Long poem by
Terry O'Leary | Details |
Though still within our infancy,
we strive and thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.
Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys the planet's harmony,
lays waste to life within the sea,
and all in name of vanity.
Who dares our spheroid's symmetry
by doubting Nature's regnancy
defying laws, like gravity,
affirms a fatal fallacy…
for, centered on the 'world of we',
we feed our vain insanity
on thoughts beyond eternity -
seems strange when looked at cosmically.
Perchance there is no remedy
for those in shadow's prophecy -
unless we handle skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.
The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.
The winds, they reek of Royalty
(that's bathed in suds of treachery)
and blow across the peasantry
left gasping in their pungency.
The Queen, so steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of ash and ebony
while sipping Sekt immodestly;
to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.
The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.
Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
ordains the dollar dynasty
portending highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery,
for Jesters and the Fools agree
to dabble in duplicity
while stripping masses witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!
To justify the oddity
that one plus one is sometimes three,
one reaches to theodicy,
takes paths of circularity.
In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.
Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;
and aged women, fruitlessly
(while racked and wrenched), begged clemency
from justice framed in infamy,
but set ablaze for witchery.
That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery
as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;
'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'
The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled of slavery,
now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.
And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.
To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
presents a penny, niggardly;
though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies swell, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.
When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;
and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
through psycho-dream obscurity -
a dire death row odyssey.
Forgetting mankind's unity,
our rich and poor dichotomy
breeds empty doomed finality,
Just as in days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting forcefully
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy
to toast the slaughtered enemy,
or else convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.
At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
and armed from finest armory
(embraced in hands so tenderly),
inflict benign atrocity -
but soon atomic weaponry
will cancel our posterity.
Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.
Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,
and rivers, tainted chemically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.
Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.
We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,
but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.
The mildly mad bureaucracy
so often lacks coherency
when raping rules abundantly
but offers no apology.
They paint the past in reverie
when, slyly comes the tendency
to take away our privacy
which paves the way to tyranny.
With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering doggedly,
we've lost our mental sovereignty,
and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else perch in penitentiary
with water board anxiety.
Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Positive nutritionists co-arise!
Now, while toxins mutually self-immunize,
to implicate potential revolutions.
cooperating abundance of Self with
as by of Other!
Now, while decay slinks into silos of
"That Life's Not My Matter",
no dual-dark reductive paternalism for me,
not enough positive energy,
so co-subside into odious cacophony.
Co-Arise cooperative health
to co-subside monopolistically competitive wealth.
It's a better system
plus more wisdom
to turn our trees of hierarchy
right side left
to grow this networked co-bifeminist matpatarchy,
Win-Win swimming circles
diving among and parching
revolutions of Lose-Lose marching
in co-subsiding wilting squares of post-gaming era loss.
Co-arise this permaculturing revolution,
warriors with tools regenerating evolution,
nondual pairs of opposition
to suppositions within co-arising proposition,
subjects of by with of for healthy holy wealthy objectives,
monocultures co-subsiding into slow-emergent polycultures,
multisyntaxed paradigms co-arising polypaths,
multisystemic consciousness permaculturing,
healthy function with formal beauty,
fractal-crystals with faceted octave-holonic neutrons,
unfolding four dimensional temporal st-rings of electrons,
root squaring RNA's Bicamerally Dynamic EndoCreational Vocation.
Co-arise permaculturists of RNA/DNA life-systemic sustainability!
Co-arise polyculturists of eco-metric polynomially square-rooted form
and functional full-octave diversity
for all six fully-conscious autonomic senses,
Co-arise organically nutritious gardeners of food
feeding all six sensory receptors,
listeners to and of nature's luxurious harmonic sounds,
dancers of fractally-balanced chi-time,
breathers of resonate sound 0-sum mind,
seers of mutual-coredeeming economies,
political and familial relationships,
physical, natural, spiritual, co-conscious regenerational medicine,
and communication health optimization,
polypathers of meta-systemic logos-wisdom
prime temporal logical syntax
for Yang/Yin relationship information polynomial balance.
Co-Arise human natured DNA
with Earth-natured RNA!
Co-Arise RNA with Time's encultured memory!
