This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO

YES, BENJAMIN

On July 27, 2006, former Israeli Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, was interviewed by MSNBC, and to convince his audience, Netanyahu used an analogy from a movie. He asked Tucker if he had seen a movie called, "The Alien." He said that Hezbollah in Lebanon is like the alien in the movie, who lived in the host's body. Then, at a critical moment, the alien jumps out of its human host to kill its enemy by surprising him. By doing so, the alien kills its human host. The analogy here is that Hezbollah is destroying Lebanon, its host.

It was astounding to me because Hezbollah is not an alien to Lebanon. It represents the Lebanese people who want to free them from the Israeli occupation. It rather applies exactly to Israel and its supporters, who control the United States through their control over the political system, financial system, and the media. They have been dragging the United States to fight their wars of subjugating other nations. During this process of permanent war, they are destroying their American host to the last dollar!

Yesterday, July 28, 2006, Bush and Blair talked after their meeting in the White House about the Israeli war of destruction on Lebanon.
Bush spoke of the necessity to find a lasting peace in the Middle East through addressing the root causes of the conflict, a statement he has been repeating for more than a week.

According to Bush, the root cause of the conflict in the Middle East is the Hezbollah attack on Israeli soldiers and capturing two of them. That's it, cry if you want or hit the wall. This is the longest Bush can go back in history.

So, the conflict, according to George Bush, started just three weeks ago. He never mentioned the Israeli occupation of the Arab territories that has continued since 1967. He never mentioned that Hezbollah is still resisting the Israeli occupation of the Lebanese territory of the Sheba'a Farms. He doesn't want to remember or know that the Israelis have been imprisoning more than 10,000 Arab prisoners, including Lebanese prisoners, whom Israelis have refused to release.

It is astounding that the President of the United States doesn't dare to say anything critical of Israel to the extent of making himself susceptible to jokes about his ignorance and stupidity, around the world!

For Blair, it was astounding to hear him explaining further what the conflict is all about. He said bluntly that it is caused by an Islamic ideology that moves Muslims around the world to fight these wars. He even named Kashmir, Chechnya, and Palestine (in addition to Lebanon). So, the implication is that there's something wrong with this religion of Islam, which pushes Muslims to be violent. For Blair, this is the root cause of the conflict.

Well, let me tell the three of you and your followers that the root cause of conflict in the world is the Zionist movement that controls the US and the UK in particular and NATO in general. It uses them to fight Israeli wars to subjugate Arabs and Muslims.

When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1990, there was no hostility between the US-UK and the Arab and Muslim worlds. When the US-UK exploited the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in that year to occupy the Arabian Peninsula, a conflict started right away. Alqaeda was born to drive the US forces out of Saudi Arabia and the climax of its attacks was in September 11, 2001.

Before Bush invaded Iraq in March 2003, Iraq was not a threat to US or the EU. It had no weapons of mass destruction, and had no links with Alqaeda. As a result of the US-UK occupation of Iraq, hundreds of thousands of Iraqis have been killed, the country has been a failing state, and an ugly civil war has been raging. The 2,500 US soldiers would not have been killed by Iraqi resistance and the 15,000 injured US soldiers would not have been maimed had there not been a US-UK occupation of that country.

The problem between Palestinians and Israelis is the Israeli occupation of the West Bank and Gaza since 1967 and the Israeli refusal to withdraw and grant Palestinians their rights according to the known UN resolutions. Even after withdrawal from Gaza in September 2005, Israeli occupation forces never stopped their death and destruction raids over that beleaguered Palestinian territory.

The problem between Lebanon and Israel is the **Israeli occupation of the Sheba's Farms and the Israeli refusal to release the Lebanese war prisoners.

The problem between Syria and Israel is the Israeli occupation of the Syrian Golan Heights and the Israeli refusal to withdraw from that Syrian occupied territory.

The problem between Iran and Israel is the attempt of Israelis and their supporters who control the US-EU to deny Iran possession of nuclear power. If this happens, then Iran may support Arabs to liberate their occupied territories.

Think about what happened when Israelis withdraw from the Egyptian territory of Sinai, there has been permanent peace between them that lasted ever since.




YES, BENJAMIN

Yes, Benjamin
Puncturing through
Cleaving our rabid flesh
This alien host
Now kneels upon beautiful Lebanon
With a final lunging forth of our end

The smoke laden air her mouth
Your cunning her speech

Never did mountains quake so in stillness
Nor the mighty oak crack
Until empire with its kingdom-sword
Leapt out of our hunger

Yes, Benjamin
There is a sponsor
Cleaving the innocent
Israeli and Lebanese
Cowered of your host’s shadow
With a slack-jawed horror



Copyright © 2006 mrp

A SMALL HAND

READ THE POEM +/-




The new light was lean;
crawling
like a horrid serpent
it made its nest.

It slipped over the eyes of the children
certain not to rouse them of their sleep.

The wailing came next,
its throat,
with its lament
a woeful tide of loss.

