DEVIL'S BANQUET
(Ben Heine - Cartoons)
Wherever we deliver democracy
Wrapped in an obdurate shell
Penetrating all flesh and bone
It is not peace that rises, but hell.
Exiting this blasted allegiance
Souls. Limbs. Shrieking death;
Body parts wrapped in blankets;
Lopped arms and legs and head,
Eyes, ears, fingers, toes,
Baby blanket, feet, not hope;
Fruitlessness muddled collectively,
Disregarded, lopped off
As if body parts in a junkyard
Collected of Bush’s loathsome beast
And ravenous slaughter.
Body entrails draped over flesh and bone
where something beautiful and smiling had home.
The living are like zombies to this specter
With outstretched arms searching
The ground for missing portions
All the while crying to Allah,
“A'uzu billahi minashaitanir rajim”.
This war, this marauding empire,
It is a devil’s banquet.
This salvage yard of humanity,
A jigsaw of empty shell,
Eyes, ears, and flesh of the dead,
The forever damaged, hell...
Forever seeking,
Seeking refuge toward Allah's realm.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
A'uzu billahi minashaitanir rajim is an Arabic phrase meaning "I seek refuge in Allah from Shaitan, the Damned", is often recited by Muslims prior to reciting the Qur'an or beginning any task. It is often followed by the Basmala. (More...)
Ben Heine - Cartoons
RUSH RUSH XANADU RUSH RUSH
(Ben Heine - Cartoons)In Oxycontin did you, Rush Limbaugh
With hypocrite-sheathed debasement
Mock these tremors in crippling jest.
And through politico-rant, sat it down,
Swaying and twisting in foolish disrespect.
So within this image we’ve found
The brazen bully bent and heaving,
Contempt emblazoned, red cheeked
Where blossomed his pain relieving
And thrust the truth back upon him.
O! His cavernous vile soul is slanted,
Slipping toward the aural hole of anguish;
A beastly grotto as evil and as violated
As the servitude to an empire’s dominion.
And from this abyss, with swaying havoc mad,
As if his words and shifting were child’s play,
He rages that a potent pill untaken what caused
Such feigned extension; an act, an actor, a fake!
Amid a swift and swaying disease a script is penned;
Progressed shaking and incurable neurological cues
Slowness, rigidity, tremors beneath a hopeless flail.
You Goddamned cretin! You bile crammed carcass
Wrenching your addiction across the air and ear,
Years now, tormenting even those who’ve died for you!
Your fans are desolation’s addicts, you, their conduit!
This loudness now reached measureless despicability
And sunk into tumult upon your self-seeking airwave,
And we’ve heard, been witness of your disgrace,
Now a crippling tremor setting fire within our stillness;
Inexorable Goddamned torrent of swaying hell shaking us all!
So within this image we’ve found
The brazen bully bent and heaving,
Contempt emblazoned, red cheeked
Where blossomed his pain relieving
And Thrust the truth back upon him...
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
RUSH in concert- Xanadu-
PEACE (by Helen Losse)
Helen Losse is a poet, free lance writer, and Poetry Co-Editor of The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.
Educated at Missouri Southern State and Wake Forest Universities, she lives with her husband and sons in Winston-Salem, NC, where she occasionally writes book reviews for the Winston-Salem Journal. (Helen's blog)
PEACE
If we believe,
as we say we believe,
that there is a
knowledge that passes
beyond all we know
or can even hope to know
now, past all we can dream by
the rushing river or realize once
the frenzy of mystical vision is gone,
and if, in choosing to believe,
we get to knowledge-beyond-knowledge
that we do not fully possess
but believe is God-imbued,
so that just as the stream,
encountering the worn rocks and the urgent falls,
does not question the source
either of its being or its continuance,
but flows—trusting—toward the closest sea,
somehow we know without knowing
that we more than endure,
ride in wide-loving arms.
Now that’s something to know.
So why don’t we live
like the bell-shaped lilies live,
growing and thriving in peace?
