Long Jailers Poems
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Against attentiveness,all arrived at alarming an agreement,
But best before,big brothers begun bathing behind bordered basement,
Could cane caution correctly,creating common checks?
Don't disturb determiners destroying developed dretch,
Even enemies embedded eminence encloses earth,
For five fowls flying frankly felt first,
Greatness granted ghosts gurging goals,
Holy,holy,...harlots hidden homes,
Intimidation is icing in itchiness,
Just jelt Jailers jaunting jowls,
Kindly keep kings keenly,
Letting little liars like long life,
Men modeled me mainly,
Naming new nations noteably,
Only options open old oracles,
Proving professionalism pertained,
Queens queued quickly quackles,
Rectifying rules rendered raptly,
So shall souls see salvation secured,
Than thinking tomorrow tells the truth,
Unknown ultraroyalists understand universal uglesome,
Virtually vitalizing viewers vexed,
When we win wonderfully without wickedness,
X-country xianity xenagogue,
Yes,y'all yielders yeans,
Zealously zeroizing zoetic zones...zones!
Stow away the congeries of aches
overtly attenuating the life-force
Joints grinding bones as growing muscles waked
Oft, stomping like an apoplectic horse...
Under strained newness, a glum disposition
reeked nervousness, clamping a chest distraught
No diversity, glared their position
Such eyes that stabbed, could snap a breath taut...
Of schooling, what silent complacency!
Jailers with fingertip-busting dusters
or canes that cracked and smacked decency
Umber-burned bruises on smartened clusters...
Raking nails scratch to assuage a mind
New migraines need compulsory unwinds…
(4/23/21 For 'Aches Prompt' contest hosted by Constance La France)
Curse those who curse highway
The spell leading wheels astray
By which clutch and break betray
Commands, drivers' feet convey
To lay every prayers hope on may
Curse those who curse the breeze
Summoned by the darkened decrees
Eyes, heart even not mind foresees
The danger that is about to sneeze
Holding unto time to make moment unease
Curse those who want blood
Red, blue, black flowing flood
That spirits move and scud
What a sudden end planted in mud!
By humility, tears run lips, thud.
Forgive the highway thieves
Toasting the pleasant eves
By rounds aleatory weaves
Foreshadowed in grieves
Only, by chance, luck retrieves
Forgive the highway whores
Whose bodies never let time ignores
Men's races wanting encores
In the name of drugs from different stores
To lasting on battlefield pleasure adores
Forgive highway trailers
Conveying goods and wholesalers
Taking no cognizance of the retailers
Motor boy's eyes troubled inhalers
Who fears not joining jailers
Forgive highway's Police
Whose charge never decrease
For respect to be apiece
And smiles love having peace
Yet money comes before the release
Forgive the reckless drivers
Who drinks and pray cum survivors
Won't you forgive those that put them on the highway
That to no avail, their aims betray
when I heard
Miss Piggy laugh,
on those days ?
I would be OK
between the oceans
of pain, we had paddled
to meet
plastic bags of magic
hanging from fishing poles
wheeled in, by flying nuns
with blessings
of water and love,
we divined ways to forget,
the moments in minutes
when agony pushes through
to shave another piece off
our shared sheer will,
and eating the pieces
were the demons
we all harbor,
unwilling jailers
of repeat offenders
spot our roll-call
barf jokes became
our Da Vinci Code,
and when one of us
started losing ground
it was you who brought
us back around,
the eternal clown
no frowns allowed
rest in Elysian fields
my darling,
in the wee hours
eternity crept from eyes
and misted with disbelief,
from the oceans we traveled
we drink a drop
to you our funny love,
and damn all sorrow
to another day
What are liberals without conservatives
truth without spin
vision without sight
peace without war
strength without weakness
…three without four
What are predators without prey
the moon without earth
storms without rain
trees without roots
jailers without prisons
…hurt without pain
What are chains without links
ice without cold
death without birth
children without laughter
cruelty without kindness
…pens without ink
What are seasons without Winter
discovery without fame
time without moments
letters without cursive
voices without ears
…praise without blame
What are ravens without wings
vows without promise
kindness without meanness
masters without slaves
today without tomorrow
…joy without sorrow
In Reference We Wander
In Deference We Pray
(The New Room: July, 2022)
People voted for chaos:
democracy is struggling.
Worldwide ideologies lean far right:
dictators, potentates, and tyrants rule
unconstrained by any semblance of law.
Our youth don't know real war:
nor what their fathers fought for.
Politicians sell fear, packaged as hope,
through accusations and false promises,
till the downtrodden elect their jailers.
Like sheep to a hungry wolf:
weak minds are easy pickings.
I've lived in a bubble of misplaced trust;
out of touch with the anger of our youth,
ignoring the homelessness on our streets.
But bubbles pop over time:
and illusions, get exposed.
Aggressive nations are pushing for war
and allies align, as they've done before;
fueled by pure propaganda and greed.
I hoped I’d never see war:
but, I fear, one is coming.
