Tag Archives: poetry

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.

Spanish Memory

Spanish memory-image
They met when the snow had fallen,
They met when the ground was white,
Two youths in search of a lover,
Two youths in the moon’s pale light,

She was as fair as Alhambra,
He was surely a northern prince,
These youths who’d found each other,
These youths e’er one e’er since,

They danced and cried to the music,
They burned with the heat of the wine,
Nothing could part such lovers,
Not God, nor man, nor time,

And still the music moves them,
And still they taste the wine,
This girl from the Moorish castle,
This youth of the northern clime,
Entwined in the still sweet darkness,
Entwined in a love sublime.

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.

Libyan Lament

dead_migrants_on_italy_shore

The air was hot, and thick to breathe,
The sun was red, and weeping,
The day they fled the burning town,
The stench of death still reeking,

Machines they came,
From cloudless skies,
Then came the sound of thunder,
Then flash of light,
Then blast of flame,
That tore their life asunder,

They ran in fear from NATO’s hate,
To the ocean’s cooling breeze,
And looked across the waters,
To the nations of those seas,
But saw no trace of Christian grace,
No tears, no kind reprieve,
Just jackal smiles and TV cheers,
That hailed a nation’s fate.

Tricked, betrayed, begrimed they slept,
On desert shores, abandoned,
For weeks their hopeless vigil kept,
Despair so deep it maddened,
It almost drove them to the rope,
Until they heard the captain’s words,
“My ship she puts to sea tonight,
But for that there is a price,
For my ship is named and named quite right,
The hopeless ones Last Hope.”

They paid him all their money,
They paid with acts of shame,
And then they prayed to silent gods
For words “We sail” that came.

The captain smelled of drink and death,
And smiled with dark-stained teeth,
He told them, ‘I’ve your money,
Now please descend beneath’,
He gave commands,
The crew obeyed,
And threw them down the hold,
To stench of oil,
And human waste,
The young, the frail, the old.

The engines throbbed, the people moaned,
In darkness deep they crossed the sea,
That led them from old Tripoli,
To the shores of Italy,

The night grew long,
The sea rebelled,
With wind and thunder drumming,
The waves rose high, the captain drank,
The crew climbed ropes taut humming,

They tried their best to save the ship,
To save themselves, and all,
They fought the storm,
They fought the wall
They fought with all they had,
But Neptune wove a ghastly wave,
That broke her back in two,
And down she went,
That good Last Hope,
To the cold and calm below.

The lonely dead soon washed ashore,
In twos and threes and more,
On foreign sands they rolled and lay,
On every bay and shore,
As TV sprouted tragic tales,
And asked, “who is to blame”?
But no answer dared they give,
And so no answer came.

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.