Helen's blog
If we believe,
as we say we believe,
that there is a
knowledge that passes
beyond all we know
or can even hope to know
now, past all we can dream by
the rushing river or realize once
the frenzy of mystical vision is gone,
and if, in choosing to believe,
we get to knowledge-beyond-knowledge
that we do not fully possess
but believe is God-imbued,
so that just as the stream,
encountering the worn rocks and the urgent falls,
does not question the source
either of its being or its continuance,
but flows—trusting—toward the closest sea,
somehow we know without knowing
that we more than endure,
ride in wide-loving arms.
Now that’s something to know.
So why don’t we live
like the bell-shaped lilies live,
growing and thriving in peace?
Helen's blog
THIS IS NOT A POEM
.jpg)
This is not a poem.
I am waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for peace
to break out.
Waiting for the rain
to stop.
Holding on for dear life.
Holding.
Holding.
Holding on
for Guantanamo,
for Abu Ghraib,
for God.
This is not a poem.
Sensing the time has come.
Wait.
Wait for Human Rights
waiting to fly by,
waiting for the light
to change.
I’m waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for torture in my name.
Clear Skies,
Clean Air,
Healthy Forest,
Truthiness and Lies.
No
Tree
Left
Behind.
Arsenic and Lakes,
tapped lead,
Mountain Top
mine,
his
and
hers
mining.
This is not a poem.
I am waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for peace to break out.
Waiting for the rain,
to conquer the oil,
the dirty air
to conquer the fear in itself
to conquer the queers
and despair
and to conquer space;
the unknown frontier,
Pre-war,
pre-9/11,
pre-earth,
pre-heaven
air.
I’m waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting on the Duct Tape
To be
cause the Levee’s busted
or not to be
Freedom's repatriation,
inactivation,
indoctrination,
desensitization,
dematerialization
throughout the nation,
Post-war,
post-9/11,
post-earth,
post-heaven,
post-peace.
This is not a poem.
I am waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for the Geneva Conventions,
Patriot Act intentions,
Militarization,
Halliburton recidivism,
Iraqi liberators,
Arabic translators,
War on Gays,
War on Terror,
War on Christmas,
Schaivo,
Gitmo,
the theoretical blow
of the parenthetical
mushroom cloud,
Root and Kellogg Brown,
Habeas Corpus
rain comin’ down…
I’m waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting…
CIA.
FBI.
SSS.
F.O.X.
Bring `em on!
Stay the course!
Frustrated.
Infuriated.
Consternated.
Ill fated.
IED!
Three
hundred
billion
served please!
Armored Humvee!
Miscalculations.
Destabilization.
A sovereign nation.
People’s castigation!
I’m waiting!
Waiting!
Waiting!
Waiting!
This is a prayer.
A plea.
A cry.
A hope.
A wish.
It is not a poem.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Ben Heine - Cartoons
Poet Heru - HUSH HUSH HUSH (on the Bush Administration)
The only thing I have to say is this...
Do not miss-Do not miss-Do not miss
This man's words.
Hush...Hush...Hush...
(7 min 47 sec)
Do not miss-Do not miss-Do not miss
This man's words.
Hush...Hush...Hush...
(7 min 47 sec)
ONE LIFE ONE SKULL ONE BONE ONE MOMENT
New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg has said construction work will continue at Ground Zero, despite recent finds of human remains at the site.He said the discoveries, which included 18 fragments found on Sunday, would not halt work at the 9/11 attack site.
Families of more than 1,100 of those who died have never received any remains of their loved ones.
New finds of bones and human fragments last Friday sparked angry calls for the construction work to be halted.
One life. One skull. One bone. One moment.
Human remains…
nothing to you,
another collateral shard,
political gain,
fragment of meaningless life
spiraling underground
beneath the weight
of thousands.
Raise thy fetid memorial,
bury the unburied.
Appearances…
soiled callousness,
numb sanctimony
of one.
What if it were two
Or twenty?
Would the dark machines
pause? Bow their heads,
bent in mechanical prayer?