The bullets did not fly into the wind,
They struck, leaving indelible scars,
Blood on the pavement, pain in impure souls,
The bodies fall, but the eyes remain wide open.
The pains we hide become a torment for the oppressed,
A cry that screams the truth of injustice.
They call it an accident, but the accident is a clean version,
A lie in a suit and tie, served on a platter of indifference.
The walls have become loudspeakers of these silent tortures,
Lives shattered beneath muddy boots,
Dreams crushed under the law of silence.
How many more bodies must collapse before we hear?
How many more heads must bow before we stop lowering our eyes?
There is a gap between reality and their truth,
Between power and the dust they trample underfoot.
The sirens of chaos do not sing the praises of peace, they howl with anguish,
Badges, those stars of iron, shine only on the skin of radicalized natives.
But we cling to resistance, like a final breath before the abyss,
For those we call criminals do not wear the same chains.
It is their guilty determination that condemns us,
Their hands full of fear, tears, and wounds, but not remorse.
Lamentations are no longer enough, nor are the images,
The forces of anarchy hide their racist savagery behind shields of lies.
They conceal the hatred of their racial instincts under uniforms with a deceiving shine,
But we see it, the rage, in their eyes that burn justice.
They are not our protectors, they are our jailers,
Their decisions are not the law, they are decrees of death.
And you, up there, do you think amnesia is a strong currency?
Do you believe time erases the pain?
No, history does not forget, the memory of the people weeps,
It screams to those who close their eyes, to those who close their mouths.
It is no coincidence that injustice always makes the same sound,
A sound of blows, of screams that fade.
Each time I raise my gaze to the night sky,
A million stars stare back, shedding happy tears of light.
And I cannot but stare back in delight,
Wondering which one of them holds your great soul.
Tell me, Old Nelson, do they--these stars--still shine upon
you?
Heaven should grant that they do,
For like them your example still shines upon us, pointing
to us the true north of life--
And, oh yes, this one great lesson: that life's struggles will
endure our stumbles but never our mumbles.
Yes! Our hopes may fall and our fortunes dip, but on their
feet our voices must keep.
Twenty-seven years did rough chains bind your feet,
And twenty-seven years did they girdle your breast,
But not once--never--did they bind your voice.
"Only free men can negotiate," you scoffed at your jailers,
scorning to barter your ideals for your freedom;
And to that crooked Boer court: "A free South Africa is the
great ideal for which I live, and if need be it is the one ideal
for which I will die."
Then to a bleeding, seething nation: "Let's break with the past."
From the flesh of these words a new nation was carved for
white, brown, and black alike.
Twinkle for twinkle it matches the skies,
And in its bosom you now rest forever: quiet, contented,
victorious!
I walk in a busy street, happy faces everywhere
Coats buttoned tight against the cold,
Stomachs full, warm shoes on their feet.
They don't know.
My grandparents limped through the streets
Cold, starving, wearing tattered coats.
Barefoot in Germany in winter, for a crime of birth
Convicted by fear, jealousy and hate.
It is autumn, and all around me the colors explode
As if a giant splattered paint from his brush
On the landscape, his canvass, until sated.
He didn't know.
My family endured colorless years
The only hue the yellow stars they were forced to wear
To mark each as something less than a person,
Exempt from even the most basic human rights.
There's a chill in the air this time of year
Smoke billows from the chimneys of dozens of homes
And bonfires litter the neighborhood like cinders
They don't know
My mother can't see a chimney without crying
Reminders of the chimneys at the camp
Where her friends, relatives and nameless Jews
Were released as grey smoke to hover and signal release.
Everyday I see people covered in tattoos.
Tattoo shops pop up offering expensive artwork
Anywhere on the body, some covering every inch.
They don't know.
My mother had a tattoo way before they were popular.
She did not choose it -- it was forced upon her by her jailers.
A number tattooed in black on the inside of her arm
Her only hope of being identified if she survived.
The children born today have choices,
And must never allow a "Holocaust" again;
Choices to wear, eat, watch, think, and love what and who they want.
Make sure they know.
Departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven
clatter wings together like hens in a jailers coop.
Words never die, they bury themselves in
heaps of dry leaves, distant laughter scatters
the sadly said.
Muse-makers wear plastic rainhats
that flutter like bats in the sunlight.
Words have to be tied together
or they sink alone in an empty fish bowl.
Japanese girls in designer Nike's
skip over words completely and we all hear.
Silk flowers in China teacups sail a deep blue ink.
The poets speak in tie-dyed riddles,
in dribbles between the loosely connected.
Atop a mountain, goats bray,
love-sick donkeys harken with their heavy hearts.
Legions of cock-hatted rhymers are born again
to confuse the world with their simplistic sounds.
Writing for all the long dead letters
is an art for baby fingers and painted opera singers.
Undertakers gather; their electronic ankle-beepers
sing within freshly dug sonnets and odes.
The deceased travel on, spinning a gray language,
they are silk moths weaving tinsel rainbows
that by chance
speak words still wet from closed lips.