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Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

Sketch a Character

I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed the tears two hundred years like rain. 

Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.

You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.  

Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.

The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.21.2014
Gautami Phookans Contest:
Sketch a Character 

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

Sunbonnet


She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.

We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".

One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.

A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in; 
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.

I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.

How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
.


Gene Bourne.
07-17-14




.

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

MADE IN CHINA

"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
Better Yet!
Thank you China, for making this world a part of yours.

MADE IN CHINA 
Shipped easily in a box

~SKAT~

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

Cyber real

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?
Cyber me
Or cyber you?
Cyber bully
Cyber crime
Cyber hate 
Cyber time?
Cyber boxer
Or cyber brief?
Who is the real identity thief?
Cyber pleasure
Cyber pain
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.
Virtual reality
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.

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

SO CRAZY

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
both romantic
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
amazing thunder
Sweet island girl, I'm 
so crazy 'bout you

Date: 7-22-14

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

COURAGE VS CONFLICT

COURAGE VS. CONFLICT
The history of man defines Ape as a primate. Man seems to be in that mind-set today. He lives life as pent because he denies himself religious freedoms. God refined humankind once before and therefore, he will do the same once more. The factor ends when iniquity meet perilous world. The mania of man will bring forth extinction. In parable, the elderly wisdom was predefined by the life they had lived since the beginning of time. They had seen themselves within their prime and captured these elements through their way of life. Their beauty was not a basis to define. They were primates of mammal and nomadic. Their skin was olive nonwhite via sunshine. They hunted with self-made weapons and brought back a feast many times. However, one male cultivated the mind. He invented weapons for prosperity. An abundance of wealth all received.
Today is venturous. Humankind has crested to another prehistoric image. Our originations through inventions and development have implemented innovations. Our minds must continue to reinvent not to become another mandrill. The core of our existence relies on this. We are human being and the highest intelligence. Insofar, we are not predetermine. Insofar, we are no predestine to a grandeur form. Insofar, we see no more adjustments that are required for humankind physiological form. We have peaked physiologically. Therefore, we will henceforth to inform our mental faculty. ____________________________________________________|
Penned on October 19, 2014!

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

Comin' Hame - Coming Home -Scottish Dialect

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

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

A KING ARTHUR HOME

                  
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


Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

Mirror Ball

I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,

A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.

The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.

The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.


Gene Bourne
08-01-14








.

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

THE CITY OF LOST SOULS

Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the 
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected. 
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of 
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading, 
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one 
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the 
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next 
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

THE MOAI

Quarried,  and carved from our earthen mother's skeletal
Backbone and under belly, were the Moai solid rock deities,
Stone guardians of Easter Island.
A mystical place, a harvested paradise, but nothing remains
Of the people whom built this land of living statues, except
For these harden faces, looking towards the ocean, as if in 
Wait for their native worshipers to return.
Sit and listen my friend, to the whispering in the wind,
Do you hear the low humming sound, rolling across
The rocky and jagged surf. 
It is the Moai, calling unto the five raw elements of the world.
Let us live again, to walk among the heavens vast 
Divides, and to feel the winds breeze at our faces
Once more.
Slowly the ground shifts and moves, rumbles and
Quakes, lightening splits as thunder strikes against 
The harden ground, nature itself has heard them,
And answers their wishes with life anew.
Shedding layers textures by depths degree, piece by
Piece, stone turns into gravel, rough rock is smoothed,
Hued by mystic incantations spell, brick becomes
Bone, and nature answers their wishes with life anew.
Living giants pull themselves up out of the earth,
Shaking away debris's leavings, and thus shall
Stone breaths, inhaling freedom's fresh air at last.
Behold the living god's of Stone, guardians of
An ancient culture lost unto time itself.
But at dusk's fading sunset, the spell is thus
Broken and slowly these giant figures take
Their places once again, melting as if it
Never happened, yet the humming still
Lingers echoing across the ocean.
For stone God's never forget, and waiting
On Easter Island do they so sit, monuments
To a people whom disappeared without a trace.
But their deities shall call unto them until
One day they'll return, and then maybe 
Giants again shall walk this earth in 
Celebration, to feast amongst their people
Once more.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

| Details | Culture Poem | |

Let Me Become You, Indigenous

Let me hug you, human, and be one being,
Let the stars shine and go for sightseeing,
Let us share smiles under the moon,
Let our children play together at noon,
Let us be storytellers of justice and truth,
Let our people join our energetic youth,
Let us stroll in mountains and the huge lands,
Let us harvest and mix our colourful hands,
Let our souls heal the wounds of the past,
Let our hearts share lovely dreams so vast,
Let me make a step forward and close the gap,
Let me start a new page and recreate the map,
Let our lands be neighbours of one community,
Let me raise my head, at last, for the unity,
Let the rain fill my eyes so I water my mind,
Let me make a statement that we were blind,
Let these words make an epic song so original,
Let me become you, oh beautiful aboriginal,
Let the indigenous of you paint my words,
Let us swim like fishes and fly like birds,
Let me give you what is yours and all of what is mine,
Let us plan our future and for our past build a shrine.