Rewind the tape,
see a flash, a passport,
a bomb, a gun, a skull,
a bone, a soul sealed deep
down, down, down…
dead…again.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
THUMP THUMP STAYS THE COURSE 2
(Hat tip to C&L for the video.)
BUSH:
Well, listen, we've never been "stay the course". We have been, "We will complete the mission, we will do our job and help achieve the goal, but we're constantly adjusting the tactics"…
THUMP:
Come on, George!
What de hell ya thinkin?
You is de rock! De damned rock!
De sturdy `n pig-headed foot!
You Bush fo' God’s sake!
(Quite literally)
Without you dis country kaput!
If you ain’ been stay de course,
Den who de hell has been?
(Quite literally)
Dem flippety flop Democrat?
Shit! Dey all over de damn map,
Unlike you who been spot on
`n stayin' de course!
You ain’ no cut `n runner-
Shiiiiit! You de Enronner!
You de holy commander!
You don’ dance `n make nice,
Ain’ no cream in yo’ coffee,
No crap in yo’ rap!
(Quite literally)
No. George. You's all stay de course,
Amer’ca depend on you, ya ol’ chimp!
You de man! You de oily-hoed pimp!
(Quite literally)
Ya know how ta smoke out terrists,
And how ta grow `em, too! Gimme `n A-men!
Hell, George! We needs ya to de dead end!
You's de stayin' de courser man!
Bottom o' de nine empire umpire!
Golden boy! De kingdom comer! Shazam!
You de pale rider on de back o' liberty!
Hooo weee! You de Sheee-iiiite destiny!
You landlord o' de Goddamned world!
(Quite literally)
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
The ORIGIN Theatre
Stephanopolis Bush Stay the Course
THUMP THUMP THUMP part one
PEACE IN THIS EMERALD DREAM
I Have a Dream - Address at March on Washington- August 28, 1963. Washington, D.C.
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation. [Applause]
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
Men, women, children, all and every color
Rise up to meet me in this nomadic vapor.
Rise up! Greet me with thy soul’s civility,
I can ask no more and no less of thee.
Affirm the worlds waiting stillness with me.
Bring thy grace, let go thy mortal weaponry.
Rise up in the streets of the towns and cities,
Rise up! Tilt thy angry faces toward the sun!
Emerald dream, I march with thee this day.
I stride with thee… sharing thy morning walk,
I sit with thee… and drink at thy table,
I speak with thee… though I see thee not.
O! Ghost in the shade of want come forth,
Walk with me, walk with me in my trance!
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream,
Open eyed to it grasping thy bleeding chance!
O! We tongueless ones in our painful disgrace
Let us not use deceit to twist the patient hands failing,
Instead let us smile upon the poor lives of all men
and carry this emerald sheen with a proud face!
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Dissendent Voice
MLK - I Have a Dream
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation. [Applause]
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream.
Men, women, children, all and every color
Rise up to meet me in this nomadic vapor.
Rise up! Greet me with thy soul’s civility,
I can ask no more and no less of thee.
Affirm the worlds waiting stillness with me.
Bring thy grace, let go thy mortal weaponry.
Rise up in the streets of the towns and cities,
Rise up! Tilt thy angry faces toward the sun!
Emerald dream, I march with thee this day.
I stride with thee… sharing thy morning walk,
I sit with thee… and drink at thy table,
I speak with thee… though I see thee not.
O! Ghost in the shade of want come forth,
Walk with me, walk with me in my trance!
I declare peace in this; thy emerald dream,
Open eyed to it grasping thy bleeding chance!
O! We tongueless ones in our painful disgrace
Let us not use deceit to twist the patient hands failing,
Instead let us smile upon the poor lives of all men
and carry this emerald sheen with a proud face!
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Dissendent Voice
MLK - I Have a Dream
RAINBOWS
When a black conservative group ran a radio ad proclaiming that the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was a Republican, reaction was swift. "We've gotten some e-mails and telephone calls filled with vitriol," said Frances Rice, chairman of the National Black Republican Association. "They've called me Aunt Jemima, a sellout, a traitor to my race."In the battle for the black electorate, liberals, who make up the overwhelming majority of black voters, have long disagreed with conservatives over ideology, public policy and economic strategies to better the lives of African Americans. But when conservatives placed the civil rights movement in a Republican context, black liberals said, they crossed a line.
