"I filled the night's chalice with knots of desire..."
For you have set my untarnished heart on fire
"I learned how to live unkissed, until" we met
Now, we dance all night long, a romance duet
"The moon is an honest Manipulator"
Gives us away with its light, like a traitor
"It's raining roses and love riots" tonight
Together, we make an enviable sight
I'm the passionate pulse that beats in your veins
Wholly yours to explore, 'coz you hold my reins
The midnight stars groove to the rhythm of our souls
We are in a place where amour, us controls
Let's share our ardency with milky moonbeams
And with the sleeping world, our soft stardust dreams
Hands joined, lives intertwined, we will never part
For you and I, we live in each other's hearts...
The impact of a racist riot on a community is often exacerbated by recidivism—not just in terms of individual re-offending, but in the repetition of systemic violence and the cycle of trauma it inflicts on the masses. When these events occur, they are rarely isolated incidents; they are often the result of recurring patterns of unchecked prejudice and failed intervention.
For the public, this cycle creates a sense of perpetual instability. When the same ideologies and actors resurface to incite violence, it undermines social cohesion and signals that previous lessons were not learned. Breaking this cycle of recidivism requires more than just short-term consequences; it demands a collective commitment to addressing the root causes of racial animosity to ensure these destructive patterns do not repeat.
spring riot
magenta dahlias blaze
gold and crimson ignite
A burned up system of control
A revolt spoken with flames
Silence was no longer an option
Peace had been exhausted
The only language they communicate
Violence
The police man specialises in brutality when it comes to the black man
'Stop and search'
An excuse they use
To abuse
The 'blacks"
Used as a slur
By the oppressor
As if it's poison, as if it's something to beware
Of
The Brixton riots of 1981
An explosion ready to happen
All that was needed was a lighter to spark the fuse
13 bodies
13 humans
13 black men,
Lost to hate
Tensions rose like the smoke in the buildings
A quite smile left on the faces of those reeling
Their own kind of justice, it was oh so freeing
Retaliation they didn't expect
In their own words they believed they had 'controlled the blackies'
But we have a weapon
One that whispered through generations
Nothing loud
Just something strategic
Something quiet
A lingering secret
Black rage
A communal experience
Of built up fatigue
Of the uk's involvement
In the mistreatment Of black people
Sit down, and let me tell you, son,
about the historic district, Kensington,
in the year eighteen-forty-four,
when the streets broke out in war.
The Irish-Catholic were new arrivals,
impoverished, fighting for survival.
The existing population was disquieted,
and so, Philadelphia nativists rioted.
It was then that false rumors were passed.
In a bad light, the Irish were cast,
Propaganda and lies, the devil's tools,
"They want to remove the Bible from schools".
But son, these things wouldn't happen today.
We are enlightened, though let me just say,
if there is an unpleasant circumstance,
just blame it on the immigrants.
There are only so many pages and so many stages
Of life I can riddle and write on through
Until the paper's a waste, and the words are bad taste
And I can't tell fiction from true
Until the pen is bleeding and loves are leaving
And my cursive has gone too far
Eventually the trees start screaming that I'm not worth redeeming
And I don't know who you are
The notebook is finding it detests it's binding
And the lines are just scribbles and scars
The pencils revolted, and the erasers remolded
And the calligraphy has taken up arms
There are only so many minutes and moment, of clarity and atonement
That the typewriter is willing to hold
A quill and a quiver, and how do they differ
When the reading light has become so cold
There are riots from rhymes in tempestuous times
And I am growing so weary now
When I sit down to write, of love and of spite
And whatever my pen will allow
There are only so many nights and so many slights
I can sit and stand to record
With words as my weapon, to make the pain lessen
It's time to trade in for the sword
Again it’s time to set some cars on fire
To smash some windows shouting out obsceneties
With Paris riots on TV you can’t get tired
Like trashy sequels of the Chaplin’s comedies
The action breaks down into episodes and gags
The crowd goes berserk with animation
They look quite serious, young lions and old fags
Rugged protesters, conscience of the nation
But don’t be fooled, it’s just the way they live
Traditional amusement, if you like
With little compensation they forgive
Until its time to start another strike
It was dramatic, till the fireworks began
Then water cannons jets endorse the celebration
Its Paris riots, open up your beer can
Sit back and watch the show of exaltation.
Massive strikes in Germany
Burning tires in France
Drummers pound out a war dance
But please do not worry
Real change can't be hurried
Except with a large cash advance
The smell is overpowering
My lungs, screaming for one
for just one
breath of fresh air
With prayers unanswered,
They are engulfed in
yet another load
of these odorous toxins
The odorous toxins
of humanity
Being burnt to the crisp
While communities start
blaming one another
Turning on one another
The powers encouraging the riots
Where are they?
