I am the voice of your conscience
You would bury my memory
Erase me from your history books
But I refuse to go away, I refuse to die
Here I am today, thousands of years after
you would have buried me in Modi’in…
in Jerusalem… at the tip of Mohammed’s sword…
in Torquemada’s Spain… in Luther's ‘Reformation’
In your swarming Eastern and Western European ghettos
in Czarist Russia, in Stalin’s USSR, in Hitler’s Third Reich
in Poland, Lithuania, Egypt, Syria Lebanon, in ‘Palestine’ too…
Yet I, the Jew, voice of your conscience, stand my ground
To remind you that my unshakeable love of God and my People Israel
is stronger than your visceral hatred of my redoubtable faith...
For 'Mother Russia,’ 'Nationalist China,’ 'America the Free’ will go the way
of Ancient Greece and Babylon ~ but I shall still be around…
After nearly a year
Hamas released four October 7th hostages.
Unfortunately, they're all deceased
tossed away, like ballast, from a sinking beast.
Will they be mentioned at the DNC
will they be remembered by anybody.
Does any still remember October 7th
September 11th
the ghettos of Warsaw
or the ovens of Eichman
We have forgotten!
Trojanesque horses have entered through the globalist gate
purely in the name of a new world disorder of calamity.
The elitist ribbon and perfume it as tolerance and diversity.
{Diversity only works when hate is taken out of the equation.
tolerance is feasible but only in the wake of a common vision.}
However, a large number of participants are cross-eyed or blinded.
There is an unhealthy growing tolerance for terror
but little empathy for the innocent and the common man.
The people have turned into sheep too frightened to speak
Herded by their master's into endless shadows
from which they'll not reemerge from their sleep.
We have forgotten but we'll soon be reminded...
by a maelstrom of mayhem and violence.
" But such is the way of the hood
where everything's misunderstood
there is an Missouri man who never seen a black squirrel he now lives in Omaha
There are Undercover dark brown ninja following ya
future millionaires in Harlem beg steal and barter
Blessed are riddled soiled dirty sheets
In the winter time burning rubbish and old metal trash can to retain the Heat
O' is the beauty of tangential creamy beige centipede
Consciously running barefooted with many feet complete
The infrastructure chuck holes such a treat
Run Johnnie run Cheryl's Sarah got a gun
What's what's why you run
In the urban ghettos rats and roaches harmony promenade pigeons fight with bats at night so docile they play
But such is the way
of the hood
where everything's misunderstood"
Prominent
If one was to poll Americans nation wide
and ask them if they supported apartheid.
Most would defiantly deny and say,
but their our allies..
If we asked most Americans do we need a
wall, to bar people of color from coming here at all?
Should we only let in those that resemble our kin
regardless of the circumstances they are in?
Would we crowd them in ghettos where resources
were lacking but have our government keep on taxing?
What if we made them carry id cards, to police their
travels, and from areas we barred?
If we ask most Americans with our national sense
of pride, why are we still complicit in this Gaze an genocide?
He slept for sixty years
then woke up with a start
For the life of him
he couldn’t tell things apart
Ghettos still all filled with blacks
War everywhere he turned
Young folks rioting in the streets
Property looted and burned
World ‘leaders’ puffing out their chests
threatening to detonate
Nuclear arsenals built to the hilt …
Make love, but don’t procreate …
So, the sleeper saw a doctor
and told him all his troubles
Doctor said, “Your eye exam
reveals you’re seeing double”
I’m a poet devoid
of Cliff Notes
dissection
not my thing
Don’t ask me
to explain my words
I’d rather hum
and sing
Explication
penniless
in ghettos
of the word
Where vagrants
pull and tear apart
what only should
— be heard
(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: January, 2024)
*On The Run*
Hunted by my past, trailed by my shadow,
Intoxicated by elixir of youth,
I climb the ìrókò beyond the leaves.
Wail of woes, dehydrated dreams
Crushed in the battlefield of the deep;
Love lost, hoarse voice, greying hairs.
The wind slaps me cold,
Drunk with evil pleasure,
Sweet sorrow envelopes me;
Then it dawns on me,
I’d frittered the forest and harried the sea
With eyes larger than my stomach
While lost in the jungle of ambition.
I have impregnated the sand
and birthed blood;
Now,
Buried in the remnant of the night,
Fame
Is a remote treacherous valley
of thorny roses.
Wandering in the wilderness of civilization,
The stench of my decomposing sins has found me out.
A prisoner in my own skin,
I must hide and run,
And run and hide.
Solace in firewater and ghettos,
Like the hourglass,
I must hit the highway
And journey to nowhere.