"To suggest that Martin could identify with a party that affirms preemptive, predatory war, and whose religious partners hint that God affirms war and favors the rich at the expense of the poor, is to revile Martin," said the Rev. Joseph Lowery, the former president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, which the slain civil rights leader helped establish.
Rep. John Lewis (D-Ga.), who marched with King in the 1960s, called the ads an "insult to the legacy and the memory of Martin Luther King Jr." and "an affront to all that he stood for."
It was another time indeed;
rainbows were seen
for more than merely color,
but for what they embodied.
Intense beauty;
astonishing;
limitless;
perfection hurling groundward.
Boundless; free; original; breathing;
dappled of everlasting dignity!
Colors bending light;
each prism
a tint of life,
each eye
filled with awe,
and every breath…
lovely.
A mark of nature,
of compassion,
struggle,
equality,
freedom.
The rainbow arcing toward earth
with pursed lips
kissing the callous land
of hurrying humanity
and lies and murder,
and washing harmony,
however temporary,
over the gazing heavenward.
O! The splendid colors!
Kissing the disquieted world
with an enchanted child’s dream;
flowering wonderment
and peace.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
I RECIEVED A WAR PEAR TODAY
I recieved this pear. "Pear", you say? Yes. Pear.
Poem by Andrew
Melissa's eldest first cousin and peace activist.
I had a pear today. I have never tasted better.
The way I felt about it made me forget all the other pears I've ever had in my life.
It was lightly dimpled and golden yellow.
In the presence of the pear I was unsure whether I was
the Lover or the Beloved.
I was unsure whether I held the pear in my hands
or the pear was holding me.
It had freckled skin and a supple body.
It had some junk in its trunk.
That is not an exaggeration.
Most pears in Alaska don't do that.
"Sweet nectar of Pyrus,
mother of perry,
easily bruised filler of a luscious cup," I thought, "it takes twenty-eight pounds of you to make a bottle of brandy, but I only want you, you alone, matured, seasoned by a summer sun, you, oh delicately ripe one. I give you my lips, my tongue; I give you my taste buds one after another and then all at once; be with them, party with them, love them like they should be loved."
I was in love with my pear.
And my pear loved me right back.
After the pear and I ended our dance, our relationship, our trip through the light fantastic, after we had shed our tears and went our way, only our love remained and I returned again to the world you and I live in, love in, make war in.
I descended from my bliss.
At that moment I realized that almost everyone in the world must love a good pear, even our so-called enemies.
I know, I know, there are many among us who believe that Muslims are different from us and don't like pears and it is said that Islamic Extremists surely hate them.
But I think the truth probably is that even somebody willing to die for a cause and kill others for a cause, probably still enjoys a good pear in the sun, probably licks the juice off her fingers and sinks into the moment, the moment of the pear.
We hear a lot of talk about these people we fight. We hear how they are different from us: they don't value life, they kill without sympathy, they explode the citizenry, and they don't like pears.
But the truth is, the same charges can be leveled against us. We have treated people pretty inhumanely. We don't even keep track of the civilian death count. We have our sympathies but we act without empathy.
I bet someone in Iraq right now, someone in the Middle East, thinks that we are the sort of bastards that can't enjoy a good pear, wouldn't ever enjoy a good pear, and don't even have the capacity to know what a good pear is.
But we do.
And so do they.
This is the blessing of the pear I ate today, that sweet lovely pear.
It brought me back to the deliciousness of life,
this same deliciousness of life
we all hold on our tongues for as long as we can.
It reminded me how there should be more of it;
sweet pears for everyone.
I now bestow a sweet imaginary pear on the following:First of all to you My Friend,
for being here and reading this:
the pear I ate today.
To George W. Bush.
Mr. Bush, a fine pear for you,
for the pleasure of your senses.
To the enemy abroad;
a pear to ease the course of your anger.
To the Constitution Breakers;
a slice of what remains of an original pear.