Faint at first,
then
to shattering pale prayers
with its great howl.

Have we not enough
madness, destruction,
man’s angry shell
over children's throats?

Are there now
other rifles to aim,
bombs to plunge
like God’s will?

Her small hand motions to us
from the mists of tomorrow,
pleading, come forward
out war’s great sorrow.

PART 1



I am happy and honored to introduce you to our second Poetic Justice Featured Artist. Born and raised in Beirut, Lebanon during the earlier War, Ashraf Osman came to the United States in 1998 to pursue his graduate studies at Syracuse University. He has been living in Philadelphia since 2002 where he works as an architect. His interest in memory and forgetting carries over from architecture—his award-winning thesis was titled “Memory for Forgetfulness”: Registering/Effacing the Memory of the Lebanese War—to wax collages, to poetry, a medium he finds in many ways to be more apt for the subject matter.

Ashraf's poem "Part 1" caught me off guard and stayed with me. It is an honor to present the first of what may well be frequent featured artist works by Ashraf. So... without further adieu, the poem...

It could be worse,
it could be worse,
it could be worse,

I type with one hand
a mantra that has a hard time
believing itself.

My mother tells me,
"Talk to your aunt, lie to her,
tell her her son will be alright.

Tell her you heard on TV
that there'll be a cease-fire
so he could cross back to her.

She'll believe you,
she wants so much to believe.
She's tired of crying."

She hands me the phone,
my throat dries up again;
it's hard to lie to a crying woman.

My mother tells me,
"I'm all out of clean underwear,
I didn't think it'd be so bad.

When I was in my twenties
I could run far," she says,
"with my children flailing under my arms.

But I'm not so young anymore.
Son, don't tell anyone,
but I celebrated thirty a long time ago.

I don't have another war in me;
I didn't think I needed one."
She takes a long puff at her cigarette.

"One can start a new life only once,"
she says, "and I've had mine.
I'll see you in the fall," she says,

"I'll see you in the fall."


Copyright © 2006 ash.osm. / arch.memory

Ashraf has been keeping a poetry blog, called arch.memory, since 2002. It has been featured on Blinq, the blog of the Philadelphia Inquirer; he was selected as one of 100 Blogging Poets on the web, and was recently a finalist for Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere for 2006. His poetry has been recently featured on The Other Voices International Project. In print, he has poems coming out in the Mad Poets Review, Schuylkill Valley Journal and Outside Voices 2008 Anthology of Younger Poets.

The wax collage Ashraf made based on a photo of his mother and a letter from her (attached). Please visit Ashraf's blog and let him know you appreciate his words.

THE MAVERICK NO MORE



SEN. JOHN MCCAIN: Well, we’ve got a conflict going on in Iraq where the United States is fighting and doing everything that they can to help democracy evolve there. The Prime Minister of Iraq and others have condemned Hezbollah and say they do not support them. So, if you want to have our effort in Iraq impaired by this situation, go ahead, but I think the Democrats are proving again why they’re not qualified to lead. (...More.)


O! The trampling `neath your footsteps of gloom
Echoes flatly across the confused cackle of our minute.
Your jaw, a puppet’s maw, flaps for thy emperor,
And smiling you deny you’ve nothing within it.

Your mind’s been recaptured, tortured of its reality,
Lashed, electrocuted and beaten to terror’s submission.
Nights in the trenches where rigid haste nuzzles death
You sleep intolerantly, a face nestled in surrender.

O! Tis now the eve of your damp spirit’s reckoning,
Heed the whispers upon your lifeless slumber!
A black trumpet sounds to your congregated faltering
And a barren drop of pride clanks its bones in honor.

Your vision is no more a young maverick’s exactitude
But a hollow suppliant, pitiful as the yelp of an injured dog,
A burning that cannot be doused by an ocean of joy
Nor returned to thy pledge of our path to walk upon.


Copyright © 2006 mrp

McCain Malaki Video


THE BAPTISM OF HASTE



Cheney: "It's going to be a battle that will last for a very long time. It is absolutely essential that we stay the course."

These words glow dimly, palely, slowly
Upon this; our sweltering sphere,
In their imposing haste
They scurry near
Our worship.

The words descend too easily upon us
Baptizing our sodden counterfeit,
Whose dark black throat warbles
Puffed in contempt;
Our warring.

Conflicted of their malignant meaning
We, the congregation, bow down
And return again to madness;
Our fixed arrogance,
Our waste.

The discourse of our grand reprisal
Has yet to find its untidy rest
Within the bellicose shores.
"Long way from over",
Its refrain.

Forebodingly we examine the hours
Of our vast encounter with death
And attend to the war cries
Of "stay the course"
Enduring lies.

O! Die away this your everlasting babble!
We’ve enough of your squalling!
It is not time to endure madness,
It is time to abscond,
Enter freedom!

These words glow dimly, palely, slowly
Upon this; our sweltering sphere,
In their imposing haste
They scurry near
Our worship.