In the end,
I can't outrun my shadow.
sometimes
misconstrued
in a fluorescent grove
where malachite petals
marry emerald blades
verbose biting chews
too close to the cheek
among a confetti of bees
amid undulating bumps
of raw superfluous air
interdimensional entities
of spectral occurrence
wave with graphic-less suave
to gurgles, to coos, to hehs
seek noodle communication
to a bouncing mistaken few
using the eyebrow medium
of coincidence
a babbling infrasonic tool
of curious happening
sometimes
misunderstood
exhume, with heed
supressed benevolence
they fly shapelessly
in quartered skies
aloof in mocking flight
frilly, frothy entities
divebombing ghettos
exacting urban sprawl
chance upon neonates
and families out picnicking
feeding babies whose
knowing smiles to air
see, or do they?
– beware
Aeriforms
Wake up! You awake to cliffside turn-tables--mountains crumble into the divots of the record; mountain goats float upon ethereal notes. They bleat in conjunction with dusty LPs. Soon enough, cities rise from the mountain passes, urban ghettos spring up like wildflowers. Graffiti artists sneak out to complete works. The absence of pastels, traditional paint, and chalk is too much to contend with. They must use others. All tear open their chests and remove their ribs. They use marrow and blood to make art. The artists walk about countrysides. An afternoon of binge drinking and screwing whores. They brag about their achievements as they approach a gaggle of street poets. An altercation soon occurs, creativity flows. Architectural dreamscapes pop up from nowhere...
Arise! Oh Heart, from the catacombs of the dead
Shake off the dust, for Life beckons you like a buddy
Peel off the weariness that wraps you like a shroud
And walk to the open to perceive the light.
Arise! Oh Heart, from the dungeons of gloom
The dawn is at your door step, waiting to break
Sing with the lark, merrily warbling in the woods
Dance with the billows, wildly prancing on the deep.
Arise! Oh Heart, from the ghettos of bondage
Break loose the ropes that moor you to the past
Dart through the panorama of the cerulean blue
And fly high into regions, uncharted and new.
Arise! Oh Heart, from the citadels of hate
Listen not to the shrieking and howling behind
Drink from the goblet of conciliating love
And rejoice at the birth of a dawn with promises galore!
It happened we know it did,
One culture virtually annihilated,
Why??????
For being different that's why,
One man blamed everything on them,
Thought of them as sub human,
Something to get rid off,
Spouting evil his tenticles reaching far and wide,
Others started to believe his evil,
They where shoved into ghettos,
Made to wear a yellow star,
It was not enough he wanted them dead,
Walked to pits and shot dead,
Shoved into cattle cars going to camps,
Left or right ment life or death,
Gas chambers at the ready,
Romani gypsies, homosexuals those physically and mentally disabled murdered too,
God why????
His name is well known,
Those murdered their names forgotten,
Prey to all the gods of the world ..... never again.
Why these woman strutting in stilettos?
While children are still starving in the ghettos?
They came ashore unnoticed, alit lightly, quietly rooted themselves into our culture. They spread, slowly forming small groups amid the ghettos of grasses and saplings. No one took notice until the day a surging yellow field appeared. Demanding to be seen, to be acknowledged, counted among the beauty of the countryside. They infiltrated every strata of “flowerdom”, placed spies amid the city’s cracks and crevices, dropped airborne units into walled fortresses. The battle was on! Not so much a revolution as an insistence…on their presence, a forceful inclusion intrusion into our gardens, a reminder that all flowers had drifted, been carried great distances across mountains and seas by wind, feather, and driftwood. And yet we ask: “Where did they come from?” “How did they get here?” As if the questions were never asked about all the flowers at one time or another. Why does the battle continue...in the streets, on the prairies, in back yards and tiny gardens?
roses flaunt their scent
all seek the honey bees kiss
weeds bully fresh sprouts
John G. Lawless
©8/18/2021
We learn
right from wrong by
the zenith of our youth
but do we learn moral lessons
in the exact way, and
do some learn them
at all?
We show
distaste toward
those whose definitions
of morality might very
well differ from what we
figure to be
correct.
We need
to look beyond
our own realities.
There are children who lack guidance
and some who know only
cruel stings of
abuse.
There are
children who lack
even basic values,
for they witness horrendous acts,
yet harshly we would judge
those kids when they
go bad.
Children
of the streets and
some in the ghettos too;
also priviledged ones who have
no one to look up to -
wild and crazy
they run.
Wicked
they seem. We judge
them by our own standards
of right and wrong. What can be done?
Can we not all agree
at least on one
good rule?
Golden
is the rule which
we must teach today’s youth.
Until we ensure all children
feel love and protected,
society
will fail.
June 1, 2021
NA in the Heptastich Poetry Contest
For the 'ALL YOURS (Jun 25)' Poetry Contest of Brian Strand
Do you need to be born in Africa or Haiti
to be saved
What about the single mother in the ghettos
of Detroit
Will an actor or politician or philanthropist
deem you worthy
Of a rescue from a situation that as assuredly
kills
Cable TV asks for your money for the starving
third world
While lost souls in your shadow are homeless, crying
—in plain sight
(Norristown Pennsylvania: January, 2021)
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