Co-Arise every cell programmed for regenerating health
and cooperative wealth
Co-Arise paradigmatic syntheses with power of Yang,
with polyculturally transparent binomial YinYin
sweeping WinWin systematic gaming theory,
laughing not-not reverse-ordered double-bound Yes!
growing dual-dark embryonic st-ring universally unitarian network,
nesting convex negentropic polynomially co-forming spacetime.
Co-Prehend decomposition as contraction
with regeneration as expansion
of form with organically intelligent function.
Co-Redeem polyculturally cooperative investments!
Co-Mentor nondual messianic dreams,
prophetic streams of healthy wealth.
Co-Incidate fully populated deductions
with their non-polynomial zero-ionic opposites!
Co-Meditate ecotherapeutic medication toward healthy wealthcare!
Co-Passion RNA's ecojustice evolution of equi-valency,
co-arising polypathic consciousness,
Win-Win Wombed in this world wide web.
Confluate what would otherwise radiate
as one-sided and mono-dimensional noisy chaos
of linear mono-reductive historic time
overly redacted from permaculture's 4-prime intelligence syntax,
poly-neural tribal space of 3 reflecting 1 bilaterally decompositional
non-polynomial space as c-squared equivalent time.
Co-Arise this moment's integritatively sublimely hued potential!
of beauty's wise and wealthy healthy climax
within beloved co-consciousness of heart and mind
as bicameral breath, heat, fire, energy, informating intelligence
alternating with yin-yin's syntax
with Positive concave explicate-ordered Yang
convex implicate bilaterally temporal-primal RNA-ordered,
as positive uracil functions equivalently
with double-binary ionic balancing reverse-cytosine,
equals (-,-)co-binary bilateral-time-squared information.
WithBinomial Synergetic Discernment!
Co-Arise dual-dark dawn's surprise.
Co-Operate massive co-gravitational fields,
binomially double-bound pirouette of time's nature.
Energy co-arises matter through octaved light-bionic frequencies
as bilateral time co-arises this present grace space
as YinYin co-arises Yang
as healthy bicameral wealth values integrate
Beloved eco-sustainable cooperative economic systems,
Climax Communities of locally articulated
maintenance and biosystemic care plans and policies,
nurturing polycultural design and co-development,
ecological co-evolving health with wealth management.
Positive Co-Mentoring EcoActivists, Arise!
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Joe Flach | Details |
I have been praying to God ever since I first understood the concept of a deity. Although I have struggled through life with my acceptance of and belief in the religion I was force fed as a child, the praying has always stayed with me – on an almost every day basis. In some way or some form or for some reason, it seems, I find myself praying to a God I am not sure I believe in.
Over the years, some of the things I have prayed for or prayed against have worked out in my favor. Other things didn’t quite work out the way I had hoped. So, I wondered, was this proof that my prayers are sometimes answered or simply the law of averages? It really didn’t matter, I was programed to pray and so pray I do.
This has been going on pretty routinely for over 50 years; so, imagine my surprise when, for the first time last night, God talked back to me!
I may not get this exactly right, but, in essence, this is what He had to say:
(I am not sure what font to type God’s words in, so I will just keep on with the default.)
“Joe, Joe, Joe. I have been listening to you for all your life. And, whereas I do enjoy your thoughts; your words; and your sentiments; I find it is time for me to respond.
You really do pray a lot for lots of things. Mostly good and humane things. Mostly with a pure and caring heart. But, son, you need to stop doing so much praying and start doing more stuff on your own. I am not up here to make your life easier and to do things for you.
When you were young, instead of praying for that bicycle, you should have been doing chores to earn money towards buying it. You could have cut more lawns, washed more cars, got a paper route, sold lemonade, or many other things other young boys were doing to earn money for the things that they wanted.
When you were in high school and prayed to me to help you do well in your wrestling matches, you should have, instead, been working harder at practice; spent more time on your conditioning; spent more time in the weight room; and studied harder on the art of wrestling.
In college, when you prayed for help on your mid-terms and finals, you should have, instead, spent more time studying and less time partying – I think that is something you already know.
Even when you pray on behalf of others – you should be doing more.
Instead of praying I would help old Mrs. Conner at the end of your street, you should have gotten up off your butt and walked down to the end of the street and looked in on her yourself. You could have offered to go to the store for her, pick up her prescriptions or simply keep her company in her final years.
When you prayed for me to care for the starving children around the world, you should have been volunteering to help out yourself or donating more money towards this cause. If you funneled all the money you spent on unnecessary junk food and extra meals you consumed throughout the years towards charities that help feed and clothe the poor, you could have saved many of the children you prayed that I would save.