Monday, 26th of November 2012

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

THE CATACOMBS

Deep beneath the busy streets of France,
Lies a hidden realm of the undead, cryptic tombs,
Of the ancient.
Dusty corridors, lined with skulls and cross bones,
An eerie tributes monument, for the once living,
Now deceased.
Sacred hallows of the darkness left behind,
Those not forgotten, but not remembered by
Names sake.
In these mazes called the catacombs, beware
The screams echoing, for within spirits seek out
The living, whispering enchantments of bewitchment.
Ever so lightly do finger tips touch, at thy naps of the
Back of ones neck, giving visitors an icy chill.
Gleaming eyes of crimson, seem to pierce through
The veils of night, seemingly to watch thee, the
Daring explorer, whom has traveled without
Supervised accompaniment.
Roaming at freedoms will do these creatures of
The supernatural, hunt in this arena of the undead
Lingering and feasting on souls whom do not
Realize there is no except from this ethereal
Mortuary.
There is no prayer or talisman charm for
Protection here, in this realm of the unknown,
Blessings virtue is lost amongst the tormented.
Stacked carcasses of human kind, decorate these
Chambers far below, beneath the city of romance
And mystic.
Yet in heaven angel's so do weep, for the lost
Souls never receiving salvation redemption,
Forever caught in limbo's dimension, do the
Unfortunate wander without mercy's hope.
For here God's everlasting light shall not penetrate,
Through the shrouded mists of darkness,
It thickness is to great, this vaporous mist of
Corporeal essence lingers in every shadows corner.
But I'll cry for them, a tear's grace, that maybe
One day they'll know the lord's final grace,
In these the forgotten catacombs.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

THE FAIRY MOUNT

Where did the little go, from ages of long ago?
Myth or legends stories unique, these small little creatures,
That beneath the evergreen?
Underneath the mossy sheave, tucked in pockets near
Toad stools rings, tiny shadows do so sneak quickly
Tip toeing ever lightly trying not to be seen.
But hidden deep in the Irish country side the 
Locals say they still come out at night to play,
These wondrous beings from mythical lore.
In the stillness of the first breath of night,
Something ethereal stirs, it whispers in the 
Darkness a quickening, a rustling, the winds
Tickling at the branches, as if coaxing.
Come out, come out, will thee not play tonight?
Low laughterious voices ring from under the thickets
Over grown hedge, at the very edge of a large boulder stone,
Be patient here we come.
The ground thus shakes at that instant, rumbling the
Very earth groans with amazement, what ancient enchantments
Mystical spell unravels expelling a magical incantation of old,
As the fairy mount rises upwardly, voices ring through
 The forest pines.
Here tiny trumpets announcing the Fairy Queens arrival,
Dressed in Golden gown, with dragon fly wings of grace,
A sparkling crown adorns her majesty, as she takes her
Throne of ivory white.
Gnome footman dressed in red and green vestments,
Open wide the doors at the fairy mount entrance, 
Allowing the supernatural beings living within to go forth,
Beautiful Fairies, mischievous pixies, and yes even Leprecons.
Singing and dancing until the first light of dawn,
Did the residents of the fairy mount play, drinking, celebrating
Until not a drop of honey wine was left to be drunk, or mead
To munch.
Then the Queen grew tired, and order the retreat to the 
Trumpeters to play, down below they all marched, until 
All were safely within their fortress of hidden secrets,
Then down did the fairy mount vanish, as if just a sweet
Dreams illusion.
But maybe some night you’ll stumble by accident,
Upon them again, and they’ll let you play along,
Mortal outlander until then all we poets can do is dream.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN





Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

SPIRIT RIDER

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,
Forward.
Protectors sacrifice, blood mingles,
Amongst dust clouds aftermath, 
His majesty lies slain.
Dark brown eyes close, 
Glimpsing blue sky for the,
Last time.
Heavens prairies, welcome destiny's,
Honorable foe,
The hunter kneels beside the giant's,
Stilled heart,
Giving thanks, singing chants rise,
Ascending heights greener, 
Pastures unto a higher plain.
It echoes in valleys deep,
Touching the lands of his,
 Fore fathers.
Tonight beneath flames tribal fires,
Rhythms beating drums, gives praise,
Many shall celebrate, feasting,
 In memories tribute,

  BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

| Details | Culture Poem | |

Trapped

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.

| Details | Culture Poem | |

Woosh vs Zroooom--a limerick joke

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!

