hard at me one day when 
eye rode down the highway in a car in my human form he did not wave but he 
knew that it was eye. He was full of lemonade and fish the day he died he was 
76. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heal The World

The world needs a healing from bigotry and bad feelings,
The fear of Nine Eleven in the air, has spread racism
everywhere,
It is not about buildings or religions,
It's about people making ostracizing decisions,
gaining enablers along the way,
affirming it is okay for hate to have a field day,

The world needs a healing
from the caustic feelings
of prejudice towards different
religious groups,
Races and ethnicities,
We need to remember that foreigners
are builders in the countries they inhabit,
We need to be more civilized,
instead of irate and "crabit",
Hate will only make the younger 
generation sicker than having 
the croup,
It will be every parent's nightmare if they fall 
out of the loop,

It all starts at home 
with the negative
comments that parents make,
The world needs to be healed
for betterments sake.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cookie Cutter Images

The new age believers talk about us being ourselves,
Yet, when we are the people we truly want to be,
The Elitists create controversy by ripping uniqueness
to threads,

Cookie Cutter Images are what is expected in this society,
Women who parade around as if they are Stepford Wives,
Men who believe that their only place is the kitchen,
A utopia pleasing to the eyes of Leftists spies,
Women are ostracized if they have a mind of their
own,
Or God forbid, if they are caught witchin',
They become overwhelmed by judgemental frowns,

Perfection is an impossibe task to attain,
Since the Creator wanted us to be ourselves
filled with errors and mistakes,
Regardless if we cause disdain,
Sometimes it is the only way that
human beings develop change,
or are able to get through life without
become insane.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lucky Ones

We were born...
Of the Greatest Generation,
Who wordlessly showed us...
Valour, integrity, honor.

Unflinchinglessly sacrificing
their lives,
To fight back the greatest evil
the world had ever seen...
We've had our challenges,
though few compare with theirs.

The more I've learned of those days,
The more they surpass the greatest fiction,
The bravest heroic tales,
Were everyday things...
The women ran the country,
outproducing all others combined
Their war was as real, and valued...
As those who fought from their fox holes.

We grew into our little "Levitt" homes,
Expecting to eat every day...
And few of us concerned of such worries,
We hadn't experience the great depression,
We had been blessed enough,
To escape that lesson of humility.
 
We worked for a new status car
to impress our girls, "wow!" our friends,
Not for merely avoiding starvation.
Somehow, for some reason, 
We had missed that particular life lesson...

And now our torch has passed
May it long burn
The future is now out of our hands.


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'08 I Suppose They Don't Know Us At All

The mind is hastened forth by
By the redolent sentimentality
Of the idea of heart,
While the soul languishes
Within the detritus of society
And every mention of God
Flows freely as vomit
Out from the guts of pontifs
Expousing the virtue of
Their enlightened experiences
In the trenches of the common wealth,
And devouring their own ability
To know you and me.

Take it away from them!
Give it to us!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Careful Dissemination of Funds

I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.

The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.

Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.

I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.

Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life

The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.

Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.

Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.

Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free. 
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity

Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.

Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.

I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.

Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone. 

And nothing for me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the ruled and the poor

The ruled and the Poor.

It is strange usually when the Americans are bombing places
we are told how many got wounded and died in their air strikes. 
NATO has more or less carpet bombed Kaddafi’s people for six 
months, but not a word about causalities. 

That makes me thing they must be dropping chocolate drops 
and not real bombs. Kaddafi used to pitch his tent wherever he
wanted in Europe and the high and mighty embraced him, but
he was not to be trusted as he put Libya first in his oil dealings.

We get the sense that he is universally hated by everybody 
in his country, but the poor benefited from his largesse
and the middle classes got a free education, but of course 
not much room to express their enormous contempt for him.

 One day when the poor cannot afford a doctor in a democratic
Libya and when teeth roots and fall out, there might be someone 
who say: under Kaddafi all this was free and now we are reduced 
to keep the streets clean for the educated rulers.  