Instead of praying that I cure your family, friends and acquaintances that you knew were ill or dying, you should have been visiting them in the hospital or writing them letters or providing assistance to their loved ones to help ease their pain.
Prayer is not the vehicle for you to be lazy and yet gain the rewards. Prayer is not a means to have me do for others what you have the power and ability to do yourself.
I am glad that you talk to me, but you have been granted the ability and means to do so much more by yourself and yet you choose to take the easy way out and pray to me – the God that I know you are confused about. Please, do me a favor, and before you pray, ask yourself, ‘Have I exhausted all avenues available to me to achieve the result I want God to perform?’
If, after you have done everything you can possibly do, then I may be more willing to consider what it is you ask for.
And now, my son, you can wake up.”
I sat up quickly in my bed, sweating and confused. Was I just dreaming? Was that really God talking to me? Then, somewhere from deep inside, either from my conscious or a left-over message from the Almighty Himself, I thought (or heard): “What does it matter? Whether it was God or not – the message is valid and something I probably already knew.”
“Well,” I said to myself, in prayer, “I will give it my best. But, is it okay if we still talk? It kind of helps to give me strength?”
I will take that as a, “Yes”.
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
evrod samuel | Details |
THE CITY AND THE STATE OF PLAY TODAY
No one worries about morals today
They follow the rules they create
So to them all is ok
Those on the outside looking in
Are the only ones feeling queasy
As avarice and selfishness triumphs
Good corporate citizens they claim to be
Industry awards abound on their walls
As thank you tokens from themselves
Yet society harbours a lot of ill-will
As it feels the often brute force of
And destroy mentality
Of people only wishing to make money
Any which way
While Using up all of society’s communal resources
The waters are forever bloody as they
Know no fraternity and would gladly
Cannibalize anyone with no influence
The ability to upend competitors
A cherished characteristic
In a bullish machismo drenched environment
Bullet proof psyches
Absorb and repel any pangs
Blocking any regulatory or chattering classes’
Attempt at nirvana and equality
They employ better paid lobbyist
So always have the upper hand
In influencing policy
The gravitational attraction of money
Towards another even bigger pot of money
Numbs any cautionary instinct
That would take a long term view
The thrill of instant riches
Overpowers common sense
And even decency
Fat cats they all wish to be
The slickness of glossy tongued lobbyist
Who spin wrongs till they become rights
Embolden oestrogen low males with no inbuilt brakes
To take risks that eventually cost them disgrace
They are champions of graft not of society
Loopholes in legislation
That were built in by too friendly politicians
Coupled with ambiguous suits and claims
Cause far reaching hardship when the good old days are long gone
The villains only muster some phantom national pride
When begging for a lighter sentence
Some are forgiven
Others fatally wounded by an unforgiving public
Lots of money can be made both legally and illegally
As one racket is closed another materialises instantly
The conveyor belt of dishonesty
Who is not David to the goliath that is money
The ethos is wealth
The acquisition and the maintaining of gains
Not often acquired through hard work
There is no limit of acceptable financial comfort
For the millionaire always wants to be a billionaire
And the mega rich super rich
Money must always be hidden from the taxman
Shareholders want tax free dividends
Investors want tax breaks for buying with other people’s money
Infrastructure and new runways must be built
But not from the pocket of those who wish it
With their hands outstretched
And always wanting more and more
From a government too eager to please
We have a tax system geared to the advantage of party donors
And non-domiciled moguls and tycoons
Who know no philanthropy unless it is tax efficient
Disadvantaging society by
Never paying their fair and moral share
The largess they reap so selfishly
They wish not to share
Wages are low
Taxes are nil
Only the investor wins as we pay his bills
Fast paced expansionist dogma
Is preached within city limits
Only the highest paid
The biggest company
The greatest profits
They are held up as ideals that all who
Wish to succeed must follow
Gunslingers they all appear to be
Rushing in to capitalize on the wanton success of their peers
The cloud of misery left behind
Is never seen for the look forward
Hindsight is never welcomed in this parasitic environment
The political will to weed out these reckless demons
Is lukewarm at best
The revolving door of government creating opportunities
For industry and industry gratefully accepting politicians post government
Ensures that self-interest is king
An economy built on flawed assumptions of wealth creation
Is one that must forever be in hyper-drive
Creating ever expanding demand and supply
That is as real as a thief’s conscience
When taking the rings off a dead persons fingers
Money must always be made for
There is no alternative
Wealth is good
Poverty to them is laziness
The city is not the heart and soul
Of the nation
It is but one player in a system skewed in its favour
We all must share in the wealth of this country
To ensure its longevity
Copyright © evrod samuel | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
I would add to all Evolutionary Cooperative Warriors
a nuance regarding my teleological
defined as "freedom to choose"
as sufficient to define my purpose of evolution
v. purpose of devolution, decay, death.
