We Are The Invisible

poor me

We are the invisible,
The unseen, the unheard,
You know us, by our shadows,
Cast in dark rooms,
By a cigarette’s glow,
Or the sound of our steps,
On an empty street,
Reflections in the sun,
Whispers in the wind,
You know us by our sweat,
You know us by our tears,
Pouring like oil,
Glistening like pearls,
By our songs and laments,
By our heads turned away,
You know us by our hopes,
Imprisoned in the cloth,
The plastic, the steel,
All the things, those others use,
By our poverty, bred of riches,
By our unpaid bills,
Our sleepless nights
Our hollow days,
Our worn-out shoes.

A Petal Fallen

 

Dedicated to Cheyenne Fox,

(One of the many First Nations women of Canada
who are murdered and missing)

vigil-cheyenne fox

One more petal sadly fell,
From the flower of Ojibwe youth,
And all the skies wept warm tears,
When they took her from that place
Where no one cared, and no one asked,
Who this fair girl once was,
For then the world would sink in shame,
To know the bitter truth.

She was of the People,
Who lived when heroes lived,
Before They came from distant seas,
Who came and never left,

She was of the People,
Who none to men were slaves,
The day she died, alone and cold,
In their cold city, by the lake.

Too many fallen petals,
When one will bring a tear,
Too many things unanswered,
When it’s answers that They fear,
For we’re tired of parliamentary lies,
And we’re tired of foreign laws,
So, let us live, and let us be
The People when first you came,
So give us justice, and give us peace,
And the answers that we claim,
For remember, we are warriors,
And warriors of great fame.

I Heard Not The Cries From Baltimore

Baltimore riots: Security beefed up after looting, fires engulf city

I heard not the cries from Baltimore,

The infant’s moan, the beggar’s plea,

Nor saw the face, the open hand,

Nor aged despair, not meant to be.

You tell me we’re not to blame,

Speak words to please the dead,

Words that rise from beds of shame,

No, speak what must be said.

A dark abyss now fills our eyes,

A  cave that knows no life,

A wasting soul inside us dies,

Bitter fruit gives birth to strife.

There is no hope with acts unkind,

Corrupted hearts can only fear

The years to come and what they’ll find,

And if it be their final tear.

And what are eyes that beam black light,

That cannot see the common good?

Does blindness ever lead to sight,

Did we dare think it could?

False words fill the phoney news,

Their pictures make the heavens shake,

We gorge on hate and deaths-head views,

And gladly kill for killing’s sake.

We live beyond humanity,

We are life become machine,

Reduced to drugged insanity,

To a Tarantino scene.

Give us not the cops’ death lust,

Justice is our hope,

Not slavery, nor profits’ dust,

Nor prayers they throw as rope.

I heard not the protests of the damned,

‘Til my voice in theirs I heard,

That called out for a rightful land

Where people have the word.

The justice tree from one seed grows,

Yet shelters all within her shade,

And through its leaves a new wind blows

That comrades has us made,

So raise your fists, and raise your voice,

There’s a struggle to be won,

So on the street and on your feet,

‘Til the tyrants’ day is done.

A Cool Myxolydian Mode

night driver

Hot tires humming on a hot black road,

Buzzing with the heat and the speed,

Radio bopping to the sound of the beat,

Of a cool myxolydian mode,

Foot to the pedal, and pushing it down,

Shades on the eyes, and some weed,

Taking me places, and faces to see,

The lawyer, the gangster, the clown.

Truck stop blondes winking bloodshot eyes,

Hoping for love and a dime,

Young girls lost in solitude’s keep,

And too many cruel goodbyes.

Boys on the side, too ready to ride,

Smiling too much with the pain,

These tough love maddened refugees,

Hustling the man for their pride,

Houses flash past in uniform rows,

Drenched in the smell of despair,

Of betrayal, and loss, the death of all hope,

Where nothing but bitterness grows.

Hot tires humming on a hot black road

Spinning out rhythm and time,

Reach for the weed, and lose it all for awhile,

In a cool myxolydian mode.