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ICB (PartTwo)2

Pablo Naranjo Golborne / Pablo Golborne / Pablo Naranjo Nordau Neruda   
Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), This poet was alive during the World Wars One and 
Two. In 1943, Neruda returned to Chile, and in 1945 he was elected senator of 
the Republic, also joining the Communist Party of Chile. Due to his protests 
against President González Videla's repressive policy against striking miners in 
1947, he had to live underground in his own country for two years until he 
managed to leave in 1949. After living in different European countries he returned 
home in 1952. A great deal of what he published during that period bears the 
stamp of his political activities; one example is Las Uvas y el Viento (1954), 
which can be regarded as the diary of Neruda's exile. In Odas elementales 
(1954- 1959) his message is expanded into a more extensive description of the 
world, where the objects of the hymns - things, events and relations - are duly 
presented in alphabetic form. There is a disclaimer on the SSS card that says 
this is NOT for identification purposes please keep your card in a safe place and 
signed. Conflicting thoughts the police back home always asked me for mine 
when on the road they ran it like an ID the numbers was instant on the radio. The 
Students at this University take the Cat Card and swipe the strip into the slotted 
door it makes it seem to me just like the Mark of the beast has come perhaps 
early to some. Charles Robert Hice 429-04-1680. Deceased on May 13, 2004. 
Alive and living for the return of Heaven door. Jesus oph please come back 
before they institute the Mark on mee. To the purists of the poets no apology of 
me this is a fabel not a poem not a rhyme intended but a short short story just to 
past the thyme. My State Id Card has a PICTURE of me but no number at least 
not the Dreaded Social Security Number and it does have the DOB but not 
needed until called upon to produce it. Not yet on head forehand or forehead
or hand Most people will be proud to salute a nonexistent leader at the door to 
every supermarket in the world the name and number of the beast becomes the 
god.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Economic Development

Economic development is the precondition of higher living standard
Therefore we should focus on economic development at first

We know infrastructural development is a must
For economic development of any country
So the government should go for it in the first place
And if necessary they should go for partnership with private entrepreneurs

Now it’s an open market economy
If we want to take off to the sky of prosperity
We need to utilize our own resources including manpower

We need to figure out our competitive advantages
Because it’s not a hard task for us in the information era

Now-a-days tourism is a lucrative sector for any government
Because we are living in the time of globalization

Protectionism is now a history
That’s why
The role of commercial banks and other financial institutions
Is more pivotal than ever

They should provide loan to the industrialists
In such a manner and style
So that the latter can import cutting-edge tech
In order to survive in the fierce competition of open market


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Global Warming Goblins

 



 The Global Warming Goblins 
 were gruesome 
sneaky creatures
and there are movies 
featured with these 
creatures
they 'd often spread
gruesome tales 
just to scare
they didn't care
like tales of dying whales...
and dying polar bears...
They'd pretend
to like nature .
They'd pretend 
to like humans
Yet, the gruesome
sneaky goblins
blamed them for the strife
they set out to hurt humans 
for the rest of their life.

Crunch! Gobble! Crunch!

"The earth will melt-they'd shout!"
And many more lies spread about!

"The earth will burn!"
"The  earth won't turn!"      

      Lies, Lies, Lies !

" Serve us or lose your  head!"
"For if you don't, you will dread.!"

 Crunch! Gobble ! Crunch!   


Copyright  McCuen  2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Politics of Corporate

There was a media sensation to make President Obama
ruler of this Nation, as long as he did what he was told,
Everyone would remain sold,
Two years into his reign, America is filled with contempt
and disdain,
From Wall Street to Corporate America naysayers are
screaming retribution, instead of Halleluiah!
They are calling for doom and gloom for those who voted him in,
The reign of consequences and punishment have begun,
A backlash for demoralizing the nation's favorite sons,
Privacy exists no more when one goes to pull the lever
at the voting polls,
There are spies waiting to report your elections like
mindless trolls,
Companies are engrossed in their employees'
political preferences, ultimately punishing them
for any differences,
Our Country would rather sink like the Titanic
than have a "zebra" running it,
Nevertheless, we must forge ahead and create 
change,
Even when we are ostracized and avoided like mange.







Details | Prose Poetry | |

Import and Export

Import the things more the country really need
For its economic development
Such as food, raw materials for various industries
Technology, electric power and so on.

Export the things that are surplus and competitive
And whose demand is in the foreign countries.

With a view to boost export
The government should minimize export duty
And encourage the exporters
By reducing tariff on import of associated raw materials.   

The government must discourage import of nonessential items
By imposing higher import duty
And encourage production of luxury items in the country.

In the modern world international trade can play a vital role
In the economic development of any country
That’s why the governments must emphasize on it evermore.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Orifice of Creation – Part Two

Cain and Abel two brothers is the first record of them in a murder notation in the book of
Genesis and death between brothers and nations has continued throughout history.
Genesis-Revelation

Listen generations of the earth,
as Abel’s blood screams for justice
from the deep depths of ancient soil.
With eyes of witnesses in the heavens,
watching the hunt of evil and good.

All will be the victim of the temptress
in that day and Satan shall lead a path
of those that are in her demise.
They buried in the foulest
recess of one’s mind and just another
victim of the temptress.



Choking on the flesh of precious souls
roasted in boiling pools of flaming
waters and the march to the prophet’s
calls, as they even lay dead and robbed
of breath and sacred words as worms crawl
through there flesh as earth claims their
bodies and dust becomes their prize.

So shall be the days of the end.
As told in ancient times to witness here
in modern civilization by telecasted alerts.
The earth moans for new birth a new
Jerusalem.