Project Tag: poem

Ju$t d1$$1m1l@r

 

Dedicated to Swami Vivekananda

Jump out of your well, little frog.
Jump out of it, to see the world.
Your well isn’t the only place of existence.
There are many wells—
bigger and prosperous wells.
Wells with diverse cultures.
Just different—not good or bad.
How can you judge your well to be the best?
When you haven’t seen any other well, dear frog.

Don’t mock others frogs from different well
or berate them for being dissimilar
to the frogs from your well.
Learn from others for each has a reason
and a habit for being them.

Don’t let the well—define you either
or become your only identity.
Remember, you are a frog first.
Just as unique as all other frogs.

There is a world out there
Waiting to be explored.
Waiting to enchant and delight you

Jump out of your well dear frog
Leap out of your well, now!

© 2019, Sunayna Pal

Don’t Hang the Poets

Raanana, January 23, 2018

By the time you read this
I’ll be long gone,
Not in a sad sense
But in a hit the road sense.
Did you think I’d stick around forever?
I’ve got universes to create
And people to make.
Besides, I’m infinite and you are finite.
Do the math.
You can’t count up to me
And I can’t subtract myself to get to you.
Everything you do or say is finite.
I do nothing, yet it is done.
I can’t know or care about every hair on your heads,
Nor every cell or atom in your bodies.
There are so many worlds and galaxies,
Yet they are finite.
Yes, my prototypes,
I knew them well enough.
No, I wasn’t angry when she bit the fruit of knowledge
And offered him a bite.
What parent would?
And I didn’t kick them out of Eden.
They just took up responsibilities
And fended for themselves.
Eden was their childhood
But then they were adults.
These books you so revere,
The Bible, Quran, and others like them,
You should know I had no part,
Men forged My name and that is all.
They quoted what they wrote for
Ungodly purposes I assure you.
Don’t let them lead you
For they know not more than what you know.
There have been wise men
But you seldom had the wisdom to follow.
I didn’t make you master over My creation,
You are just a part of a wondrous whole
Where every part is necessary
Or the whole is diminished.
One more thing before I close:
The poets, please don’t hang the poets
For I was one once, my words were worlds,
From them will come your soul’s salvation.

© 2019, Mike Stone

Sounding Bugles

Tonight’s moon will be heat-throttled;
my father’s slow-turning eye watches
the rising reformation of our country’s
people—the ones with more bread less than
equal to the ones that learn they can survive
hunger with a special kind of tobacco
pressed between the teeth and cheek,
the kind that acclimates with blood. Grief is
malleable in skilled hands; soon children
for whom school is a visit either to a future
or a means to learn, furthermore, the way
to escape the need for alternate food, mining
the grounds of their minds with comic strips,
become the intellectual whose arms are
muted under grinding a balance between
logical escape and patriotic leisure. But the heat
is rising; the bated night is luminous, bands
of clouds invisible, like homes of dreams
lacing fragile exteriors. Our voice is ground for
debt, that is like delayed prayer shot from
a freshly oiled barrel; tonight the moon will watch
fireworks going off on a rich man’s terrace
resembling broken dawns. Opinion is didactic
in skilled hands. My father shall recognise
the sounds through his impaired hearing,
drink enough water to fill to the brim of
his stomach, turn off the touting reforms
and wait in his sleep for the next prayer.

© 2019, Sheikha A.

Silent Courage

 

Santiago Atitlán

Three o’clock
The Catholic bells begin ringing
Women in their red huipiles
& ribbon-wrapped hair
wound ‘round their heads
enter the church

I quietly slip in & see
Father Stanley Rother’s heart
buried in the right wall
This Maya village wished it so
after his assassination in 1981
Variously colored crosses surround it,
each one with a name, a date

I reenter the sunlit afternoon
& aimlessly wander the market streets

Five o’clock
The village echoes with the
hand-clapping & tambourines
the singing & hallelujahs
from the seven or more evangelical temples

I am haunted by the horror of that memorial
I am haunted by the testimony of a volunteer
who investigated a massacre in this village
just over a year ago

As dusk falls
I once more climb those round steps
& enter the white-washed church

I sit in a pew near the priest’s heart
meditating upon those lives embracing him

Green paper crosses for the 209 killed here
22 yellow ones for the wounded
68 pink, the kidnapped

I walk back into the twilight
thinking of that December night massacre
not so very long ago
& how these villagers marched to the
military base & ordered them
to leave, to end the murderings
of their pueblo that had gone on
for too, too many years

The two nearest volcanoes are capped
by towering grey clouds
Thunder rumbles the empty streets

©2019, Lorraine Caputo

“Nights with Ghosts,” a poem from a child in Zimbabwe

 

“Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.” Mission Statement for Poets Against War.