Earth's regenerative evolution
slow-grows freedom to choose health,
most certainly including cooperatively healthy ecotherapy,
but slow-fades competing freedoms to choose
as we more accurately call this devolution,
confusion and chaos and struggling-against-Other violence
climatic and chronically dissonant stress, change
that can no longer sustain,
inviting our release of grasp
to co-prehend positive evolution
revolving ecotherapeutic global intent,
clearly well-incarnated karma through the full range
of North and South
East and West,
and both your Right and Left Bicamerally Balancing hemispheres,
more or less inductiveRight dancing with deductiveLeft's geometrics of
mind-body functions and frequency and syntax, and then Language,
of diversely cooperative,
but never competing against,
exchanging weapons of humor
for terrors of cultural ugliness.
Allah cries in fearful anger
only when S/He loses
a more neutral-naturally-balanced sensory humor,
good rich fertility for ecojustice.
If our political and/or economic agenda
is not confluent with "mutually-subsidiary co-arising cooperative"
cannot resonate with Allah's regenerative Earth,
you might reframe your teleology
of who and what you are hating and killing
with partial-will but full-intent.
Why would you dare think Allah's regenerative recreation
is so anemically weak
that your terror is any more or less
a concern of Universal Benign Intelligence
than is your NotBenign hate for,
as well as your reasonable concerns about,
and concomitant gathering of calcifying fat deposits,
amongst their ego-centric Publicans
and anthro-centric Sinners?
If you want to defend-against
overly secularized culture
you cannot gain this outcome
with overly secularized, and negatively-disenculturing tools
of competitive violence and terror.
Rather, Be Allah's PolyCulturing Paradise!
in the errors and the blessings
of your mutually subsidiary
I'm sure you can do better than
blasting your soil and water and air
into a flat-line state of total collapse,
and if you can't
there are many permacultural evolutionaries
amongst and beyond
our mosqued Tribe.
And then you might teach them
what you know about cooperative loans
and interest rates
and tribal re-investment.
And then they might respond
by suggesting you apply your already existing cooperative economy
to the internet
as a resource for cooperative economics,
to In/ExFormation Polynomial Network's own ecological synergetic/loving/co-fertile bicameral vision
of health v. pathology for co-arising dialectically dipolar ecosystems.
Sun Advents East
to settle West
to arise again, Easterly...
for all Earth's Tribes
temporally-spaciated neural memory information:
syntax-as-seasonal/reasonal-sequential/temporally-developmental: RNA/DNA PolyNomial Language, P = N(NP), as U = (-,-)C
as +1QByte = [-(-P)],
is both bicamerally-analogical and binary-digital applied
Special Case External Landscape health/pathology trend analysis
as to our more MetaSystemic PolyCulturing Time-Balancing DNA-syntaxed, Interior Right-Left Brain Balancing DominantHealth/RecessivePathology Economic and Political Landscape,
PermaCulturally speaking, of course,
good for building healthy mosques and families
and future PolyCulturally Health-Beloved generations.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Your past, your romantic past, is a shadow. Like all towns, Port Washington was a combination of rain and clouds, sun and mist, with a chamber of commerce, barrooms and boards of directors, the known and unknown. No one of course is completely unknown. I was known for my tragic love life. She had found another man, a backwoods man, living on the land but not above a night on the town, who according to her would wipe snot on his pants, a statement of poverty or thrift or anger against the niceties of society. All of us heated our hovels with wood but only the rich burned hardwoods, me and probably this guy were softwood gatherers.
There were few aspects to my life. First, I can remember a nook in the kitchen of the house I shared with a beautiful faceless woman who wore a ring in her nose where I wrote and watched flocks of unidentified birds comb a tree for seeds. This particular day the sky was blue with clean pillowy cumulus clouds floating toward Puget Sound. I believe all the poems written in that nook have been forgotten by their author.
