Long Stoppage Poems
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It was in eighteen eighty-six in the streets of Chicago,
where the greatest miscarriage of justice people would know
transpired in an infamous labor-police rendezvous.
Albert Parsons led eighty thousand people on revue.
The strikers marched down Chicago’s Michigan Avenue.
The Knights of Labor were sponsors for the work stoppage venue.
Demands for shorter work hours and no child labor were made.
This would be regarded as the world’s first May Day parade.
Thousands nationwide would join in with the activities
In the next few days, the striking workers stopped whole industries.
On the third, some strikers and police engaged in melees.
These actions resulted in two ill-fated fatalities.
The struggles also caused some severe hideous injuries.
The fights took place at the McCormick Harvester Company.
Many held the police for murderous culpability.
Organizers from the Knights of Labor held a mass rally
at the Haymarket in Chicago’s West Loop vicinity.
They would assemble there in the early part of May.
Thousands crowded there peacefully on the month’s fourth day.
Leaflets were passed noting the police for murder to the crowd
as anarchists urged the mobs to join forces and shout aloud.
A bomb thrown at the police catalyzed an altercation.
One officer was killed and others hurt in the explosion.
Matthias Degan was the officer fallen in duty.
Seven other policemen died later from an injury.
The police opened fire on the people immediately.
At least eleven of the strikers were shot at fatally.
Eight men stood trial for the death of police officer Degan.
They were Parsons, August Spies, George Engel, Samuel Fielden,
Adolf Fischer, Louis Lingg, Michael Schwab, and Oscar Neebe.
All eight were tried and found guilty by a judge and jury.
Neebe got fifteen years; the others got the death penalty.
Schwab and Fielden were commuted to life; then got clemency.
Lingg took his own life before his scheduled execution.
The remaining four men were hanged in public exhibition.
Since then, there have been enacted many labor reform laws
The men who died are considered martyrs to a noble cause.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for the information I obtained to write this
poem.
‘Tis twilight’s trips on dawn made sun errant,
Go forth into time and pay due homage,
And your return to silence is current,
Those with weak goals are made less coherent,
‘Twas a toxic night pace turns back a page,
‘Tis twilight’s trips on dawn made sun errant,
The shadow of friends faces on crescent,
As the line grows, there will be no shortage,
And your return to silence is current,
Glaring eyes, like those who got a warrant,
Shield them from lights that have simple wattage,
‘Tis twilight’s trips on dawn made sun errant,
Recurring promise and slumber present,
Cherub’s arrow shot caused, clock to the stoppage,
And your return to silence is current,
Indeed this was a lesson so pleasant,
Fingered string to thine heart for storage,
‘Tis twilight’s trips on dawn made sun errant,
And your return to silence is current.
2019 September 19
Appreciate the truth
Do you?
Would you rather a person not telling you
And let you go on your merry way without knowing?
When someone chooses to tell you things
That alone tells you that they trust in you
They shouldn’t even have to tell you
But they choose to
Are they close enough to you?
What makes them decide to tell you?
If it is not to your benefits
And theirs
Openness is what you should aim for
Whatever it is
If one cannot speak his/her mind
One would feel suppressed, stopped in mid flow
You don’t want to be the cause of someone’s stoppage
So let it be known
And take it
Because truth is stranger than fiction
It has a way to send you soaring
Above what you think you can handle it
And ultimately to the place of fulfillment
That only true haven can create
Where freedom exists
And transparency can occur
Would you rather they tell you
Or withhold it from you?
I think you would choose the latter
Don’t hide it from me
I can take it
Truth, remember?
Haha
Poetry is intended for restlessness,
too much sweetness drives away poetry...
You can be pregnant with ideas,
stocked with what is benefit and write
emotionally without stoppage,
but the unusual metaphor is missing...
to the one that outlines the poetry...
Behold, the singing of joyful countries
it's sad...
The singing of sad countries is content...