To all the kids of Alaska, Iraq, Afghanistan, Beirut and Israel;
as many sweet pears as you can eat.
To the Army Interrogators, the water boarders, the torturers:
you all get pears no questions asked.
They are for your numb hearts.
And finally to my pear,
my sweet dream of a pear of today.
I give you myself in my entirety.
I give you my violent heart,
my good heart,
my heart of all the hearts of all the people of the world.
You were delicious.
War Pear at Written Rebellion!
REVOLUTION
US and British occupation of Iraq is regarded as the re-emergence of the old colonialist practices of the western empires in some quarters. The real ambitions underlying the brutal onslaught are still highly questionable - and then there are the blatant lies over weapons of mass destruction originally used to justify the war. There were no great victory marches by the occupiers, nor were they thrown garlands of flowers and greeted in triumph. More US soldiers have died in Iraq since George Bush declared an end to the war on 1 May 2003 prompting the question: Will Iraq turn into a new Vietnam eventually bringing the US to its senses ... or perhaps to its knees?
US policy towards Iraq has always been shaped by the country’s rich oil resources, its strategic location on the Gulf and its regional weight.
Iraq ranks only second to Saudi Arabia for its oil resources, and was the world’s second largest oil exporter before the Iraq-Iran war broke out in 1980.
The US has always been a key importer of Iraqi oil. Even under the UN sanctions, US companies imported some 750,000 barrels per day (bpd) from Iraq until the end of 2002.
Iraq ranks only second to Saudi Arabia for its oil resources, and was the world’s second largest oil exporter before the Iraq-Iran war broke out in 1980.
The US has always been a key importer of Iraqi oil. Even under the UN sanctions, US companies imported some 750,000 barrels per day (bpd) from Iraq until the end of 2002.
The Bush administration has justified its war against Iraq on three grounds: Saddam Hussein's alleged possession of weapons of mass destruction, his links to so-called terrorists, and liberating Iraqis from oppression and tyranny.
Advocates of war in the US administration claimed that Iraq had continued to develop WMDs, and with Saddam Hussein capable of making them available to organisations such as al-Qaida, it put the US at imminent risk.
However, a closer analysis of US behaviour, as well as the thinking of the pro-war camp inside the Bush administration, reveals that the justifications were convenient excuses for mobilising US public opinion.
The war on Iraq was planned over several years, promoted by an influential group of neo-conservatives, made possible by the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001, and marketed by the right-wing pundits and media.
U.S. October Death Toll in Iraq Hits 70
…The military says the sharp increase in U.S. casualties - 70 so far this month - is tied to Ramadan and a security crackdown that has left American forces more vulnerable to attack in Baghdad and its suburbs. Muslim tenets hold that fighting a foreign occupation force during Islam's holy month puts a believer especially close to God.
Revolution!
The power scale is bending, disturbed
By bomb laden souls bent against empire.
It isn’t terror… it is tragedy.
Shakespeare could not have crafted it better.
Revolution!
Upon the riddled carcass of wars yowl
And the slaughter of human cells
Upon the somber sands of death,
This drama crests inside its fourth act.
Revolution!
The scene now set with harrowed seraphs
Feeling bursts of metal strafe the waning soul,
And ending their hallowed harvest
Weary of this; our sloping future.
Revolution!
Man cannot sustain this blast;
War penetrating even the angel’s love.
The life taker and the giver, entrenched,
Bogged down in the black swamp
Unable to right their self-same falling;
Indistinguishable in their smirking speech
And muck ridden paws they murder the other.
Revolution!
Upon the riddled carcass of wars yowl
Of obliteration of human cells
On the somber sands of death,
This tragedy’s inside its fourth act.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Ben Heine - Cartoons
Unhinged Rise
.jpg){kind=link}
Bush called the Military Commissions Act of 2006 "one of the most important pieces of legislation in the war on terror" as he signed it into law at the White House on Tuesday.
The new law means Bush can continue a secret CIA programme for interrogating terrorism suspects.
The White House has refused to describe what interrogation techniques will be allowed or banned.