Nights, for entertainment, I would wander the aisles of the supermarket, admiring everything and buying nothing. I had no money. The fluorescent lighting, clean straight neat shelving and floors, warmth and the fact I could identify nobody attracted me. I lived on cream cheese and honey sandwiches eating them leaning against the kitchen sink. Thinking go back to New York City which is what I ultimately did. Drove cross country nonstop three days and three nights seeing and feeling nothing.
This was during the Reagan recession inherited from Carter. I'm unclear how presidents affect your life but good or bad, democrat or whig, alive or dead you've got to get a job, which I did. I supervised the living arrangements of developmentally disabled adults in what I thought were humorous contexts that gave no offense. They were beautiful and incorrigible having regular sex without protection. Normally harmless they'd sometimes have altercations with their neighbors. I balanced the checkbooks, paid the bills. Supposedly teaching living skills, I had few of my own as evidenced by my sleeping on the floor, I had no bed. One mature woman colleague judged me a short-timer living a useless fantasy about big cities. Still lost in my own history, still didn't know the calculus.
I had a dog, Shade, black lab, leftover from my near-marriage until she realized I had no economic prospects, no interest in further sex or her logger boyfriend, and a complete inability to translate or imagine nesting and gestation. Like Aaron, my homework comes to me in daily disconnected increments. Shade lived in my gray van, a Dodge slant six, which I could never afford to fix. Once the driveshaft disconnected from the rear axle and I tied it on with rope. Drove 60 miles on a knot. Shade was hyper and sad, both. He smelled bad but was a good dog with a lonely heart. When my wife who wasn't a wife finally found a boyfriend who wouldn't wipe snot on his pant leg they took Shade to British Columbia where I believe he runs free on a vast estate by the sea. I once beat Shade like a slave because he attacked a small dog out of frustration and loneliness and until I had kids and started saying and doing things just as bad to humans it was the lowest meanest moment of my life. The farmer who saw it will never forget or forgive it.
Having confessed all this there's just one last fact to tell. The mountains were cold, the waters clear, deep snow and shadows.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
Grandpa had a bulldog whose name was Tige.
They were close – as close as honey and bees.
If Grandpa felt a cold comin’ on –
Well Ol’ Tige was the one who would sneeze
Grandpa was noted for his wealth and generosity.
His love for me was demonstrated when he paid my college fees.
The love he held for Tige was almost the same for me.
And ol’ Tige was always with Grandpa wherever he might be.
College life was different then, separation was the norm.
And years at Alma Mater meant years far from the farm.
Students have it difficult and allowances soon shrink
So, short of money there, I soon began to think.
Grandpa, bless his giving heart, quickly came to mind
That bulldog owned his generous heart – if somehow I could find
Some way to convince my grandpa to increase the money sent --
I came upon a devious plan – and this is how it went.
I wrote and told my grandpa, “There’s things you ought to know.
The things they’re doin’ here at school will set your heart aglow.”
“They’re takin’ all these sorts of dogs – it came as quite a shock
Grandpa, you won’t believe me, they’re teachin’ dogs to talk.”
Now grandpa loved ol’ Tige so much it didn’t take him long
To ask how much would it take to send ol’ Tige along?
Well, when I gave a figure, Grandpa was satisfied
If this crazy scheme was figured out, there’s no place I could hide.
I kept feeding grandpa all sorts of good reports
How Tige was a star pupil and mascot of all sports
Two years passed and soon there came the time to take Tige home
Grandpa was so excited -- Tige was never more to roam.
Grandpa came runnin’ when I stepped down off the train.
His eager eyes were searching for what he’d never see again.
“Where’s ol’ Tige?” he asked, as we began to walk.
“He’s not comin’.” I replied, “C’mon we need to talk.”
This morning I was shaving in the bathroom by the sink
And Tige was justa talkin’ when he looked at me and winked.
“Ya know’ he said, “I’ll be so glad to be back home at last.”
There are some things I’ve thought about that went on in the past.”
“I was standin’ at the mirror with my razor in my hand
Ol’ Tige was talkin’ ‘bout some things he couldn’t understand.
I could not believe the lies he told – things he’d seen first hand
Like the times he saw you wrestlin’ with that female hired hand.”
