Long Deprived Poems
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Introduction.. An excerpt from a speech by Mr Keith Campbell 1969, On the need of a referendum on joining the 'common market' the people are discussing it up and down
the land every day, they want the opportunity to express their views. If they are deprived of that opportunity they will resent the fact. For Parliament to tell those people that while they may have their views, they will not have any chance of expressing them and that this momentous decision will be taken by members of Parliament alone, regardless of the opinions of the people, would be a piece of unforgivable arrogance.
Britain 1965, Leyland's factory doing fine,
40 percent of cars, go onto U K road
Bought from British steel, goods in trains of loads
Defunct in 1985, a proof of industrial decline?
Once upon a time the Rolls Royce brand
Was made and homed within, Brit-ain..
Now owned, and sold by another land
Here is well shown again, the markets gain.'
Swan Hunter that towered the mighty Tyne
Gave work to generations, of thousands ten
The pound was 'pegged' interest rates to climb
Bank of England was to be broken then.'
Of course this all could be dis-truths
A load of baloney, where is the proof?
That's what others no doubt will bray
Statistics.. Statistics, but come the day..'
Founded 1967
Expectations
No rest
No time to breathe
A weight on your chest
Nothing less than excellence
Even that's not enough
A world that tells black people
That even if you follow the rules
You are still not good enough
Because as long as your black
They will always have the last laugh
In a world that preaches equality
It sure is a hypocrite
From young we are taught that life is a test
That no matter how hard we work
We will always be seen as less
Even with perfect scores we still come last
A crooked system used to keep us at the bottom
A crooked system used to make sure our life is a struggle
A box with no key deprived of freedom
Locked in with chains so we can't outshine them
Doing everything in their power
To watch us sink
In an ocean that steals our breath
Drowning in a watery abyss
A constant fight to stay afloat
Whilst they just stare at us
A fight that isn't fair
The water keeps us suppressed
So everytime we open our mouth
The water sinks our words
Just like everytime we try to speak
We are labelled dramatic
All this happening whilst the weight of their hate
Slowly drowns us to death
In a world that claims progression
The education system sets us back
Policing black children
Whilst holding us back
So all the white kids can succeed
Then tell us we will never amount to anything
That all we are good for is a prison sentence
Drilling inferiority straight into our chest
To make sure discrimination is the only education we will get
The only lesson received is how racism will never end
The syllabus being slurs and all the different ways we are hated
Buy something they seem to forget
Is we have legacies of strength
We are stronger than the hate that you threat
You push us down and yet we continously get up
We are made of tungsten the strongest element
You think you can break us
Your hate will break instead
You try to steal our breath
But our oxygen tank is unlimited
We are here for the long run
You'll just have to get used to it
We are here to stay
And we will never let you forget
Cirque Calder Family
Lonely this
My restless paint blobs
Absorbing precious air
Risking dehydration
Moisture deprived patience
Waiting atop my platform
Resting precariously upon cut wire
And tapered metal sheets
Awaiting tomorrow's work load
Master catnaps
Sprawled beside more wire and metal sheets
While real cat
Possesses Master's bedding
Her throne
Her mattress
All around
Bright colors crave daybreak
As studio fans drift their meager air
Turning delicate shapes meekly
Their kinetic fulcrums never idle
Other imaginings stand stoical in ring two
While ring one and three
Await trapeze figures
String ropes adrift
Large nocturnal mobiles
Idle patiently
Reflecting unfinished Big Top pieces
Table and floor installations
Galleries waiting
Catching moonlight
Wall doodles and sketches
Tarry further inspiration
Like my inspiration
The indubitable smell
Texture
Emotion
Only my paint dapples
Smeared on his faithful
Monsieur Palette can provide
Of course
Beside me
Always beside me
Tireless Pinch Nose
Holds I'm fay
Tough guy
Pliered twisting and crunching
Bent on convincing me
We're just tools
Says he
Not so
Says the Master
You're part of family
And so it goes
Brief respites
While imagination
Envisions its next
To be
Illusory reality
Remaining child-like
Understanding little of rest
A catnap?