Remember When

William_Bouguereau_-_The_Sadness_of_Love__1899_

Remember when you kissed me soft,

And all the birds did sing as oft

They used before the dew-washed morn,

Remember when you held my hand

As we walked upon the sea-bathed sand

From where our whispers on the waves were borne,

To distant shores where hearts are torn.

Remember when you touched my face,

And all the world became a place

Of magic spells and breathless dreams,

Remember when you called my name

While we played love’s happy game

And your smiles filled sweet flowered beams

Of light from which our love still gleams,

Remember when you touched my eyes,

And all our whispered words were wise

And silent time took needed rest,

Remember when we carved a tree

With words we wanted all to see

That proved we were among the blest,

Yet, now our love is cold and laid to rest.

Smiling Carnivores

african-wild-dog-and-black-backed-jackals

These are the smiling carnivores,

Who gnaw at the bones of the poor,

Who speak in soothing tones,

Of riches to come,

Of patience in poverty,

Of endurance in suffering,

Of liberty and democracy delivered,

With a policeman’s baton;

The twisted faces of hypocrisy,

Illiterate bankers’ puppets,

All the smiling jackals,

Born with the golden spoons,

Fed on the bitter milk of hatred and contempt,

For Joe, and Juan, and Anton,

For Wanda, Estella and Rosa

For your tears that made them rich,

For your sweat that made them strong;

The liberal betrayers-who held Rosa’s hand,

While raping her trust,

Obama, and Harper, Bush, and Blair,

Cameron, Sarkozy, Merkel, and all the rest,

Remember them –these salivating scavengers-

Wasteland dogs,

With snouts full of blood and torment,

The penetrating nauseous stench,

Of smashed bones, smothered hopes,

Drinking from the black waters of the swamp,

A pack of flunkies and well-paid hoodlums,

Remember them-let your anger reign,

So Retribution’s hands won’t tremble.

Walking Home

old-man-walking_21086437

I walked home from the city, the saddened world within my mind,

Talking to passing shadows, to slippery shapes in kind,

Longing for refuge somewhere, a safer place to be,

Before I die a lonely death, in the old house by the sea.

 

A weary, sad and sadding place, a place of diamond tears,

That touch the petals of long dead flowers, slain by fattened fears,

In a town which should be nowhere, beyond the claims of Fate,

Or in a madman’s nightmare, or near the devil’s gate.

 

I saw in thoughts those other times,  when all was good for me,

My family at the seaside, a girl in Tuscany,

Until I passed the open door and climbed the stair’s first flight,

And heard an Arab play the oud who sang sweetly to the night.

 

An open door framed a girl and boy, a loving, kissing pair,

They lived in tiny, dirty rooms but now they did not care,

As I stood awhile and stroked the cat we all had sometimes fed,

A lonely, stalking, city cat that sniffed the lonely dead.

 

I stepped into a darkened room through an opened door,

And breathed the air of emptiness that made me yearn for more,

I stopped, but why I cannot say, no reason not to stay,

And who has more than this, I heard my voice to say.

 

Torn carpets, shattered cups, some ancient golden locks,

Night Thoughts on the table, Dante’s Virgil climbing rocks,

In Hell, while I laid down in bed and read those tales the fairies told,

Of places that can never be, where youth grows never old.

 

Such tales of light, to passions dulled are like the dark red wine,

That weaves a new reality from angel hair wove fine.

But soon I lit the blackened, waiting, screen of the void they call TV

And saw nothing there but emptiness, nothing, paid or free.

 

So on I turned the radio and heard the music call,

Opera, blues and rock and roll, but they pounded on the wall,

Still I listened, and looked straight up and thought I saw a glow,

But no sign of god could I see there nor Michaelangelo.

 

I looked into a mirror and caught the sudden tears,

That face is mine they say, just carved by bitter years,

I began to read the paper, to see what news there was,

But I read and read of death and sin, and never-ending wars.

 

As madmen wash their hands in blood and glory in the fear,

Tortured winds scream in pain and storm clouds gather near,

So in sweet silence still I lay, wondering of our fall

As a siren like a hot cat howls, in answer to us all.

 

In deep I breathed the dead night air and visioned time to come,

Walking from the city with my ragged coat and rum,

Remembering rhythmic dancing songs, sung in sultry bars,

And, one magic, special night, and a kiss beneath the stars.