His words just lit a fire with the pictures that he painted
I almost couldn’t help myself – Grandpa, I nearly fainted.
It seems that I lost it some and when I finally woke,
I’d grabbed him by the backa his neck and cut his lyin’ throat.
I know grandpa was shaken, I saw it in his eyes.
A look of consternation he could not disguise
He seemed to be relieved, as he looked at me and said,
“Now, Son, I really need to know, are you sure ol’ Tige is dead?”
Years have hidden the truth of this deception that I wrought.
I’m the one who wove deceptive tales that everybody bought.
But when the truth is told at last and no more lies are found
You’ll gladly find an ending that surely will astound.
Grandpa? -- He now lives with Jesus, and me? -- I’m headed there.
Tige? – I know he’s still around though I shouldn’t tell you where.
We made a pact some years ago when things went awfully bad.
For years he’s been the best darn mascot my school ever had.
Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Jennifer Cahill | Details |
Shane walked to the back of the bar and found the door opened to an alley littered with the garbage of the bar and the restaurant beside it, the one whose neon sign has two lights blown out.
“Sally, we should leave through this door if the man I told you about comes in.”
“Why?” He seemed agitated, and unused to disagreement.
“The alley has no exit, except for a locked chained linked fence, and besides, we have nothing to be afraid of.” She says, rubbing his shoulders soothingly.
The bar was crowded, and despite smokers hanging outside, the air seemed thick, or viscous, with something that felt like dewdrops suspended: they almost could not breathe. Yet they felt warm within the crowd, and the frigid air outside was an incentive to stay put, at least for awhile.
Sally and Shane ordered two beers, and nursed them for twenty minutes before they started to discuss the real reason they were meeting tonight, on such a cold night in a seedy part of town.
“The money is with my cousin, actually distant cousin; he will bring it to my apartment tomorrow night, just as the sun sets.” Shane wiped the moisture that had left a mark on the counter. Sally swallowed the last drops of her beer. She ordered another; Shane was still taking shallow sips of his.
“Okay, then. Put the money in a laundry sack surrounded by linen and bring it to the laundry mat across the street from my apartment. I will meet you there at nine. It will still be quiet at that hour. We won’t be seen.”
I will pay the woman who has helped others with this money, and the problems we have been having will go away. She never speaks of such matters to others, and her word is good.” Sally was finished with her second beer, and tying her scarf tightly around her pale neck and tucking the woolen red and blue scarf into her brown jacket. She took a deep breath and declared the matter settled. She did not see the man with the knit black cap, pulled so low over his face one could not see his eyes, a scarf wrapped around his mouth, come in and approach the bar.
“One vodka and tonic, please”.
Shane immediately recognized the voice and became afraid. He whispered to Sally about this man, and she frowned deeply, only to smile abruptly when she saw Shane’s fear.
“The woman who we are paying knows of him. He cannot harm us.”
Shane walked quickly to the exit, Sally behind him, noticing the streetlights outside flickering as he stepped outside, and, pulling his dark coat tightly around him, bid goodnight and walked quickly down the street, his footsteps echoing like the voices of long lost friends. Sally waited for her ride, and as the car pulled up, Shane turned and saw the driver was his wife and the passenger his brother. Shocked, he almost ran to the car, now leaving the curbside, and called out “Sharon! Bill!”
A blackness enveloped his senses after unbearable pain and he was unaware of falling.
The next morning, at a corner newsstand near where Shane used to commute by train to work, the newspapers sold had as a bottom headline, in small bold printing, the news of the murder of a man: the commuters ruffled through the articles, and then set the papers aside after reading of such events in a small brightly lit city.