Back around 2008 when I started blogging, Poets Against War, founded in 2003 by American poet Sam Hamill (1943-2018) in response to the war with Iraq, was still going strong and some of my poems were accepted for online publication. This was my baptism into socially engaged poetry. The thousands of poems that were contributed to the database from poets around the world are archived at a university, the name of which I’ve long forgotten. There were some other great efforts including Poetry of Solidarity, which made use of the easy and economical outreach the Internet offers. These two sites have gone the way of all things. The links I saved for them now get a 404 error code. Today we have 100,000 Poets (and friends) for Change, founded in 2011 by Michael Rothenberg and Terri Carrion.

Fortunately, I did keep notes on some of the poetry and activities I encountered in those early blogging days. What follows is a translation of a poem written by a child in Zimbabwe after the government made war on its own people in June 2005—200,000 people became homeless.  This poem was included in an article by American poet Karen Margolis in the now defunct Poetry of Solidarity.

nights with ghosts
.
dear samueri, my friend
i will never see you again;
maybe i will.
but i shall not know
until father finds us a new address
,
addresses!
we have none anymore.
we are of no address.
.
now that i have written this letter,
where do i post it to?
shall i say, samueri,
care of the next rubble
harare?

—child’s poem

“I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, ‘Mother, what was war?’” American poet, Eve Merriam

— Jamie Dedes

Change

 

“If you want change, let me throw it at you
as hard as I can at your dirty face…” —Homeless read mean tweets (YouTube, now private)

Let me throw justice at you, let it hit your face
and wake us up. Let me throw opportunity at you,
let it hit your face and give us a chance.

Let me throw change at you, change in the world,
change creating justice and freedom,
change creating opportunity, real change
for all. Let me throw democracy at you, let it
hit us in the face so hard that it cracks open
and spills out into the land, everywhere, change—
real democracy, real hope, real opportunity.

Let me throw change and the stinking, rotten
carcass of consumer capitalism and greed at
those so privileged and shallow as to think white
teeth are more important than your humanity.

And then, god help me, let me find love
and compassion to throw as hard as I can
into our faces, into our lives, into the hearts
of us all, of us all standing here watching
in voyeuristic pleasures of despair.

© 2019, Michael Dickel

After the 2016 Election

We share this common irritant: the smoke of distant fires.
It scalded the morning and evening sun
ember red, then hung a net of haze over the city.
After two days, friends are confined indoors, wheezing.
My throat is raw, sinuses ache.
Now dark clouds rise from the mountain.

The day after the election, police in Alton Park
stop black residents up and down the Boulevard,
as if it is Apartheid, or a new Jim Crow.

My son is driving, stopped in traffic, radio blaring.
A cop on a motorcycle passes, hangs a U, comes back,
tickets him for going 50 in a 35 mile zone.
“Yes sir,” is the drill we instilled
when we had the Talk all parents have
with their sons of color.

Five miles over the state line in Georgia,
a white boy walks the high school parking lot,
a Confederate flag tied at his neck like a cape.
Later, black students yank it from his backpack,
stomp on it, igniting threats of a race war.

My eyes are burning. Smoke threads through
the indoors air in the gym and large commons.
We choke on the fire of distant words.

Not again.

© 2019, Rachel Landrum Crumble

The Poor

In the sky, it’s raining backwards,
always backwards. From where we stand,
it is a nightmare—our tears are the sprinkler system
of heaven. The clouds grow lush and green.
They tantalize beyond our ability
to desire. We stand, poor,
with sand in our shoes,  and
dust in our mouths, holding buckets
upside down to catch the rain.

© 2019, Rachel Landrum Crumble

Substituting Life

Lost, yet nowhere to go,
I wade through this journey
by finding substitutes for life
and the living that follows
the desires of what is expected
by the standards of society
Which I thought was
democratically formed
by people like me
but even the grand normal
daily strives for
and gets buried under
the illusion of perfection.