Copyright © 2006 mrp


Cheney's enduring speech



HOWLING BOYS




It’s been years since I told the howling boys to run.
`Run', I yelled!
`They’re coming!
Coming with the chips
To let slip
‘neath your skin!'

O! This incalculable age!

The earth, now a pitched hue,
Everything roofed in ice,
The face of the Auschwitz sky now hovers,
Wrinkled and battered by the oven
Of its own treacherous star.

The trees have long burned,
All that remains are bony slivers
Jutting up like the spindles of those
Once most towering shafts.

The foul and the fish and the beasts
Have long ago finished eating one the other.
The oceans and seas are nothing more than
Vast echoing lands of waste.
The lakes and rivers and streams are black-knifed viens.

O! This incalculable age!

Years after the final battle
The pitching clouds of hubris blot the sun;
A tragedy mask etched in longing…
`Run, howling boys! Goddamnit! Run!'


Copyright © 2006 mrp

GLEANING THE MYTH







Just who the hell do you think you are?
Coiled scale-up-snake on the heap of want,
Threshing down, down, down, down…
Over the back-snap-rape of one cell, one flesh.

Tell me just who the hell do you think you are?
Gleaning the myth of your shadowy scope, spittle down,
Down, down, down, down…
Stop your god-damned-marauding slaughter;
Your `if-it-suits-me-put-`em-to-death’ prattle!

You’ve not God tucked under your coat! God’s weeping mightily!
You’ve a small-g-god stuffed inside your loathe-filled-head!
You slaughter ideas, execute joy, and bend upright hope
And mold God into some monstrous slump-down-dreg!
Collateral damage will be your final stem-celled-shrieking,
You son-of-a-bitch!


Copyright © 2006 mrp


One Veteran's Voice

Genius of Insantiy



WHAT OF YOUR LESSONS



The Lebanese prime minister has called for an immediate ceasefire between Israel and Hezbollah militants, saying his country "has been torn to shreds".


Weathered bureaucrats, old men, what will you leave us?
You might be right in your warring when men go mad,
But what of your feeding, your strategy, your lessons?
What might we say that you’ve fastened upon our backs?

Pause.

You erected the walls and wept for many a perished soul,
You lobbed and thrust your fury against tyranny’s door,
And sent brave guns mounted of triumph over destruction;
But why didn’t you build a path leading out of empty war?

Pause.

Had you known would you have laid stones along their way?
Took note of burning landmarks in front of each rifle’s aim?
Sang of peace instead of war, love songs instead of anthems?
Stayed home creating love, instead of a tide you couldn’t stem?

Pause.

War is human; it just doesn’t send its own children to do the killing.


Copyright © 2006 mrp

Lebanon Torn to Shreds

Americans Flee

Israel Pounds Lebanon



I AM LISTENING




.....“It is I, evil. I am the true iniquity. Heed the colorless rage.”

Silence.

I could no longer hear the strange tongue.
It was less a language, more a breathless noise.

.....Hello? Hello? Hello? I am here. I am listening. Speak.

Silence, yet I could feel it reaching, pleading, breathing.

.....*Of the good in you I may speak, but not of your evil.
.....Wickedness is but your good tortured by its hunger, its thirst.

Silence.

A massive sea monster woven of fleece haunted my spirit,
Streaming banners praying for blood dangled from my thoughts,
Desiccated faces marched before the attendance of authority,
Weeping cities raised proud their flags and chanted breathlessly.

A throne made of water stood now before me and my abomination
And the war-tapped black sky began its ballet upon the forlorn moon.
Staggering and once proud men took flight in jets made of crumbs
And tumbled down- a hailstorm of counterfeit promises and iniquity.

.....I am here. I am listening. Speak.

Silence.

Copyright © 2006 mrp


To deepen your understanding of the poem read
Peacechick Mary's entry
It's Not Good, Nor Bad at

Knock Knock
!

*Kahlil Gibran*


OUR ANGER FOULED



Before the poem rears its bloody head
I must tell you of its journey…
I was perusing one of my old haunts
and was summoned to view this graphic picture:



I need not explain the visceral reaction
at having seen such a dismal print.
With this, I was ready to write, but first paid a visit
to the source of the picture, a new haunt Mssc1977.
It was there that I came upon a commenter named “caveman”
wreaking havoc on this fine site;

CAVEMAN: "Lezzy I have done more for my country then any leftest on this planet..I support the kiling of terrorist..and their children ...I am not in the mood for those hate filled children grow up and behead my kids..get it?..no you dont....its becasue you are a leftest like swan..its ok..its abnormal..now go sit in a corner and chew on your toenails ..its healhty and full of calcium. "

To which I replied thus-
`You're sounding much like a disgrace to humanity, my cave-friend... Have you, in all your "vast experience", not found an ounce, not one infinitesimal split second smidgen of a day old iota of your scrawny soul? Preemptive genocide is your path to ridding the world of evil?
You had best turn the blade upon yourself first, if that is indeed your raison detre...