There then lies the poetry that reflects
what the soul does not sight...
Poetry is not sympathetic text
in pretty words that appear
always full of emotions... and with
melodramatic sweetness... lack the
high-sounding that the Greeks call Beauty,
when the imagery that materializes the mystery is lacking,
only through metaphor or metonymy,
it subverts the original meaning,
gaining in breadth and beauty...
That and poem with poetry...
The word has to come dressed as a party
the poetry is dressed in the real fantasy
that the figure of speech contains...
Poetry is immaterial...!
Meg often told Josh
to try to be less reckless
but Josh had panache
when dealing with dangerous
too often being feckless
since days of sixth grade
their hands often intertwined
Meg and Josh displayed
how their main wants were aligned
though to harm Josh was purblind
Meg off to college
while Josh acquired war knowledge
strife without stoppage
where fears must be acknowledged
sympathy soon abolished
is no safe return
for what's lost along the way
only time to burn
no matter what others say
may come no brighter new day
when Twin Towers fell
Josh had rushed off to enlist
Meg's life went to hell
Josh’s words now like a hard fist
boy she'd known didn't exist
the world keeps turning
no matter how hard we pray
or strength of yearning
for that which was yesterday
tomorrow can be stone gray
forward observer
to Afghanistan he's sent
his own preserver
living in wind torn pup tent
letters described his descent
first months Meg worried
next mission Josh would be dead
their future buried
Josh's letters fill her with dread
terror lies in what's now read
tis time which smolders
forever change is churning
both growing older
with each thing Meg is learning
worry won't stop time burning
hold tight to your soul
into the void it may go
longing digs deep holes
upsetting the status quo
mixing up who's friend and foe
tick-tock does not stop
until tense mainsprings unwind
now their ball shall drop
just before ties will them bind
leaving little peace of mind
what scares Meg most
not if Josh is still alive
with return now close
Meg's uncertain she'll survive
what's become a nosedive
measuring last breathes
some things become worse than death
stolen by time's thieves
what we still want to believe
before we can start to grieve
dreading Josh's return
Meg would now prefer to hide
only time to burn
their fate's unwilling new bride
now caught on the same strange ride
only time to burn
while human emotions churn
withal yet we yearn
our ought-to-bes make downturns
changes cannot be returned
Where did she go
I knew of her, had seen her in adverts wearing short hair
being, sort of dubious sex, let them guess and smoking
a cigarette with the fragrance of the oriental express, yet
here she sat in a pavement café drinking Pernod, and as
Russian tanks rumbled through the stone cobble streets
she coolly beckoned to me to sit on the chair at her left.
I had a cold beer and lit an American cigarette, feeling tired
had carried a heavy suitcase across the town for a woman
claiming to be an actress, I had hoped she was a spy and
I needed information about troop movements and all
I got was stalk about her upcoming film “La Strada.”
On the opposite wall across the café, a movie began
a film about Rome and a gang of youth stealing bikes
Vittorio Gassmann had a leading role that was delivered
with aplomb about the question of the value of morality
in a society that has lost its bearing and is crippled by war.
A sudden blackout it might be caused by the Russians
but the restaurant used to this stoppage, producing candles
and the flickering flame from hundreds of candles made
the night romantic; the Monte Carlo woman had vanished
like cigarette ads on the TV screen.
8/30/16
Plotted
Lines connected no longer dotted
I got it
Took so much more than logic
And being honest
Hard work, pain, sweat, blood and tears is what it costed
From here to beyond the tropics
Near and far from ore deposits
When things rotted
A pungent odor usually wafted
Only so much time we each are alloted
Events intertwined and corresponded
Some of which were ironic
And others occasionally iconic
This universe at no stoppage
Burned so much chronic
Many kinds that were exotic
But not all were catatonic
Drank too much and nodded
Time and money is what it costed
Animals that are exotic
Plenty of which were spotted
Gone but never forgotten
New items each year trying to be ergonomic
Meanwhile people continue to gossip
Class 1 and 2 narcotics
Among new and old electronics
Twenty four seven three sixty five at a rate that is constant
Comets
Space shuttles with rockets
And aircrafts moving at speeds that are super sonic
Traveling in places considered cosmic
Helping others gather data in astronomics
Not all molecules bonded
Is everything technically, gas, liquid, or solid?