Bush said the law will also allow intelligence professionals to question suspects without fear of being sued by them later.
He said: "This bill spells out specific recognisable offences that would be considered crimes in the handling of detainees, so that our men and women who question captured terrorists can perform their duties to the fullest extent of the law.
"It is a rare occasion when a president can sign a bill he knows will save American lives. I have that privilege this morning."
I would like, sir, to add to your merriment,
To your grand smugness and amusement.
I to you commit my every breath,
Every waking moment I’ve left...
To your ruin.
Not of those in your charge, but you, sir.
You’re the theme of my contempt, my rage.
You’ve trampled children,
Murdered mothers and fathers
In your pitiless, unhinged rise.
You’ve lit this inferno with your own hand,
Plied a hubristic temper and warring spirit.
You, and only you, shall grace my crosshairs.
My spirit shall sit in wait for you
Near your dreadful throne.
Through the cracks left of your heavy tread,
Through the fog upon your path to empire
You will sense the eagerness in my words
Burning your ears as the truth rips wide
The phantoms speaking through my verse.
Your scattered clothes; their ashes blowing
Like the bodies you incinerated so violently,
Will lift high in the winds of truth and goodness
And your unholy reign shall fall hard upon the trees
Never again to readily ignore the wings of eternity.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Bush toughens 'anti-terror' laws
Bush signs US terror trial bill
Bush Signs Bill on Terror Prosecution
Ben heine - Cartoons
OUT
.jpg)
In unusually blunt comments for a serving senior officer, Dannatt told the Friday edition of the newspaper that the troops should "get ... out sometime soon because our presence exacerbates the security problems".
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Tread safely out of self-made gloom.
In our hands life has slipped loose
Tumbled down the tatty path of doom.
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Release this God-thrown derivation,
This holy communion of flesh
Near our whitened determination.
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Move now your thousand bones
Slumping back of your shape
Making its approach toward home.
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Embrace it with a gleaming teeth,
Leave now the bittered weeping
And odor of death and defeat.
Be music now that the rest may follow.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Tread safely out of self-made gloom.
In our hands life has slipped loose
Tumbled down the tatty path of doom.
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Release this God-thrown derivation,
This holy communion of flesh
Near our whitened determination.
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Move now your thousand bones
Slumping back of your shape
Making its approach toward home.
Be music now that the rest may follow,
Embrace it with a gleaming teeth,
Leave now the bittered weeping
And odor of death and defeat.
Be music now that the rest may follow.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
AMERICA, BRING THY PAIN
(2:05 video)
O beautiful for spacious skies,
Run thy razor down my thighs
For amber waves of grain,
`cross my naked body bring thy rage
For purple mountain majesties
For I'm your slave
Above the fruited plain!
America! America! God shed His grace on thee,
Rule my unclean body, mind and soul
And crown thy good with brotherhood
And bring thy pain to me
From sea to shining sea!
Bring thy pain to me!
O beautiful for pilgrim feet,
Whose stern impassion'd stress
I deserve thy punishing hand
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Thrust thy black-barreled love inside me
Across the wilderness!
I'm the terrorist you seek!
America! America! God mend thine ev'ry flaw,
No, Master! Do not stop
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
I beg of thee don’t rest
Thy liberty in law!
Bring thy shock
And bring thy awe!
O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife,
I'm undeserving
Who more than self their country loved,
Crack my fingers! Split my skull
And mercy more than life!
America! America! May God thy gold refine
Put me on the rack
Till all success be nobleness,
And lash then on my back
And ev'ry gain divine!
O Beautiful for patriot dream
She is most beautiful
And thou her king
That sees beyond the years
To the American dream
Thine alabaster cities gleam,
Bless me with thy freedom dear
Undimmed by human tears!
Run your blade
America! America! God shed His grace on thee,
`cross my broken face
And crown thy good with brotherhood
Bring thy pain to me!
From sea to shining sea!
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Ben heine - Cartoons
"America the Beautiful"
C&L - Shays Abu Ghraib Rant
"F" BASED FAITH
Nothing rankles my muse more than the use of God for political gain. (Nothing, except maybe political wars based on oily lies stemming from the God-smacking political gains of a man named G. W. Bush.)