You’re not amusing, funny, patriotic, heroic, or in the least bit brave… You’re a coward. Can you live with that truth, caveman?'


_________________________
OUR ANGER FOULED

Let us take steps to confront our butchered age;
Cross the plains of reason, peering over the chasm.
Do not now upon time’s ripeness wait. It is here;
Black and bleeding, pulsing malevolence most foul,
Most ready… Take heed! Take heed! It is near!

Do you not sense its lunging forth of breathing
Like some blood-worn madman stalking gloom?
Bringing hair to mount in mockery our withered will,
Kicking our heels apace in pursuit of indifference,
Chiding our conscience, spurring us toward hell?

How can we learn of journeys taken upon this world
If we’re wholly numb inside our vacuous ideals?
How can we be so empty of splendor, we sever this;
Our very thoughts to spite the deadness, rotting flesh?
It is here! Our fetid love! Our anger-fouled civilization!
It is here! Goddamnit! It is here!

Holding our linens bleached of blood’s residue
We don the slippery and soiled scabbard of our end…


Copyright © 2006 mrp

Inspired by Nightbird's Fountain
&

Mccs1977

O! GROTESQUE QUEEN CONDOLEEZZA!






O Queen of our procession!
You abuse the maiden formation,
You desire to enter the land of freedom,
You wish for our hold, our wink-fastened eyes
So you might slither within the vivid frame of Eden.

In us you will not find your artificial emancipation;
We are the door standing locked before your heaven.
Your white troops of bureaucracy knock upon with you
From outside-in your savage shrine there is no entry.
Die away your damned beating,
Your slack-jawed supremacy,
Your ashen rap of purity.

You’ve a spiritless God upon your lips.
You bend over in worship of a greased beast,
Then yammer of an incorruptibility and thirst for peace!
You’re a damnable fraud! You poison the god awful truth
And bring good men to don their fury `neath their garments!

Your lies are plunged into the pale, famished mouth of freedom
And you see not this bone-sawn contemptible trait as a disgrace
But as the cold facts of life that the shell-shattered children must face!
Yet, there you stand, my queen, so goddamnededly unbidden!
Cease the rapping of your incessant hammer,
Your empiric grotesqueness,
Your kingdom’s knell.

You shall not enter!



Copyright © 2006 mrp


Rice Tries to Spin it (video)



GOD…ARE YOU LISTENING?



"I am convinced now, that the lives of Congolese people no longer mean anything to anybody. Not to those who kill us like flies, our brothers who help kill us or those you call the international community. Even God does not listen to our prayers any more and abandons us."
Salvatore Bulamuzi, a member of the Lendu community whose parents, two wives and five children were all killed in recent attacks on the town of Bunia, north-eastern DRC. - from an Amnesty International 2003
report.



We are asking, calling across the freshly turning earth,
The beautiful and loving people of the Congo beseeching,
Begging for your hand to curb the horror eating the flesh
Whose bleached bones have fallen of their bone-dry perch.
Where night swallows the meek the day lines them up,
And orders them to stand together in aching hordes.
Dark masses of thy souls lined upon the African shores
Waiting your word, thy cleaving spirit upon their aggressor.

With hemorrhaging lips they beseech thy worship! Heed them!
The children, the innocent die so young beneath your eyes,
Congolese refugees bestride the pained land of red forest,
And are drowned in the massive torrent of the eternal cries,
Trampled in a gloomy stampede of thy children’s rage!

We beseech you to hold back this; thy monstrous discharge,
Thy blood thirsty apathy and intolerant savagery; death!
"In all this misery, you can buy a poor man with a piece of soap."
Despotic oceans abound, why should thy children suffer them?
The stampede of death, twelve-hundred per moon lifted away,
Swept into the chasm of thy brood’s fury gushing forth of breath
Gnawing the flesh of innocents, discharging their essence at will.
Cease this madness, we beseech thee; call off the folly of death!
Slip your command of rage; clothe them in love’s shining armor.
Thy power requested, put your hand to it and ply thy sacred stroke.
The children, your design are calling thy name. Do you not hear?
Where night swallows the meek, the day lines them up. No more,
Finish this; thy collection of death, thy wrathful scope of war!


Copyright © 2006 mrp


Thanks to Renegade Eye



ONLY YOU





It will come, not on the mouth of your washed-up soul
Or on a street corner bathed in shadow,
The kind of dark that smothers granite
Or leaves us puffed face, up, smiling
In a glossy satisfaction.

It will be sudden,
Swift, yet after the bell tolls.

It will begin by bringing you to silence
And thrashing your bitter faced pretense,
You and your ilk-hollow drone.
You’ll drop, like sullen eyes toward a deformed child,
Cascading to the aching earth.

It will be painless for you and your kind, a void.
Like your soul, it will crave its own worthlessness.
Like a junky without a fix,
Hollow shrieking,
Heavy tongued,
Senseless, graceless, ineloquent and quick.