Maybe
The car crashed with death.
The force of fate could not hold the wheels.
Our sky shattered to million pieces hither and thither...........
My wife died.
An ear splitting yowling reverberant sound silenced all.
A blue flash of lightning suddenly disappeared.
A curtain of pain fell upon our window panes,
and stumbling in darkness, we skittered on.
With crunched bones, calloused palms dazed in bloody horror,
our lurched heart rendered a numbing pain...
a pain that could be heard when my two year old asks, "Where's mummy gone?"
She had created our sky, lighted it with love
the moon turned black, blown off by a bomb.
I show my son, a star which is now his mom.
Dated 28th April 2019
Originally submitted to two contests where it was NA
But it was written with lot of emotions from my side and I expected that many people should be able to relate with the story of some friend or family where a small child is deprived love of a mother lost to cruel hands of destiny, accident or disease
RESUBMITTED to Contest --Applicable Not Applicable Contests
Sponsor Richard Lamoureux
Vivid vitality, vast ductility, and opulent appearance.
Powerful and fiery, bearing a deep sense of tolerance.
We won't fail since we have sinew and dear freedom.
A luring maxim to rank on the victor of a battle.
Alike the eagle's eyes as they fly up a zenith saddle.
America's yielding was cognitive to be limitless.
Ethical skills were set by the fathers to progress.
Whenever they set to foster their ingress of liberty.
The bald eagle fight with repute, uproar, and flood.
Like the peak and seal, a fight for might in a spud.
The bald eagle stands gladly by the clock tower.
The Uncle Sam Flag and the star-spangled banner.
The Statue of Liberty and the Americans who relish it.
Empowering hook and eye fly over Satanic storm.
We have tweaked our saws and freedom swarm.
Our friend's eyes were loaded up with tears in Arlington.
Deprived fighters who fought and died for liberty, won.
Freedom isn't modest or free, troops die while fools rest!
Under the starlight, frogs sang into the foggy wood.
When I rested in freedom, I dozed deeply and stood.
Written: March 17, 2022
Freedom Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
He was a man of no name or personality
but a dot within dots on a graph
yet, the point of a plane surface he occupied
was the very edge of -3 sigma on a normal curve
or coordinate Y<0.1 : X<0.1 position on the wide plane,
so insignificant that hardly he was noticed in anyone’s eyes.
His assigned number for a statistical purpose was 2,
nevertheless, there was no hidden or specific meaning to it,
merely an administrative purpose; it was just like a number
assigned to an inmate whose individuality or characteristics
were totally deprived.
Number 2, when multiplied with infinity indefinitely
grew a pair of wings on his back,
the 2 flew away somewhere no one knows
where it may be, flapping his huge wings.
We note the first words infants say
and the words of those on death’s way.
Parting words seem to hold much weight
as we watch souls approach death’s gate.
The words Jesus said as he died,
mean much to the tempted and tried.
His way of life and what he taught
helps them to live life as they ought.
“Father, forgive them” was Christ’s cry
writhing in pain ‘tween earth and sky
Jesus, God’s Son became a slave
so that his creatures he might save.
“You’ll be with me in paradise”
when heaven’s gates are flung ajar.
The thief who said, “remember me,”
Christ saved from sin and set him free.
As Christ with pity looked upon
His mother deprived of her son,
to John, he said, “a mom you’ve won”
to her, “Woman, behold your son.”
“God, why have you forsaken me”
Christ cried as he hung on the tree.
He felt a separation keen
as mankind’s sin made him unclean.
The One who called Himself “The First”
cried out in pain saying, “I thirst.”
As Adam’s kin, He bore man’s sin
salvation for his soul to win.
“It is finished,” Christ Jesus cried
as he gave up the ghost and died.