© 2019, Sunayna Pal

Flow Gathering Springs

	     with thanks to Aaron

flow gathering springs
transitive   to flow up down
always through around and ever

Mid-river, the current
unforgiving, a construction crew
Is doing what it’s paid for.
One of them is a flinger of hoses.
First snake to spit out the mud,
second to calm it back level.
Clamber here, there,
somehow they’ve convinced the river
to flow slowly around them

rattle it down,
	dance like a clown,
who knows when the water will crest

Old Firehouse Park, grassy ground,
tree roots just touching the side currents,
smack dab hallelujah in the middle of downtown
Janesville, glory of the old firehouse painted
on a nearby wall. We huddle
in the shade, careful to keep the workers 	
in sight, wait for a few stragglers to join us.
Then we begin to sing,

“join us, join us
 may the river always join us
	don’t risk The Rock
 don’t risk The Rock”

As if we could hinder the mud’s
setting up, hardening,
soften this merciless bridge building, 
hold back the machines, if only for a day,
these semi’s born of Budweiser,
this crane head spiking the sky red.

flood stage, 15.5
may it ripple,
rage our feet home

Next an Ojibway holy man 
leads our wave line in chanting 
and dance. Current stronger now,
drum, drum, a commanding pressure. 
Four times we circle a small rise

small rise, small rise
open your eyes

Spring by spring, rain over,
rain under, legs find the feel 
of cresting. Then lose it, stumble,
find it again.

Too soon I begin to weaken, broken hip
three months before, bones newly
healed, flesh flabby.

Die chant, rage gone,
never quite song.

Flood stage 15.5 feet,
flow up, pray over,
river springs, put out the fire.

©2019, Lynn Shoemaker

War and Peace (Rime Royal)

How can we endure any more winters
Slip-sliding on icy terrains of war
Jagged politics scattered like splinters
Never ending, demanding an encore
Never a moment to form a rapport
O, could we behave like the best of friends
Understanding brings lavish dividends…

What are the six senses of calming peace
Scented cinnamon sweetens saline lips
Stroking soft fleece, hear music’s masterpiece
While light becomes night in solar eclipse
Sense the finish of outmoded warships
Just resting my eyes, just stifling my cries
As flowers of accord bloom in the skies

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

Women in Woad

Women in woad*
Shaking undressed breasts
Leading the warriors
Down Irish roads
Banshee-ing through the air
To cause enemies fear
O, to be with you
When war was for defense
Against Romans marching
Through sacred forests

Women in revolt
Beside their men
Stuffing the cannons
Riding like Revere
Founding Mothers
Some disguised as men
As their great-great granddaughters
Four decades later did
In a civil war of economics
O, to be with you
When war was for
Something grander than balls
And women of all races
Did their part
Against Kings of foreign lands
And decades later
With amazing bravery
Against Kings of slavery

Women in partnership
In the War to End All Wars
But no, once again,
In the War to clean up
The economic and territorial mess
A second world war where
Women were winding through alleys
With secrets in their minds
Torn apart by the enemy
No chance of apology
The height of equality
In the torture culture
In hindsight, I would not have wanted
To be with you

On and on
And then I came of age
Married during the Vietnam war
Mom threw out everything
Even my genuine winter pea coat
And summery field jacket
From the Army & Navy store

Here’s an aside:
Why did we protest
That ambiguous conflict
Yet wear war gear?
Sympathetic magic?
Or, worst of all,
A mistaken glamour?
Clad in the garb
Bathing it in words
From Dylan and Ochs
Peace, man
What a joke

Decades later, sadly
Homo sapiens still wants to kill
And despite taking classes
For karate and gun safety
Defense for my sons and me
I’m still wondering
Where have all the flowers gone
Still damning the masters of war
And me, I ain’t marching anymore
Not lifting my voice in protest
It’s for the new young to do

But the desire
The belief
In love and peace
Is still in my aging heart
Still want global good
Still sign those petitions
Still write Congress letters
Now tweeting and emailing
Now posting and texting:
Stop it! Please stop it!

Why have we buried
The end-the-war manifesto?
Why are we all still
Killing the men
Raping the women
Destroying the children
Poisoning the pets
Polluting the water
Burning the books
Cremating the crops
All in the name
The name that does change
Of the jealous god
Let’s build a wall
Around hate and death and war
Because destruction
Is not glamorous at all…

© 2019, Clarissa Simmens

* Woad, also known as Jerusalem Asp, is a plant used in ancient times to make a blue die, which was used in some cases as a face paint when going into battle, particularly in East Anglia.

