Long Ghettos Poems
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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
I Lost Him
I've seen the world
been with many men
had my share of flavors
lifes been good
very good at times
I've seen the pent house
and ghettos
the rose gardens
and railroad tracks
the beaches
and low rises
I've seen it all
I've
had my ups and downs
I don't lie
I've been
with governors and lowlifes
with church bells and vices
the laughter and tears
there were many good memories
many
to save and to take back
and to take from my life
to take
snap shots dear to my heart
lifes been good
very good at times
the worst day of my life, though
was many years ago on Christmas day
I was at home for the holidays
with innocence and good cheer
in my heart,
yet
in my innocence
at trusting life and mankind
and blind faith
to what now proves to my detriment
yes
when someone uprooted my life
like black bears running down river
tearing me apart again and again
when somebody broke into my life
somebody
and stole
my love, my heart
my only joy, a part of me
my parrot,
my one and only true love
I cried that Christmas day
tears of pain and sorrow
so uncontrollably,
unconditionally
my parrot, my parrot forever gone
oppressed
suppressed in voice
lifted from my spirits
from thieves in the night,
like black bears ripping me apart,
again and again
I cried that Christmas day
and nobody understood
my parrot was gone
for good
nobody could understand
and nobody helped me
look
to see the light
in my time of need
my parrot stolen from my heart
I shake, now, with sorrow
and
since that dark day
the darkest day of my life
I vowed to make it up,
yes I do
to my beloved
parrot
connie pachecho
December 26. 2016
O Benjamin,
Since the seventh of October, you have marched—
Through flame, through silence,
Through lullabies silenced beneath dust.
Still you cry terror,
But the world sees toys buried beneath broken walls,
And mothers clawing through stone for names once whispered at night.
You say Israel wants peace—
Yet sow salt in every seedbed of it.
How can peace be born from phosphorus fire?
From drones that hover like vengeful angels
Over the cradle?
Do you not remember the ghettos of Warsaw,
Where your ancestors once prayed for the sunrise?
Now, under your command, Gaza becomes
The graveyard of the innocent—
Children with no flags, only wounds.
And you, America—
Bearer of democracy's mask,
How many genocides must you cradle in silence
Before history files its charges?
You support the hand that strikes,
Then cry self-defense with blood on your lips.
But if your throne crumbles tomorrow—
Who shall carry your sins?
What allies will bury your guilt?
O Netanyahu—
The world cannot be bent by iron alone.
The more you crush, the more rises from beneath:
The will of a people,
Stronger than bombs,
Older than empire.
You struck Iran,
Hezbollah,
Houthis—
As if the earth has no other voice but yours.
But every empire that believed itself eternal
Now lies in dust,
Its statues eaten by ivy and time.
This is not war.
This is enterprise.
A market of misery where power is currency,
And peace is the product withheld.
Yet mark these words—
Justice is patient,
But never blind.
A reckoning walks slowly,
But it always arrives.
And when it does,
The names you buried
Will rise to meet you—
In the court of conscience,
Under the sky of truth.
Like the burglar thats attracted by money,
like the thug that’s paid to kill,
so they got enticed by our gold, our diamond and our oil.
so they came to steal, to kill and to destroy us.
Gold coast,Ivory coast , South Africa,Cameroon amongst other countries were attacked…
they stole our gold,
they stole our diamond
and they stole our oil.
when we resisted, they kill us with their inhuman policies
like aparthied in S.Africa,
and by destroying us, they took us as slaves.
we now live in ghettos and slumps
we die of poverty and famine
they are the ones responsible for our plight
their coming to Africa has brought nothing good
for they came to STEAL, to KILL and to DESTROY
The city's underbelly was once tagged
by gangs staking out their territory.
And so, talented recruits got snagged
by local gangs to spray-paint their story.
Visible spaces got inked like tattoos,
depicting badges of fear: bold and stark.
Yet today, tenants in those ghettos choose
urban art: over walls, inked crude and dark.
Graffiti has been transformed into art:
while restoring pride to the neighborhood.
And even though it isn't much, it's a start,
today gangs protect murals in their hood.
And though tourist maps have urban art flagged,
the city's underbelly was once tagged.