Churches built with designs that are gothic
And occupations working with things that are atomic
When relating to things economic
Some just wanted
Only the profit
Even if at the end of the day they were tormented and haunted
By: Dalton Ogletree
Free Verse
I live not far from humankind the cradle that is of
what and where we are all coming from Johannesburg
so they say and going to one human race of every colour
no need for power domination colonializing margins
The ‘dark continent’ where the ‘savages’ did not abide
by our expectations of what civilized should be and mean
where it was us the other 'othering' cannibalizing our flesh
of freedom dignity compassion lost in money mind and soul
My cradle rocks and sways in the wild gentle winds in
torrents of emotion mood reflection history anticipation
certain of uncertainty of what the intermingling retrospective
past and future web together like a tapestry of life a bricolage
Lost threads there are and double knitted faults and hollows
shallow worn out spins and spiral knots and missing patches
mended winding fabric scars and wounded oscillations
swings and roundabouts cul-de-sacs and four-way stoppage
Is there a pattern to cradling the moment to memories to
fantasies of rooted wings and flapping roots a human kind
of compass joining needles implements of mass construction
subjective individual shining lights and armour idiosyncratic beauty
Are we starving demising suffocating for self-righteousness
loosing the plot and all the marbles thrown high up in the
air with juggled balls we aim to fix the waters rivers flowing
on their own with push and pull of light and lighted gravitation
Just here and now not there and then when sunshine rises
where rainbows glitter melt and wax the wane all of the colours
into violet prisms focussing condensing refracting blinding darkness
understanding knowledge of the shadows and bright clarity
When I write some thoughts on paper on the screen of modern
techniques and ancient art of crafted words and scripted meaning
the cradling of the moment takes its paths of where I’ve started off
and might be going once and only when the moment passes
02nd July 2016 written in Johannesburg and everywhere
As I stood chest deep in my waders
On the river's edge, I fish
I cast my line with perfection into the holes of glory
The holes that bear the mighty rainbow's
Cast after cast...I await the stoppage of my float
Any false movement in it's flow is a hungry fish; usually
My professionalism and experience tend to pay off...
Except, this one embarrasing time
A time when the sun's glare blinded my vision
Blinded it so white...
So white that I cast my line without sight
With the flip of my wrist, and I crowd of watcher's...
I fight a tedious battle with a tree
Accidentally, I cast my line 'round it's branch
Laughter- speaks out from the eye-watcher's
Watching me whipping my rod from left to right and up and down...
I continue to fight the mighty branch; in disgust
Finally, after ten long annoying minutes...
The battle was over...
The branch cracked, I defeated the tree
I retrieved my float...
And I continued to impress the eye-watcher's
Camelia - Rabindranath Tagore
Kamala was her name.
I saw her name written on her journal
She was traveling on a tram, with her sibling along, toward the path leading to the college.
I was a back bencher there.
From one side, of her face, the smile line is visible
And the unbridled hair, touching softly her neck underneath the braid
With the book and journal in her lap
I missed the designated stoppage where I was supposed to stop.
Now, I have a stricter time, allotted for a walk outside
That calculation is not quite a musing with my workspace
Almost befitting with their leaving time, whence it is time.
Often we meet
I ponder in silence, regardless if there is any relation or not
She is my co-traveler.
A face with innocent intelligence
Was evident there, fulbright.
The young forehead had untied haid rushed to upside
The bright eyes had a gaze, unhesitant
It comes to my mind, why there is not any crisis, ensuing
Saving civilization from, to make this life glorious, charismatic, flying.