 

I Never Knew I Was So Numb

 

I never knew I was so numb

Deaf to loud blasts and bullets strafing
to screams and cries and houses burning

To hard footsteps roughly marching
occupation curfew sounds of silence

I never knew I was so numb

Unseen unknown muddy roads I traveled
people’s heads I saw moving, shaking

Why the heads went backward and forward,
smile less, sad long faces, tortured, awkward

I never knew I was so numb

Homeless helpless refugees made by the wall
forced, humiliated, beaten bound, innocent, all

I as a child was part of it, born in strife
though for some time was free in life

I never knew I was so numb

And now my homeland is under siege
with bayonets bullets blood that bleeds

Women fair, helpless, ravaged virgins
easy targets, free prey for ready vermins

I never knew I was so numb

And now my numbness is complete replete
with curfew starvation and defeat

For what crime I am enslaved in captivity
who will be the savior, if ever, of my liberty

I never knew I was so numb

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Control

She has fear in her eyes. Her son was diagnosed and recommended
medication by someone who is not a therapist or doctor. She asks for

advice. I apologize—say that the teacher (a colleague) who diagnosed
her son is wrong, outside of her league. I spew that white students who

“act out” are labeled normal (they are kids being kids). But that black and
brown students are offered medication to control them. She knows this.

It is the source of her fear. We talk about programs outside of school to help
her son advance. Her bright son. I mention the Saturday program at the

Schomburg Center in Harlem, Prep for Prep, and the Oliver Scholars program.
She knows about these and is looking into them. I promise to stay in touch.

Say that I am willing to help. She smiles. The fear gone, for now.

© 2019, Elvis Alves

The Long History of Genocides

Touching land with toes is like
returning to a home you never left.

It is like returning to a home you never
left because the leave taking was one of

necessity. You were priced out of your
neighborhood. The newcomers feel that

it belongs to them. That it was always
theirs for the taking, was just waiting

for their arrival. Columbus and
his crew took land from the natives as if

it was always theirs for the taking, was just
waiting for their arrival. They plant flags,

cast spells with a new language, and decimate
with diseases. The land was always theirs for

the taking, they believed. And they did take.
Gold to Europe. Tobacco. Cotton. Sugar. Bodies.

The land has a way of remembering. Humans easily
forget. They call Columbus a hero, build statues

of him, when in reality he was taken back to
Spain after his third voyage bound in chains—

appropriate uniform for a criminal. Murderer.
But who is listening? Who is reading history?

© 2019, Elvis Alves

dissecting the Geneva Convention

the summer is what it is here
the humidity clinging to my tired skin
like a crazy 50’s t.v. wife mockery
on Wall there’s the law and then there’s us
each side with glaring mutual understanding
that nothing is being done
no longer angels no longer devils
Gods gone fishing and they won’t be coming back
the species of Adam failed to keep their end of the
Covenant with Noah and Jesus holy shit what have we done
in life there is reason and there’s law
inside the soul there is right and there is wrong
inside the ego all is mine and nothing yours
on Koehler there is a man who doesn’t know he suffers
the fear he knows not himself prisoner of
the bio-hazardous ecosystem freedom gone awry
the filth the human shit the rage the insanity disease
the pain addiction poverty starvation piss trash
tears the waste of modern time
no longer get through the stains of a life
poorly lived or sorely wasted no logic
no feelings no rhyming no Kingdom will come
betwixt the cardboard and the shelter
the damage has been done
wage on me wage your wars
indifference is your nuclear weapon

© 2019, mm brazfield

Scary People and Madmen

 

The Death of a Robot, 6/21/2019

It appears
our robot
has met an unfortunate end
while flying over
the Strait of Hormuz.

The office staff is still playing
Hide-and-Seek
with the Nuclear Button
and it seems the president’s
received
another call
from Putin.
For that, I’m truly
grateful.

There really is–
nothing else
to say
when dealing
with scary people
and madmen.

© 2019, Bill Gainer

 

Humanity is often a place of forgetfulness

Humanity is often a place of forgetfulness
It’s often-a-place of solitude
A place of dreadfulness, fretfulness
It’s often-a-dwelling place a mirror eschewed
A place, without benevolence
A place, the neediest feel subdued
A place people wander around, incredulous
Humanity is a place you find the destitute
The place-you-come-across negligence
The place-you-come-across the most-ineptitude
The place-you-come-across the most-resentfulness
The place-you-find the most crewed
The place where cruelty finds its prevalence
The place charity can lead to decrepitude
Humanity is a place of opposites of redolence
It’s-sadly a place of corruption as a way not to preclude
It’s-sadly a place of hucksters directionless
Often-it’s the place of a cold absolute
Take my hand, and I’ll promise all you Denizens
A better life, I’ll promise not to pillage or loot
I’ll promise you, humanity, forget all other parables.

© 2019, Mark Heathcote