Best Displaced Poems
Our dinner, boiled to death root vegetables, we swallow in silence as night closes-in on the school. The co-opted Buddhist monastery housing us empties its porcelain thrones into the walled garden’s weedy rear yard. Village women wash: the floors, the pots, the laundry from first light to deep dark. The water runs downhill. War does not stop the drudgery. Where the women sleep is unknown to us. The owners’ are small men; they rule the house with a heavy hand. They teach the techniques of shamanic healing and Thai Massage.
the Green Tara
hangs upon the room's wall:
geraniums on the ledge
The drowse of Friday evening evaporates in a burst of gunfire. Behind the high walls surrounding the school, the sounds of violence escalate. Through open, screen-less, windows sirens sound, the sky lights up and red, yellow, blue, and white prayer flags hang lifelessly from the eaves to the locked gate. Sleep hides, as I do, beneath the covers.
coiled
insecticide smolders:
temple bells sound
The monks, long gone, leave remnants of themselves on the incense coated plaster. Peace sought here was not found. Poverty necessitated the building’s sale. Here on a side street in walking distance from the American embassy, a school for westerner’s storm cellars. The desire to learn Eastern Healing techniques and a common language, English, binds us together: American, French, Spanish, and South African captures of the internet, pilgrims. We come, healers all, undaunted by the Civil War, to Kathmandu, Nepal.
Monday, the riots end on cue. Tourists, again, meander the dust clouded streets, skirting the alley’s begging children. Tea is served in the burgeoning shops. Butchers swat flies from hanging haunches of meat, rare bird vendors walk the street with baskets of exotic birds. And, brazen Westerners stride bare armed, sari-less exposed, and rude, at least until next Friday night—they own the world.
First Published by Mulberry Fork 2016
I'm scared to close my eyes tonight
I ask my mom to hold me tight
To tell me it will be alright,
and rock me close till morning light
I hear my auntie start to cry,
and no one wants to tell me why
my uncle's gone without goodbye
I wonder what it's like to die
I miss my home and my best friend
She said this war was going to end
that other countries would defend
Perhaps she's playing just pretend
My mom said now she's on a plane
I'm glad she's not here in this rain,
or wounded and in awful pain
Iike those of us who must remain
I try to block the noise to sleep,
while thinking our lives must be cheap
I pray to God our souls to keep
To calm the fear that's running deep
I'm splashing in a little stream,
but why do I hear mother scream?
The blasts are real and not a dream!
Oh, God! This is the end it seems!
Whats at your center?
Where is your peace?
Is it puppies or the season, maybe color.
For me, you see, it must be the sky, the trees, the way they meet.
The way they vary but always stay the same.
Blue by day, yellow then night.
Watch the fragments of time bring about true change.
Knowing when to, how long it might take.
Prepared for this long observation.
When instinct takes over and you no longer need to think about it.
There's a cool breeze in the air leading to transformation.
We all do. Everyone. Goes through daily modification that effects perception.
Will it make you into something different, or is there consistency to your variations?
I am a displaced Scouser,
Who comes from Bootle way,
And no matter where I go,
A Scouser will I stay.
I eat my chips on Butties,
Or perhaps upon a barm,
I get by on old Scouse wit,
And on my Liverpool charm.
But I’ve never owned a tracksuit,
It’s simply not my style,
And I’m not a football maniac,
Or have a police file.
So remember that you can’t believe,
All that people say,
About us lowly Scousers,
Who come from Bootle way.
Time Period~~1830-1850
As rain falls hard and soaks the ground
and thunder roars its mighty sound,
so tears of the displaced may fall,
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
The Deep South tribes of long ago
were forced to forge a trail of woe,
of death and want, with goods so small,
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
We Cherokees were brought to tears
when forced from land we'd held for years,
no longer standing strong and tall,
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
The rugged journey thousands made
to Westward land should never fade
from memory. All must recall
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
on behalf of our tribe, the Cherokees, and the many other tribes
who were displaced
Tossed high up in air
Cradled in valiant fort
Oust Archimedes
Vastness being inside the dot
White dreams ignobly sold
Evacuate, immigrate,
contravene-covenant
escape,
encroachment
foreign attachment
intrusive?