Your hand in this, traitor,
Will not go unnoticed,
Only you.



Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

Robert Novak... In his own lies words



ECHOES OF LONDON




Scores dead in Mumbai train bombs

More than 160 people have been killed and 460 injured by seven bombs on the train network in the Indian financial capital Mumbai (Bombay), police say.


Across the street from the Mumbai Western Railway, the station
was scattered with fractured love,
with shredded hope
of cleaved flowers,
dead mice,
angry servants;
things we could kill with our own bombs… or hands… or fear… given time.

Children waiting, mothers, fathers- transient- passing- gone. Waiting.
Hungry; hungry for work or worship… whichever came first,
but not death blasting its marked solitude
of splintered joy in moist fragrance,
pierced skin
the color of kings wrapped in flags.



Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman



GENTLY...AT FIRST




As of Tuesday, July 11, 2006, at least 2,544 members of the U.S. military have died since the beginning of the Iraq war in March 2003, according to an Associated Press count. The figure includes seven military civilians. At least 2,010 died as a result of hostile action, according to the military's numbers. The AP count is two higher than the Defense Department's tally, last updated Tuesday at 10 a.m. EDT The British military has reported 113 deaths; Italy, 32; Ukraine, 18; Poland, 17; Bulgaria, 13; Spain, 11; Slovakia, Denmark three each; El Salvador, Estonia, Netherlands, Thailand, two each; and Australia, Hungary, Kazakhstan, Latvia, Romania, one death each. Since the start of U.S. military operations in Iraq, 18,874 U.S. service members have been wounded, according to a Defense Department tally.
Associated Press/AP Online; 7/11/2006

BAGHDAD, Iraq - An al-Qaida-linked group claims it killed three U.S. soldiers last month and mutilated two of their bodies to avenge the rape-slaying of a young Iraqi woman by troops of the same unit, an institute which monitors extremists Web sites said Tuesday.


O! This day! This white age!
Too pasty fair and drained,
Like the mortal banshee’s grace
Across the mind’s wet and bony floor.

Dreaming of a splintered morning,
Indignant of the fasting light of truth
As we fearfully slumber
And mumble low our fusty pledge.

Who would want another shard-pained death?
Another shadow-gnashing brown foe
Steeped in scarlet sorrow
Ready to die for their true brown God?

This alliance of counterfeit certainty
Topples down exhausted of breathing
Most ready of a comprehension,
A grave and granite like reason.

Italy, Poland, Bulgaria, Slovakia,
El Salvador, Estonia, Denmark and Spain.
Netherlands, Thailand, Australia, Hungary,
Kazakhstan, Latvia, Romania and Ukraine.

The consuming teeth of the bear, afraid,
The plunging blade under the rib of man,
Beauty upon the steps
Love lounging fangs deep inside death.

O! This day! This white time!
Too pasty fair and drained,
Like the mortal spirit’s noise
Mumbling low the fusty pledge.

O! Three! Three! Three!
Bring your grace `round to face us!
Who would want to ravage her fear?
Shatter it down to ragged end!

O! This day! This white age!
War, gently at first, entices smiles away,
When men of honor shirk the wits for agony
She falls violated, deep to a wet and bony floor.



Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman


Inspired by Glenda in the Land of Oz

Ain't Gonna Study War No More



THE PEACE TRAIN

The goal toward which all history tends is peace, not peace through the medium of war, not peace through a process of universal intimidation, not peace through a program of mutual impoverishment, not peace by any means that leaves the world too weak or too frightened to go on fighting, but peace pure and simple based on that will to peace which has animated the overwhelming majority of mankind through countless ages. This will to peace does not arise out of a cowardly desire to preserve one's life and property, but out of conviction that the fullest development of the highest powers of men can be achieved only in a world of peace.
--Robert Maynard Hutchins

It is a good moment to repeat that a war is never won. Never mind that history books tell us the opposite. The psychological and material costs of war are so high that any triumph is a pyrrhic victory. Only peace can be won and winning peace means not only avoiding armed conflict but finding ways of eradicating the causes of individual and collective violence: injustice and oppression, ignorance and poverty, intolerance and discrimination. We must construct a new set of values and attitudes to replace the culture of war which, for centuries, has been influencing the course of civilization. Winning peace means the triumph of our pledge to establish, on a democratic basis, a new social framework of tolerance and generosity from which no one will feel excluded.
--Federico Mayor

As soon as we lose the moral basis, we cease to be religious. There is no such thing as religion over-riding morality. Man, for instance, cannot be untruthful, cruel or incontinent and claim to have God on his side.
--Gandhi


Stand near me fiery dragon,
Stand close by my side,
Witness the oncoming weight.
Fiery dragon come to devour harmony,
Echoing death in your folds,
Shrieking sorrow aloft,
It is time.

Can you sense it?

There! On the horizon!
See her lights rising over the mountains?
Come!
Stand near me!
Read her manifesto!