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Tadon Archer | Details |
They had his life story twisted as he plotted his death in advance
outsmarting his enemies evading cops and *****es
People hated him they wanted him dead
They said that he was good for nothing
Humiliated him showed him as a negative image in the public trying to
take him down
Telling the viewers he is nothing but a thug and a negative role model to
But that’s what racist people do they care less about a nigga that trying to
make a change and get out the gang life
He was a poet, a rapper and a political leader in many of his fans' eyes
Always encouraging them to hold on and stay strong things will get better
and tomorrow will be a better day
He was a motivator speaker always helping the poor and the hood
He wasn’t afraid to claim where he came from
He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind when things weren’t right
A lyrical genius that had his enemies spook and fans confuse
A lot of rap stars were envy of him because they weren’t as real and
talented as him
So they started riots and destroyed his sense of humor tried to drive his
fans away from him
They wanted him to fall
And his life couldn’t get any worser when he was shot five times in
Manhattan by two armed men
On his way to the studio not knowing he was going to get shot
He was set up by a snake that acted like he was his homie
I guess his rapping buddy didn’t know what hit him
Because he had to take the blame while the true phony set in the
background and orchestra the hit
And the one who did it is still living repping bad boy records signing
people and then sacrificing them just to rank higher and get up to the
It’s a shame how can you still hold your guilt for so long for almost killing
your own kind
You’re still being controlled by a white man you didn’t even shed a tear
when your homie die instead you celebrated
Because you knew on the business side you were going to blow up
You’re a cold hearted person and the only thing you care about is money
Selling your soul and going through gay rituals just for money man you
gotta be mess up
And my guy was marked for death because he wouldn’t **** Quincy Jones
in the ass
So what is the music industry all about?
Do you really have to sell your soul and do gay things or sex orgy in order
to get what you want which is money and fame
Man ya got it all twisted because I thought that you rise to the top
because of your talent
Not doing insane things like changing your religious and worshipping the
devil or sending many of your fans souls to hell doing blood sacrifices or
voodoo killing people
Man this game is dirty all the real people are either dead or gone
somewhere far hiding from the secret societies that’s trying to kill them
And now we’re stuck with these phony ungodly rappers on TV That sold
their soul and did crazy things to get where they are at
Now what type of example are these so call rappers to the children in my
They are nothing but puppets slaves that has to take orders from their boss
in order to sell records
What a shame but nobody will never be the greatest like Makaveli retire
from the rap game and still making millions
While people are selling their souls trying to make a million
Copyright © Tadon Archer | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Details |
Based on a true story from a television documentary on Human Trafficking...an international crime with participants from a broad spectrum of society...occuring on a daily basis. I have only seen documentaries on the trafficking of young girls between the ages of 5 and above!! Law enforcers, it seems are fighting a losing battle against the men and women who sell and enslave young girls and I have no doubt, young boys as well.
Somewhere this day on planet earth
A Mother-to-be, while in labor, cries
Not so much for the mounting pain
Nor the fear of possible death
So many fears for the future…
“What lies ahead in the coming years?
What “fate” will meet my child?”
And added to all her heightened fears is…
Will she be there to protect her child?
Those dark years have now passed into decades
When Tanya walked the shadowy streets of the city at late night
While kids her age slept peacefully in their beds
They made her dress up so she’d looked twenty one
Days were spent locked in a room, under watchful eyes
She was fed cheap fast food to her young heart’s content
Soon she'd lose all hope of liberation
This was the second man she had been sold to
And after a while she’d adapt to the situation
Still fresh in her mind was that last day at school
In her backpack was her favorite teddy bear
Her Mother had chosen to believe her step-father again
Now that her twelfth birthday would be in a month
As no one cared, she decided to run away
While at the bus station she met this “nice” couple
Who listened to every word she spoke
They promised her a ride to any place she wished
And she’d always wanted to see Disney land
“Maybe, she thought, it’d be a birthday treat”
However, that would be another promise broken
Weeks dragged on and they bought her “stuff”
Although treated well, sometimes she still felt alone
Then one day came the grown up clothes and make up
That night her innocence was stolen once more
Later she’d try to make an escape
Only to be caught and tied to the bed post
‘Make it easy on yourself and accept your “fate”, she was told
That was years ago, although it seems like yesterday,
When arrested by a new officer on the vice squad
Who saw the flaw in the picture before him
The pimp gave no reasonable answer to the simple question
‘Why are you parked late at night on the street corner with a minor?’
Looking back over the years, she came to conclude that “Fate” is just another word, made up to cast aside blame; when we do not want to see the path we’ve chosen which has led us to our present state
When Pilate symbolically washed his hands, though he had power in that moment to act..
When there before him stood truth and innocence,
Yet, he chose to make a comfortable bed for his conscience
Today, Tanya is a college graduate and a Mother who has vowed not to leave anything to “fate”. She’d teach her children to take responsibility for the choices they make…
She would teach them that no one is of lesser value than another..
Male or female; black or white, all hues; rich or poor
All have a God given right to live free!
For: Richard's "Girl Rising" Contest
(3rd Place Win)
Copyright © Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2013