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

Pisa not Pizza

                                                                             XXXXXXXXXXX
                                                                           ONE HUNDRED
                                                                          NINETY AND NI
                                                                         NE YEARS TIME
                                                               XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                              IS WHAT IT TOOK TO BUILD
                                                             THIS TOWER IN AN ITALIAN
                                                           CITY BEHIND ITS CATHEDRAL
                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                        THIS FREE STANDING TOWER
                                                       IN THE CITY OF PISA WAS FOR
                                                      THE CATHEDRALS LARGE BELL
                                                     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                    THUS BEING THE BELL TOWER
                                                   THE TOWER BEGAN LEANING
                                                  DURING THE CONTRUCTION 
                                                 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                                 LATER ONE SIDE OF THE BASE 
                                                WAS DISCOVERED TO BE TOO
                                               SOFT A FOUNDATION FOR IT
                                              XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                             SO GUESS THEY NEVER READ
                                           THE STORY ABOUT BUILDING
                                          ON SAND OR WAS IT THEIRS
                                         XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                        IT STARTED LEANING MORE
                                       AND MORE OVER DECADES
                                      THEN IT LOOKED  LIKE THIS 
                                    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
                                   THIS TOWER HAS BECOME
                                  VERY FAMOUS OVER THE
                                YEARS AND IS KNOWN AS
                               THE LEANING TOWER OF
                             PISA FOUND IN THE CITY
                            PISA IN TUSCANY ITALY

Brenda Meier-Hans 
09.16.2014


| Details | Culture Poem | |

Under A Miccosukee Sky


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  

| Details | Culture Poem | |

Mantra in Mantle

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

| Details | Culture Poem | |

Teach them young

Teach them the songs of the land.
Teach them the rhythm of life.
Teach them the strength of the past,
That they may appreciate the beauty of the future. 
Children of today, nations of tomorrow.
They have the right to know and believe in the unity of life.
Teach them to know that all men and women are not just nor truthful.

Let them know that for every mean and selfish people, there are honest, generous and dedicated ones.
Teach them the power of the spirit of sportsmanship, to enjoy winning and as well accept losing when it comes.
Teach them that a dime earned is to be valued far more than a thousand stolen. 
Teach them to rejoice in each others successes rather than envy. Teach them to have faith in God and to believe in themselves.
Remind them never to forget that they are masterpieces of the Creator, and none can replace the other.
Please, don’t forget to teach them that it is more honorable to fail than to cheat, and there is no shame in tears.

Teach them the difference between the real world and the world in the pages of magazines, movie screens and television. 
Teach them the enduring powers of patience and kindness.
Teach them the endless powers of love and forgiveness.
Expose them to verities of colors of life and remind them to look beyond
skin colors to appreciate the blood of life.
Teach them the importance of a smile in the dark tunnels of life.
Teach them to be simple and truthful to themselves and to keep there distance from drugs.

Teach them to be respectful of life and elders that they may be respected.
Teach them our mother’s songs; tell them where we are, where we have been, where we are going and they will lead the way. 

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

destiny

heights without ceilings
climber’s roster for success
destiny dynast

| Details | Culture Poem | |

THE COLOR PURPLISH

The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.

Premium Member Poem | Details | Culture Poem | |

IT WAS WAR BLOOD AND GORE

It was war Blood and gore One by one they lined up and took their designated places They stood across from one another with their war faces. Battles are dark I wear the mark The General yelled for ammunition Loaded and released without hesitation His aim is sure But less than pure The wounded are removed from the field Both sides are determined and neither yield Young Teenage boys Playing with toys One side will win this hard fought battle Bodies will fall and treated like cattle Children maimed No one blamed The winners get one point for their effort But both teams leave covered in dirt Except for one youngster Decides he's no soldier Even in the worse of instincts lays hope Not everyman smokes violence like dope Our folly continues With few breakthroughs Playing high school football can be futile So many young boys lie on a broken pile That is the crime Cut in their prime One boy will be forever called wimp As he bravely leaves with a life long limp Just like war Blood and gore

| Details | Culture Poem | |

WHY I LOVE YOU

WHY I LOVE YOU

I got a reason to be with you
I got the feeling I want you
And I got the feeling I should be with you
Because wanting you satisfies me
And loving you shows me who you are
Because the reason I need you is
No one loves me the way you do
If woke late at night frightened
I would put my head beneath your chest
I would press my body close to your heart
To feel the warmth of your embrace
It is because you remind me deeply of 
The vows that were once said by a priest;
That if two people loved eachother
Then only death do them part.
Your love reminds me of the promise;
When two lovers meet and trust
It is like the galaxy in the sky
That shimmers the night into full bloom.
The beauty of your love grown so soft
Slides smoothly like a kiss
On my breast firmly imprinted
By your loving caress that touches the soul.