Mother Theresa,
Fuller, Nader,
Rosa, Whitman,
Maathai, Sakharov,
Lama and Black Elk!

It is time for you to witness,
Still in your endeavor of war,
Stilled of thy bloody lips fresh kill.
Hold still thy grotesque talons!
Quiet now!
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Listen.

Coretta and Martin,
Naser, Lennon,
Malcom X and Santana!

Hear the distant whistle?
Heed the rumbling ground?
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Listen.

John and Jackie,
Aristophines,
Mutombo, Baez,
Muller,
Hutchins, Neruda and Banks!

Can you not hear her thunder?
Her prayerful toll?
No! Tis not clanging death
You miscreant of fraud!

Indira and Mahatma,
Tolstoy, Gelder
Bono,
Bono and Tutu,
Einstein, Nobel and Rabin!

Tis but a train;
A full on synthesis of dreams
En route thy despondent armor,
Transporting the old and new;
A collection of travelers,
Passengers in quest of the truth;

Rosalynn and Jimmy,
Dylan, Kravitz, Ul Haq
Gibran and Maya Angelou!

Look!
On the horizon!
Heed The Peace Train!

Eleanor and Franklin,
Buddha, Zerbo,
Yusupova,
Emerson and Earhart!

Stand near me, fiery beast!
Center track,
Witness the oncoming weight
Of peace!



Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman


Peace Kids

A feature poem on The Peace Train...

THE VICTOR WILL NEVER BE ASKED




In religion and ethics, evil refers to the "bad" aspects of the behavior and reasoning of human beings —those which are deliberately void of conscience, and show a wanton desire for destruction. In most cultures, the word is used to describe acts, thoughts, and ideas which are thought to (either directly or causally) bring about affliction and death —the opposite of goodness, which itself refers to aspects which are life-affirming, peaceful, and constructive. Aspects regarded as "evil" are thought of as immoral, corrupt, corrupting, inhumane, selfish, and wicked.

O word that bends the brazen will of man,
O wicked, horrible word of most low,
Do you not signify the opposite of truth?
Are you but contrary to goodness?
And what is goodness actually?

O most unconscionable term, darkness in breath, shrieking hell!
Word that corrupts the vast courage `neath the heavens,
Pardon humanity for their wishing you away,
Lips perched in winking goodness, pious reason, and accessorized hope
Treading before your four letters, tumbling, naked and wheezing.

Might you wrestle goodness to her knees
and pin her in breathless abstraction, agape of your power;
Transforming once good men into fiery sentinels,
Into hounds of death and annihilation
And not give one screech of an iota of an exacting damn the outcome?

And you, bowing to its wavering hue,
Have you not the grace to speak
With your own wet tongues to end its reign?
Are you so weak as to ride the ebbing crest of furious failure
Rather than champion the righted journey home?

Go ahead, evil, smirk, then cackle your unhappy fluff,
You’re done- One just flips your letters… and they live.

The victor will never be asked if he told the truth. __Adolph Hitler

Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman



ONCE UPON A TIME IN AMERICA



AP Headline, July 8: 3 Marines killed in western Iraq province.

Once upon a time in America
A father gave a gift to his young boy.
The child had hoped for a gun,
Instead it was a globe.
“What is it, Daddy?”
The boy asked?
“It is the world, my son.”

The boy sat on the floor
Spinning it `round and `round
Watching as the oceans and land
blurred into one.
Soon the boy grew tired
Of spinning his new gift
And asked,
“Where is America, Daddy?”
“There is America.” he did say.
“What about Vietnam, Daddy?”
“There will be plenty of time for learning
Now go outside and play.”

Time began to pass by quickly
And with each passing year
The boy would ask his father,
“Where is Vietnam, Daddy?”
And each time the father would say,
“There will be plenty of time for learning.
Now go outside and play.”

Then time lunged forth so fast
That the boy was a soldier
Heading for a war in Iraq.
He stood now
Before his own young son,
“This is what my Daddy gave me
When I had just turned five.”
“What is it?”
“It is the world, my son.”
“Where is America, Daddy?”
“There’s America.” he said
Putting his finger through the sky.
“What about Iraq, Daddy?”
“There’ll be plenty of time for learning, son.
Now give Daddy a kiss goodbye.”


Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman




LISTEN CLOSELY; YOU MIGHT HEAR



An al-Sadr aide, Shaikh Abdul-Hadi al-Darraji, denounced the Baghdad raid, saying 11 civilians were killed and dozens wounded as U.S. jets fired on the area while people were sleeping on their roofs amid searing summer temperatures and electricity shortages.
"This is a big escalation from the American side," he said. "I condemn all the silence toward such violations and I call for the withdrawal of the American forces."
There were conflicting casualty figures. Lt. Kadim Abbas Hamza of the Sadr City police said fighter planes fired from the air at about 3:15 a.m. and nine people, including a woman, were killed and 14 were wounded. He also said eight people were arrested. A hospital official said seven people were killed and 34 wounded

______________________________

Now that we truly see them, the people of the world,
Why are our eyes not wet in the midst of scaly grief?
Have we not shrieked in nameless terror long enough,
Been onlooker to nightmares of insensible winters
Beckoning to us from unfilled graves etched in awe?