When I saw Olbermann’s broadcast of the “Just get me an f*$#!ing faith based thing!” my muse reared her gorgeous head and said, “Write about that broadcast!...Now!”
.jpg)
Dead in the noisy church, in the
Universe of God, everyone's departed.
Down into the impartial ground
Old Christian men, women, dry-
Dried up bones left low in the world,
Empty souled dust and deceit
Writhing now evermore.
Hush! Not a pious sound!
Dead in the noisy worship, in the
universe of God, everyone's deceased.
Twisting expressions, scornful mouths,
Shush thy hastening there along the pew,
Under the baptism’s ocean, the green
grin of tooth-filled trickery under plush
dresses, pink skirts and flowery hats,
The posh suits, ties and gold and bursting coffers
and thy organ’s droning hell coiled to serpent’s tongue,
Hush thy kowtowing mouths! Hush!
Dead in the noisy church, in the
Universe of God, everyone's departed.
Lifeless in the cathedral,
Rotting in the hymnals,
The congregational affirmations,
Reverend, monk, priest and preacher
Calling out to thy listless sinnings
And the lick of flaming damnation.
Hush now! Hush now! Hush now!
Shush thy mouths and keenly listen,
God has something to say now
you might miss the truth within,
so hush thy "f" based-faith mouth...
Dead in the noisy worship, in the
Universe of God, everyone's deceased.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Tempting Faith - C&L
Ben Heine - Cartoons
Universe of God, everyone's deceased.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Tempting Faith - C&L
Ben Heine - Cartoons
THIS; THE SIXTH YEAR OF OUR WAR
The Navy lawyer who led a successful Supreme Court challenge of the Bush administration's military tribunals for detainees at Guantanamo Bay has been passed over for promotion and will have to leave the military, The Miami Herald reported Sunday
~
Morning Edition, October 11, 2006 · A new report estimates that violence in Iraq has left over 650,000 civilians dead since March 2003. The report by a team of American and Iraqi public health researchers is by far the highest estimate of war-related deaths in Iraq.
~
More than 2,660 Iraqi civilians were killed in the capital in September amid a wave of sectarian killings and insurgent attacks, an increase of 400 over the month before, according to figures from the Iraqi Health Ministry.
~
BAGHDAD, Oct. 11 — An 82-millimeter mortar round fired by militia forces struck an ammunition holding area at an American base in Baghdad late last night, igniting a fire and huge explosions when it touched off tank and artillery shells and small arms ammunition stored there, the American military said today.
No injuries were reported from the incident, which the American military said would not affect security operations.
Attack jets and unmanned drones were deployed to try to locate the mortar from the air, while soldiers and other personnel at the base moved to hardened shelters.
Residents all over Baghdad could see the explosions against the night sky and feel the force of the exploding ammunition from a distance.
“Intelligence indicates that civilians aligned with a militia organization were responsible for last night’s mortar attack,” said Lt. Col. Jonathan Withington, an Army spokesman, in the statement today.
~
More than 300,000 Iraqis have fled their homes for other parts of Iraq to escape sectarian violence, the Iraqi minister for immigration has said.
The migration has picked up in the last six months amid increasing Sunni-Shia violence and is further deepening the country's sectarian divisions, Abdul-Samad Sultan said on Tuesday.
Some 890,000 other Iraqis have also moved to Jordan, Iran and Syria in the last three years, he said.
~
O! The half-starved nourishment will soon be complete!
Needlework, weaver of dreams... retire them.
Finish the pre-o-one warrior, end them, goddamnit!
Sprout new and green and less rebellious fighters!
Harvest mindless drones to foment the business of dying!
Our occupation of body and soul, of bombs, rape and thievery,
of blasted hope and splintered death, I take comfort in knowing
my God-spittled poems wrangled the most in them and me
and the least in me and them; these warriors built of indoctrination, constructed and instructed, programmed in wholesome insanity,
I can rest easy, eyes closed, knowing I am safe in this;
The Sixth Year of Our War.