“Into your hands, I give my soul”
As Adam’s kin, death is my dole.
From birth to death Christ’s every word
was bread of life to all who heard.
Upon the cross, he paid the cost,
so you and I need not be lost.
“Childhood memories of joyful festive times are precious
treasures we preserve for lifetime” - Quote by Poet
The sun-deprived days fade away fast in no time
in the cauldron of freezing nights.
Embraced by the frosty December ambiance,
Christmas time is here again, I feel nostalgic.
One Christmas night long time ago was freezing cold,
a six year old I couldn’t keep excitement on hold,
for I knew Santa would bring lovely gifts for me.
I wanted all the waiting hours to fly quickly.
I had heard that Santa would come through the chimney,
I wanted to see if there was one on house top.
I went up to the roof terrace, but didn’t find one.
Mother said he’d come through window.
At night, I didn’t let mother close my room’s window,
the chilled wind in the snow-filled backyard I heard zoom.
In the morn saw gifts on bed, tried to yell in joy,
voice choked, my glee cold spell couldn’t spoil.
In my lost childhood slate I etched that night’s story
as memento, I fondly keep in memory.
The often unnoticed first strategic step
in bullying
is to isolate.
Religious
political
economic
and/or sexual bullying
begins, already,
feeling entitled to pervasively disempower,
dissociate,
disinvest,
unenlighten,
excommunicate,
lock up,
terminate from employment,
send to the reservation,
asylum
ghetto,
wrong side
of the LeftBrain dominant
self-righteous tracks.
Deeply separate,
divide and, thereby, expose
and bully
that Other,
or those Others,
who need to learn their place,
separate and deservedly unequal,
to relearn their divinely-inspired space
of oppression
neglect
punishment
For being wrong,
too needy greedy,
too ignorant,
uneducated
simple
quiet and sneaky
*****
unbinary
effeminate
pretentious
hypocritical
weird looking, sounding, smelling,
frightening
angry
threatening...
Such alien Others
are first isolated
at least by disreputation,
then abused
First neglected
shunned
Othered
alienated
unaccepted,
Then ridiculed
used
raped
vilified
Blatantly and falsely accused
of being motivated
to dismiss
and impoverish
the monoculturing Bullies
through stealth
or by speaking their lying,
biased
self-serving Truth
Which is always ignored
until They get too uppity
again.
Bullies
and their Victims
are, thereby, deprived
of experiencing compassionate
cooperatively appreciated
and co-invested
dialogue.
Bullies
and their Victims
thereby declare and suffer wars
where everyone,
including plants and animals,
soil and water and air quality,
suffers and loses
except, in the bookkeeping department,
the military-industrial
short-term corporate profit Bullies
Who will not realize
their self-victimizing
long-term health and safety losses
until degeneratively isolated
from all prospects for a livable
sustainable
humane
sacredly compassionate
EarthTribe health and safety
future climate
regenerative resilience.
At the end
of the river's exhausted reach
where swamp firmed
into solid ground, there was a place
the locals used as a tip.
Broken, worn out stuff
from clean outs, hoarded
household effects finally let go,
garage junk
and the discarded leftovers
from deceased estates
were dumped there.
The place was a goldmine for boys
on the hunt for soapbox wheels
and parts or anything
that could be used to build
wonders blueprinted
on raging minds. Pipes bent
into chopper handlebars
to lend lift to a boring bike, fit outs
for tree houses, defenses for forts,
the frames for boats and airplanes
that were born in hope
but would never float or fly
beyond a backyard.
The thrill was in the making.
When the council closed the tip
and moved it miles away,
it was as if a vital organ
in the neighborhood soul had been
taken out. Boys were deprived
of the lifeblood and source
of their making. For some time,
groups would ride their bikes there
and pause before an empty space
and stare. They had no words
for their grief. Slowly, the hole
healed over though something
inside had been lost. The bounty
that was once provided by the tip
was replaced by shiny things
bought brand new from shops.