Now that we might truly see ourselves with the world’s stale eyes
Why do we condone the enduring massacre of even one more?
Are we so goddamned fearful to not flinch of this;
Our queasy indifference?

We should be vomiting out our coldness
And ingesting the puff-tongued hunger for peace!
We need be humble and reaching
Not bombing and preaching!
Forty-seven more bomb-split, blood-spilled,
Freedom-cuffed, breath-snuffed, and killed!

Listen… You can sense the dead eating our horror,
Heed the dry bone now bleached under dawn’s collapse,
Perceive the stars and moon tremble and overlap the other.
Listen closely; you can hear immense wings clambering for heaven.



mrp



ANN COULTER IS-





He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him. -- John Dryden
1631-1700, British Poet, Dramatist, Critic


O! Ann,
You silly adolescent!
Are you not adequately ashamed
At being a scalawag,
That you need be artless, too?
You've no more imagination
Than that of dust?

Is there no shame in your limbs
To hide thy breathless bones?

You’re now filched, stolen away thus;

“Why, simpleton, do you mix your verses with mine?
What have you to do, foolish
(wo)man, with writings
that convict you of theft? Why do you attempt to associate foxes with lions, and make owls pass for eagles?
Though you had one of Ladas's legs,
you would not be able, blockhead,
to run with the other leg of wood.”

(Marcus Valerius Martial)



Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

THE EXORCIST


Inspired by- It's My Right To Be Left Of Center


THE SAP OF LUXURY




Hemorrhaging louder than God
through the garnet of our daggers ignoble wound
Our precious hearts curbed of their rigor
through the hoary living few on the sap of luxury
Cutoff from the sustaining flow our warrior spirit wanes.

Hegemony’s liquid and lustful vigor
no more than a wink coursing beneath the West.
Great nations have indeed fallen
before this; our childish pretense of warring soil
Slipped of its red-reason
hunched down `round the ramparts machinations.

How pitiful is our easy slumber
in the shape of our brave blades restless dreaming.
How cheerless is our meaty animal
treading so easily to butcher unaware its defeat.
Forever this long faced dreadful pace
before the eternal casement's head-bowed cleaving,
Hemorrhaging louder than God.



Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman



THRUSTING AMERICA'S LOVE OUTWARD

I compel you to love your country.

To draw her into your arms ever so tenderly,
To embrace her softly, dearly to your heart,
To huddle close, near together her masses,
And sense her least sustained yearning.

I compel you to love your country.

A nation that lifted the breast of humanity
Caressing it tenderly toward equality’s rapture
With gentle fingers of selfless, searing desire
Exploring over her ever toward paradise.

I compel you to love your country.

Freedom lovers damp in stiff-limbed writhing
Stumbling kisses upon red-barreled bravery,
Softly probing her robust and supple liberty,
Heed now her cries of woeful sovereignty!

I compel you to love your country.

Between her Trail of Tears and Mount Misery
She still waits upon the coupled plains of affection
Ready for our design and mastery of this worlds love
Panting heavy expectation upon her shape.

I compel you to love your country.

Perched upon the shore of Rolles Creek she waits
With Mount Pleasant in reach of her willing fingers.
With expectant sounds of closure now within her folds
She lunges forth with an expectant mouth!

I compel you to love your country.

O! Gentle sleep now beckons to her languid pink flesh
As the rogues tongue laps at her ebbing shores of joy
And beckons her let go of her valuable love’s embrace
Lunging forth behind her eager lips!

She counters not… for she is the boiling hunger we seek.

What a devoted worship we’ve had with the motherland.
Many a great poet has written their songs upon her flesh;
Their bright and shimmering waters lapping her shores
In ardent freedom’s want of hopes howling, dripping heat.

I compel you to love the world!

On this day of days let us remember her youthful glow,
Her ripe fruit of wonder, her drowsy ache of emancipation,
Her most alluring burnish upon our exploring of her skin.
(The burden of immense throbbing now falls upon her heart!)

I compel you to love the world!

America, carry your waves to all shores. Hope, not savagery,
In your goodness, not in impudent desire to control destiny.
Leave not the naked child, but your desire alone on the road.
Shelter not your intentions, but those most needful and hungry.

I compel you to love the world!

We have been witness to our dove, crippled and flailing in terror!
We’ve been onlookers to our expectations emerging fruitless.
Watching unmoved while our oily desire bleeds into the waters
And the cold white eyes of death tread progressively before us.

I compel you to love the world!

Come now, peace. Come now, warriors, lay down your guns
To witness the beauty at your hands as she lays down your sword
And with dripping red lips envelops your craving to possess her.
Do you not hear the night voices calling you with an angels whisper?

I compel you to love the world!