"Independent Culture",
solidify
political ignorance-political unrest
cultural arrogance-social injustice,
social engineering?
terrorism?
communism?
weaponsa?
corruption
disease released!
persecuted religious belief?
exiled
dormant hatred
personality disorder?
dysfunction?
pestilence
inertia
condemned
terrestrial inert, powerless?
indignation
birth right fundamental indelible
fortitude complacent
sanctuary-democracy
immigrant conform
forsaken incurable
accept commitment
relinquish phobias'
restorative
restricted entry?
foreign policy
foreign derivatives
confound plagiarist
"country of origin redundant"
global congestion
upheaval agitation
our jewel, our land
nurture, keep pure
middle earth
Godzone
land of the long white cloud
violence zero intolerance
acceptance (no more)!
take your foreign negative mind set
your drugs - your drug money
off - shore.
poach not our existence,
stem not for sale
return to your source,
peace will prevail
if you are living with
violence and or drugs...
...you are not living...
...premature death you will succumb...
Blue days, like bruises on the mend
without your banter, breeze and light
without your words, my friend
Long hours, like stains of star's long scattered mist
without your laugh, infectious laugh
which brutal days once kissed
Tight thoughts, like packed aquariums blue
without your nudge, your breaking my shell
without the history we've been through
Right now, like aching deeper than the sea
without you here, to dissolve these shadows-
You should be here, with me.
Displaced
Displaced at birth
Now is where, here on earth,
Time is the only factor
To slow down the present reactor,
It is like a snowball
It goes so fast but not at your call,
We start life in the light
And hopefully end up in the bright,
The past is the past
The present is all that will last,
So we can only work on today
The scapegoats will talk if they do may,
The only thing between
Us is blood because he was so mean,
Why do I scapegoat you
For blood is the only thing that is true.
Travis “Ceijaeh” Klein
It is time for me to change my pace:
To shake off plays in life's race
Lay my head against future's chest
Allow its arms to do their best.
To breathe in its comforting musk,
To sink into its lights of busking
To let people and things fall away
Not to struggle for them to sway.
Echoing thoughts that are left behind
These thoughts that torment my mind
To accept the solitude and all its graces
Just lead me home into my places.
The liar puts on their mask to conceal
Truth that has been kept hidden
From a desperate world.
10-10-16
company
plows up duck pond
homeless
The sins of man had brought Him here
To carry weight we should have bore
Upon His shoulders He carried all
For all of us, for love and more
At birth, His destiny was set in stone
He was to travel, on fated road
To save us all, brothers and sisters
He carried, heavily, our load
Upon the end of carrying our cross
He met His death with prayer and love
He did not run, nor dare to fight
With thoughts of God the Father above.
Upon His death, in a tomb He lay
Placed gently by His mother and others
With prayer for Him and hoping too
He’d return for His sisters and brothers
In the early morn, a discovered sight
The rock at the cave was displaced
By the hand of God, all soon had learned
That the fate of man had been graced
He rose! He rose! The savior came
Though some still had their doubts
Soon, fingers placed inside His wounds
And ascending, chased fear right out
He is the rock of man, the foundation
He is that which we build the church upon
He came and because of His rising
We are graced upon death, by God’s son.
...inspired by 'The Average' by W.H. Auden
From scant beginnings, and of lowly birth,
bound to tractor pull and harvester,
squinting in the sun and pouring rain,
imagination lost, his soul would fester.
Smothered by his parents' love, he saw
no future plan, his for the taking,
how could he repay their strong affection,
find his own true path? his heart was breaking.
With no connections off he went to college,
wit insufficient for the trials ahead,
apprehensive as to how his time be spent.
Surrounded by a higher breed he felt displaced;
too much for this young country lad to bear,
to be anywhere but there, he didn't care.
Someday soon , we will fly,
High in the clouds , above the sky,
Soaring weightless, no ratios or angles,
Graceful floating, as if with angels.
Slowly drifting above the earth,
Departing the place we were given birth,
Some day soon we will find a place,
Where happiness reigns and hate displaced.
There won't be race or color,
Just the race of human brothers,
Sisters, mothers , fathers, children,
No religion, nothing to burden,
No such thing as a hellish infernal,
Just a place where happiness , reigns eternal.