Those powers?
Where are they when we need them most?
Hiding away
Protected by the security of money
Our country's money
My country's money
That they stole!
How could they do that?
And leave us to fight for ourselves?
They are meant to be saving us
But why are they not?
Why they are not;
Why would they fight for something
That has no effect on them
It's not like it's their job to protect us anyway
Chaos and riots
Epidemics and wars
Confusion like tornado hurricane
Confinement, speechless, quiet, calm, rest and unspoken words
However people are drowned in the sounds of nature
Rattle of the rain
Whizzing of the wind
Rustling of the leaves
Wheedling of the birds
Chirping of the crickets
Echoing in the caves, jungles and mountains
Roaring of the sea
Murmuring of the stream
Buzzing of the bees
Hissing of the snake
Quacking of the ducks
Mooing of the cows
Woofing of the dogs
Groaning of the sick
Wheezing of the lungs
Humming of a lullaby
Grumbling of the oldies
Mourning of the dead
Sighing of the loser
Applause of the winner
Any other voices may be drowned
During this political, economic and epidemic crisis
Stay speechless ,calm and cool
As the ushering in of the Chinese New Year
Looking forward to a better year
Only melodies but no blasting or booming
Maybe some sounds buried in the wind
That's the voice of your heart
Stop violation, politicking, trafficking and hegemony
As the world
Is a part of everybody's legacy in a will
Although all along the world is speechless and unspoken
Walking
Running
Bringing impending doom.
Who are they?
They claim they're heroes.
But not a single hero was there that day.
Who are they?
They say they are Patriots.
Peculiar for traitor to say.
They screamed and shouted
Creating such violence
They screamed and shouted
Spewing out venom.
The blue showed up
Not even stopping them.
Nobody seemed to stop them.
Why aren't they stopping them?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Because,
They are one and the same
One and the same.
Turmoil Soup:
by M. Griswold 09112020
Stirring the pot until fully hot.
Bringing the turmoil to it's boil.
Then to see what is and is not.
Add to the broth a li'l bit of oil.
Add a li'l more fuel to the fire.
Tasting now with ladle in hand.
Sipping again for flavored desire.
Is the soup well made as planned?
Is it ready, it is truly fully dire?
Add a li'l more fuel to the fire.
Other ingredients are in the need.
A tad more hate and pinch of fear.
With a little lust for power to feed.
One more death that makes it clear.
Add a li'l more fuel to the fire.
It's all in how you get them stewing.
Until their ready to dish up a friend.
A peoples riot is within it's brewing.
Creating turmoil soup without an end.
Pandemic Friends Afraid
By George W. Clever-----27 August 2020
My pandemic friends are afraid
Perhaps like me, they are old
So vulnerable to die on news are told COVID patients placed in retirement homes
Governor Emperors abusing their power.
Steal freedoms without control every hour
Their retirement plans to travel
A cruise, grandchildren visit, escaping the cold
By government order all are on hold
They huddle in their homes
TV media freaking them out
Reporting ‘hot’ states no one should go
City riots by ‘No Lives Matter’
Bring fear to their hearts
Too old to fight too slow to run
Wear their mask more for a show
Unproven protection a social must
Confusing misinformation without trust
No hugs from their children
Hear phone voices of fear
No future of promise this retirement year
Have they forgotten God’s promise?
What is now never lasts
Be not fearful for this too shall pass
As soon as this latest plague is over
and the riots dampen a bit
the gentle muse can be coaxed from
the leper's mask and rubble,
to pick up the quill and start scribing
about frogs-flowers and fawns
or maybe It'll be inspired by a goose
that offered its feather for the cause.
Old friend Democracy
There you are again
Finally
We thought you might have left us
Forever
Breathe
God Almighty
Breathe from your knee
And rise for every one
Like a black statue of liberty
Over the old ways of Confederacy
Put away
The power that rules
The gangland world.
Inhale the air and take our fear
Exhale a new century of equity
Release a revolution of new riches
Made of healing and advancing
All
A cosmic rainbow of color
Arcing
Over the wheat fields to the steel cities
A baby’s coo from her mother’s cradle
Born from where the sun begins
Wrists slipped from shackles
Voices loosed from nooses
Boots lifted from the backs of necks
Soot cleaned from Mother Earth
Democracy
Rise from your knee again
Breathe
Breathe
A familiar kind of destiny.
To be free. To be free. To be free.
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