To open the door and step out into the bright sun, desire can wait.
Take notice of the many tender, breathing, soul-caked living.
Gaze upon the world’s most unbendable faith in humanity.
Gently touch her skin, delicately massage her furious soil.

I compel you to love the world!

Enter her sculpting space and weave a covering made of lifeless war.
Paint upon her face a gentle art made of your temples sweat.
Scribe a love song upon her back with the eagle’s most willing blood.
Erect in her a tower of light for all to see that they might weep.

I compel you to love the world!

The masses of age lie here and we should not be so ready to die
Like confused animal’s hooved in selfishness, deficient and artless.
The world is full of freedom lovers damp in stiff-limbed writhing
Stumbling kisses upon red-barreled bravery, tenderly probing liberty.

I compel you to love the world!

Amid her supple lands and majestic mountains she waits our affection,
Ready for our desire and design embracing her most ready warmth
Needing our hot hope upon her shape, wanton as wide-eyed first love.
(Heed now the world’s hot desire for freedom pulling us in.)

With hopeful whisper's within her waters, she leans forth, expectant.




Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

SCREECHING DAMNED DARKNESS



You with
Your hairy full stern faces of fiery bottom’s witchery,
You with
Your yellow spines bereft of an iota of valor,
You with
Your Beelzebub lips shitting forth a craven confusion,
You with
Your vacant eyes swimming of jaded rhetoric,
You with
Your cuckolding the asbestos burdened air in weak-kneed butchery,
I say to hell with the whole damn lot of you unholy sycophants!

Go ahead and pinch off your fecal-end of maliciousness and seditiousness
And your bile-filled words wrought from damnation’s bungling lexicon.
Bray upon the low road, bellow within the vile sewer of your lies.
You goddamned soulless creatures have seen your everlasting final day!
Your last day where you are not met by most wicked and wailing wrath,
Unmet by citizenry consuming your depraved and hopeless declarations.

In Dante’s Inferno of unbearable, ceaseless screeching damned darkness,
All shall witness your skull-cracked, spine-split, loveless passing
And spit upon your shadow as you flail and wail the ultimate descent.
Malkin, Coulter, Hinderaker, Limbaugh, Horowitz, and the like,
It would behoove you to belly up to Jesus while you’ve the chance.
Drop to your Tupperware knees and fervently beseech his forgiveness.
Pray that his bloody fists do not rain down Hell on your comeuppance!

You with
Your devil’s axe-in-the-back bewitching gaze,
You with
Your lowly spittle-driven bunker-bombs,
You with
Your odious goddamned quarrel,
You with
Your last dash, your final sound, your deep pocketed lies,
You with
Your whore’s logic and godless-jawed baneful tongues,
These, your words, will fall upon the deaf ears of those living
Now long abused where planets tremble.



Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman


Inspired by Unclaimed Territory

DEMIURGE by Case Wagenvoord




Gooor-geee,

Thunderbird and toking—Jesus I love them!
Earth spinning,
wailing my prick to the heavens
the demiurge Jehovah did embrace me
and joined me to the St. Vitus’s Dance of the free and the mad,
spinning spin in the putrid green glow of the screens blinking
on the pale faces of the crazed made wise,
pumping their keyboards in a frenzy of abstracted passion
‘til they spunked the milk-maid evil
of the brain-decayed intellects
to explosions of blood and the viscera glowing in the vacant stares
of the pinched-faced powerful farting not flames but platitudes
as their manicured fingers squeezed truffles out of road kill
to the rattle of abstract equations made elegant,
as the broken and the shattered sing praise
to the greater glory of the demiurge praising the martyr’s death
as he suffers the little children into the purifying flame
ripping open their wounds with his nails
that their blood might sanctify the holy ground of battle
to the dry chants of formula and policy,
consigning the dead to the glory of the Homeland
as the scalpel of peace cuts away the rot of the old,
slicing to the sound of a little child at play,
then a blinding flash and a red smear and a torn sneaker on a sidewalk,
to the boom-boom symphony played in the techno-fetish dawn
of the new age of the St. Vitus Dance of the free.

moi



A poem by
Case Wagenvoord.




WAITING ON THE RAIN

It is time to bring `em home.
Time to call it what it is,
What it's always been
And will remain.

It is time to bring `em home.
Occasion is now not later.
Later's mere deceit
Waiting on the rain.

It is time to bring `em home.
Bomb no more, unlock,
Unload their weapon
And to us return.

It is time to bring `em home.
To terminate our mourning,
To heal our grievance
And say lesson learned.

It is time to bring `em home.
That our love might come
Yet again upon the dream
And embrace our soul.

It is time to bring `em home.
To air the people’s voice
As one of peace and joy
And unite the breathing fold.

It is time to bring `em home.
Time to call it what it is,
What it's always been
And will remain.

It is time to bring `em home.
End our hold upon Iraq.
Later's just a parade
Waiting on the rain
.




Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman


One of the Many Reasons to Withdraw

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