Blue is the color of the sky and the sea on a sunny day
Blue skies are skies that are ripe for sailors and for sailing, and
we all wonder what's at the bottom of the beautiful 'deep, blue sea'
Blue is the color of the 'blues,' a uniquely American musical style
one that originated in the context of a hard-scrabble existence
be it in the coal mines of Appalachia, the cotton fields of the South
or the concrete jungle ghettos of New York City and Chicago
This blue has even sneaked into our holidays: Elvis had a 'blue, blue
blue Christmas' -- hubba, hubba; and it is the color in one of the lines
of perhaps the most often recited, well-known American poem ever:
'Roses are red / Violets are blue...' even though they're usually purple
All of which begs the question: Which blue is true? Is it
positive or negative? Is it the beautiful sky and sea blue
or is it the blue of no job and no hope? Perhaps the answer
is that it's both, as Richard Farina once put it so succinctly:
'Been down (blue) so long that it looks like up (blue) to me'
January 05, 2019
Entry in "Blue" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
From East to west enslaved in chains
To work the fields, make tracks for trains
They sang their song antiphonally
To dull their day, hide misery
Those blues notes hit in wailing tone
And words about the heavenly home
Their doleful sounds had paved the way
To blues and jazz in later day
Rhythms and chords became complex
Joplin’s ragtime was a great success
For well practiced piano on old upright
Those old time rags are still a delight
New Orleans was where it began
In ghettos for blacks with time on their hands
From morning to night they developed their skills
On trumpets, sax, it staved off their ills
Mastering their instruments with deft virtuosity
Jazzy riffs marked by smart improvisatory
The Mississipi paddle boats chugged their way
Aboard, the sounds of jazz in full sway
Entertaining, with a sense of pride
Scat singing, cross rhythms, boogie and stride
And took their art to far off places
Strutting their stuff, no airs and graces
White bands were now beginning to swing
Inclusion slowly becoming the thing
With time to go, but heading that way
In church, brilliant gospel helped them to pray
Spirituals continued to highlight their plight
Fair treatment becoming within their sight
Jazz continues to wow one and all
In different forms to really enthrall
Miles Davis and Matt Dennis both just the same
With jazz in mind, they played the same game
Blues and jazz have impacted new sounds
As popular as ever its music abounds
“If someone besides a black ever sings the real gut bucket blues, it’ll be a Jew. We both know what it’s like to be someone else’s footstool.”
-Ray Charles
Author’s note: this is a companion piece to “Where Are They Now?”
Published in Out On A Limb, 2020
In the shadows lurk a venomous hate,
a darkness that festers, sealing our destiny.
Its target, the sons and daughters
of a heritage rich in history’s pages.
From ancient times to the modern era,
the prejudice persists in myriad ways.
A scapegoat for woes, a target for blame,
the Jew bears the brunt of humanity’s disgrace.
With whispers of conspiracy, lies unfurl,
a web of deceit, cruel and cold.
Stereotypes wielded like a sharpened blade,
piercing the soul, leaving hearts gored.
From pogroms to ghettos, from Holocaust’s cry,
to the present day’s thriving rhetoric.
The echoes of hatred, they still ring out,
in the air we breathe, in the ground we’ve uncovered.
Surrounded by darkness, a glimmer of
resilience and courage, shining bright.
For the Jewish spirit, it will not shatter
in the face of adversity, but will awake.
So let us stand against the trend,
with love and compassion, side by side.
For in unity, we find our power
and banish the darkness with unwavering light.
Dear Papa,
Sad, my siblings and I,
Never got to meet with you;
You left us too soon,
Out in this cold, dark and unjust climate;
Out in the deep ghettos and jungles;
In the hands of conmen and wolves
In sheep's clothing;
In the hands of those
Who have turned a house of refuge
Into A den of thieves
With no proof of roof
Over our bruised heads
The fence you mended
Has caved in
Your old, durable coat
Of many colors
Has frayed at the edges
Refusing to be mended
Father,
If we had known
When the thief
Would stealthily saunter in,
We would have guided our loins
Now,
Men have lost their fate
A good name is no more precious
Than gold and silver
Even when there is a way
There is no more will
Men have rolled up their
Goat skin mats,
Tucked away in rafters
To be fanned by smoke
And feasted on by rats
Men have hidden their drink horns
Refusing to tap wine or commune
Feigning to be temporary
Rather than contemporary
The glories of yesterday
Have been washed away
By memories too battered and faint
To remember your charge
Staten Island is being renovated
But they feign ignorance
A grave yard is more presentable, appealing and serene
Than our back country
Dogs now feast on fellow dogs...
Father, please don't look back in anger...
A child's hand is not scaled
By the hot piece of yam bequeathed by his mother;
Only a man who has not been
To his kinsman' s farm assumes
His father's farm is bigger
Mandiba,
Tomorrow is pregnant
We do not know what it will bring forth....
Today is here, alive with us
Our hope lies in the fidelity
That one day,
Perhaps one day, we Will get it right;
Smile and call you Mandiba
have you ever thought of
How God loves us
the gifts he gives
our five senses
and how they work
have you thought of God
being an artist or a philosopher
or an architect at work
has Him being a physicist
or biologist ever crossed
your mind
has God used the sciences
ever to be kind
is music man's only gift
or the songs of whale's
and porpoises desolate
and the howls of wolves
and dogs just nothing
isn't when we make love
something
we all love music
a wonderful thing
but who's ideal was it
to bring a bow to a string
we see flowers winter spring
summer and fall
but who added the fragrance
to the rose
what adapted us
to the way we live
some in icy climates
and others deserts heat
who trained us for
the way we live
the thieves in the ghettos
and the thieves in offices'
little do men know
that God inspired books
sometimes unholy
men take a second look
sometimes God appears
in the words of a song
we listen over and over
and play it all day long
God is in the blessing
and God is in the curse
God is in the making
of our prayers and verse
God has made us beautiful
for the eye's to see
and God has made us mindful
of equality
And in our minds are kept
some great reason or cause
our passion when displayed
we worship Him as Lord