Has the convenience of technology
inoculated us from reality?
Do androids dream of electric sheep?
I pray the code my soul to keep?
Does your universe live within 4G
Or megapixel infinity?
Which memory lies within
The one that was
Or the one that's been
Or how much gig how much ram?
Which reality is true?
Or cyber you?
Or cyber brief?
Who is the real identity thief?
Hours spent glaring into the screen
Choosing an alternate username.
Status updates and trending tweets
Fill your mind and rob your sleep.
Clever hashtags and Instagram
Will shape your image and gain more friends.
Is the you you've shaped in cyberspace
The same you I'd see face to face?
We hide behind our computer screens
And criticize with brutal ease.
Is buying souls of men you see
And robbing the ability to dream real dreams.
I want to conquer something real
That I can grab that I can feel.
I want to touch life and hold on tight
I want to unblock true friends
And "like" real sights.
I want conversation face to face
In real world time
In a real world place.
A angry sky, as cauld as Loch Lomon'
fair drew me out from cot o' peat, an' bed.
The wolves wus wailin', an' thund'r respond'd
Ah gather'd tam, me tartan, an' dug Red.
To 'orse ah took an' found the 'erd sam 'urt.
The 'ungry wolves 'ad already fed.
Inta the bi'er blaw, the rill ah skirt
thro braes a white, t'ward ham an' fire burnin'
the bleatin' sheep, the 'orse an' ah alert.
We wud mak it hame, stomaches churnin'
O smell the peat fire on the wild wind now,
'ear the cows faint distant ca', a lowin'
'erself wud know, we'r near ta the brow.
Noo, we 'ad beat the storm hame, an' kep' me vow.
Dedicated to Jimbo Goff & James Fraser
and the spirit of Robin Burns
See About the Poem
Between you and me
is a vast sea
Language and culture
not the same
So very little I know
of your history
But girl I'm so crazy
about your name
We're an ocean apart
yet I feel you
Paint from a distance
somehow I see
You write as an angel
your soul's true
Oh girl I'm so crazy
how can it be...
That Venus and Mars
are so magnetic
The Yin and the Yang
do their thing
Sunshine and night sky
Yeah girl I'm so crazy
I've got to sing
The song in my heart
awe and wonder
Close my eyes and ask
can this be true
Love's incredible rush
Sweet island girl, I'm
so crazy 'bout you
Poet: Dave Wood
An age-spotted hand pulls back faded flour sack curtains
in the window of an old run-down farmhouse
A woman gray hair combed neatly into a bun
peers across the side fence that belched
most of its pickets during the last fierce storm
She looks at the knotted wire clothesline
Remembers when it was filled with
little slips covered in miniature pansies
and the King Arthur logo
flapping in the springtime breeze
She preferred King Arthur to Gold Medal
for the flour sacks washed up softer
felt nicer against the skin
Her generation learned to make over
make do or do without
Her little girl once got excited
to pick the designs on new bags of flour
Then happily rode the pedal
on the treadle sewing machine
while mother stitched a new pinafore
The woman slowly moves into the kitchen
Washes up remnants of a lonely meal
Dries one cup and one plate
with a neatly hemmed flour sack towel
Remembers how she always kept
her girl’s hair in tight pigtails
tied with store-bought ribbons
Some things small things
didn’t have to be made by hand
Remembers the day her girl removed the braids
combed thick hair to fall loosely about her shoulders
and stepped smartly through the door
in search of her own life
So many years ago
She does now as she did then
and cries softly into her flour sack apron
For Whatever Happened to Flour Sacks contest
sponsored by Judy Konos
"Made In China"
They can have my money
If it saves me money
The toys I played with when I was young,
Says I enjoyed their hands
The Labels read
"MADE IN CHINA"
The cheap material on my back, the shoes I wore.
How easily they faded and tore
However, I enjoyed their hands
The Tags on my rags;
"MADE IN CHINA"
The car I own saves money on gas
A tiny Honda Civic, takes me everywhere
I love my sweet silver car
"Manufactured in China"
The never been used--Made in the USA--cookware I own,
Says, I don't work hard at all:)
Yummy to Chinese all you can eat take Outs
Thank you China for being part of this world
Thank you China, for making this world a part of yours.
MADE IN CHINA
Shipped easily in a box
Alone figure stands,
On sunsets rock.
Summers hot breezes brush,
Against bare skins flesh.
Stalking the ageless path.
Behold histories Indian brave,
Man, and horse intertwined.
Symbiotic beings joined,
They are one.
The spirit rider gallops,
Across freedoms trail.
Cautiously, allying arrow unto bow,
Aiming swiftly his shot to kill.
Guardian’s raging bull charges,
Protectors sacrifice, blood mingles,
Amongst dust clouds aftermath,
His majesty lies slain.
Dark brown eyes close,
Glimpsing blue sky for the,
Heavens prairies, welcome destiny's,
The hunter kneels beside the giant's,
Giving thanks, singing chants rise,
Ascending heights greener,
Pastures unto a higher plain.
It echoes in valleys deep,
Touching the lands of his,
Tonight beneath flames tribal fires,
Rhythms beating drums, gives praise,
Many shall celebrate, feasting,
In memories tribute,
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
My spirit and soul are trapped in this vessel of flesh. They scream to escape and to be liberated and soar on the breezes of life. To frolic freely among the trees, among the clouds and to run without weight and care.
My spirit and soul are trapped and they want to get out. Out from under all the stress and demand in life out from all the evil and hate of the world.
My spirit and soul are trapped in demand to perform, to keep a smile when I am down, to keep a stiff upper lip.
My spirit and soul are trapped to work for things and objects, to keep up with Jones and Kardashians.
My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that all men are made equal when the reality of this world says different, that only green currency is the great equalizer.
My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that single is not wholeness that it is necessary to be joined with another body to be view without stigma.
My spirit and soul are trapped in a body not acceptable because it's fat, it's woman and it's black and aging.
My spirit and soul are trapped and they are screaming to be free... screaming to reveal all the possibilities of how good life could be if I just didn't give a damn about who thinks what about me.
A vacuum cleaner should glide
And relief from messes provide
It is quite unlike
Harley Davidson's bike
Since the dirtbag's on the inside
Author's note: Someone told me this vapid joke at work today, so I framed it as above--enjoy!
They don’t walk to them
To beseech their shows of hands
They as a rule stay
On a raised dais and talk down
At their feet on crusade grounds
Big Cypress stirs, heated by Miccosukee
sky hung in spun gold. Rising in the east,
morning sways with waves of river grass
as the elder paddles through waking water
in dugout canoe. Bare-chested, he whistles
an old, creek song, lost and found in tangles
of green swampland. Bronzed face chiseled from
stone gazes on soft, flush of Indian summer;
a burning heart beats with nature beneath.
In hand, he clenches twine of sacred bundle.
Beads of sweat fall from head lowered in prayer
to the Creator. His silent prayer for earth, hunt,
harvest and tradition collides with modern tribal
life, a quiet moment complicated by thoughts of
upcoming ceremonial festivities. If only,
he could step back in time to dance in ancient
garments 'round sacred fire free from tourists’ pale,
intruding eyes. His daughter and wife will sew
and bead jewelry to sell; his grandsons will wrestle
alligators; and he, the elder, will stand proud,
fighting to maintain dignity and culture under
a warm Miccosukee sky, hung by his ancestors
...in spun gold.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 11/17/13
for Shanity Rain's Native American People Contest