I want to believe that this other creature… terror,
will spare me that I may watch from the comfort of my own cave,
see mere bits, shards and pieces flying apart,
Watch them filter in... detached from my own fading.
I would rather watch them, they, others,
see them... over there...
There be blown to bits, twisted in far away wreckage
than hear and see such misery before me over here…
O! Goddamnit! God damnit! God damn it! Goddamned war
is strafing my senses in the darkness of my very shape,
pointing to the heavens, arcing over the eye
like a meteor bringing home the dead,
violently attacking and tormenting my imagination!
O! Blistering comet pulling me in, you’re the needle, I’m the thread!
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Detainee Lawyer Must Leave Navy
QUESTIONS FROM ANOTHER GOD
ANOTHER GOD: Where is the light emanating from your living?
ANSWER: Snuggled tightly to our ashen mother of sustenance, her concrete cloth lashed tightly `round our mouths while decaying organs clang upon their rusty pipes; a reverie to the stone dragons sleeping in our dark.
ANOTHER GOD: Where are the soft, milk-filled breasts of your suckling mercy? Have they too been punctured by the weight of your sins? Oozing out offerings at the foot of tyranny’s trough?
ANSWER: All’s been drained, shipped away in barrels.
ANOTHER GOD: How do you endure, pitiful as you are?
ANSWER: We are homeless upon these darkened streets. Homeless and hungry in our unremarkable dwelling, begging that we might buy back scant drops of her nectar.
ANOTHER GOD: Above the granite facing of shadow yonder stands your emaciated lady. She stares eyeless toward the spanning ocean, might she not save you?
ANSWER: No. Her light has long been gone, spent, sold.
ANOTHER GOD: Was she ever beautiful?
ANSWER: Her light once spread out over the world.
ANOTHER GOD: She’s nothing to offer you now?
ANSWER: Just her prostituted limbs rising lightless above the water.
ANOTHER GOD: No light? No dawn? No curve of fervent hope?
ANSWER: Hope?
ANOTHER GOD: Yes. Hope.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
A CONVERSATION WITH MY MUSE
Can you help me with something?
(Something?)
Yes. What should I write about today?
(I can’t help you with that.)
Why?
(I just can’t.)
But you’re my muse.
(Today you’re on your own.)
Are you tired.
(Exhausted and the house still needs cleaning.)
Then come sit with me and we shall redress the crimes of humanity; mans most brutal nature.
(You can howl of man all you want; right now I’m sweeping the kitchen.)
Should I not howl today?
(If you feel the need, howl away. Right now I’m sweeping the kitchen.)
The world’s treachery does not sleep or exhaust or die. I must write of their cold watch, their despotic sentry stands, stinking on his throne in the halls of horror.
(Sure, but treachery doesn’t clean our house.)
Whatever.
(Today I’m silent…and sweeping.)
If you’re silent you’re dead.
(Am I?)
Might as well be.
(Then who’s manning this broom?)
Heavenly things felled silent cannot howl their grievances. A paper cut is more pain to silence than witnessing the graveyards brim over.
(Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the world today.)
That’s not funny!
(I suppose it isn’t, but then I’m dead. Lift your feet.)
Huh? Oh. Sorry. What about tomorrow? If you live tomorrow will you loose your cannoned reason?
(You can put your feet down now. Who knows? And who says it’s reasoned?)
I say it is.
(Are you enough?)
I believe in mankind’s dawn. I believe in its musky hope.
(Musky hope?)
Yes.
(Whatever.)
It sounded good at the time.
(If you say so. You’re the poet.)
But you’re my muse. I rely on your tutelage.
(Tutelage?)
Yes.
(Bet that sounded good too, eh?)
Yes. I rely on your tutelage.
(Today my tutelage is dead and cleaning. Remember?)
Alright, if you live tomorrow?
(We shall see. Maybe.)
I will write tomorrow.
(Not today?)
In honor of your exhaustion I will not write.
(Honor?)
Yes. I’ve not stopped writing for years.
(Daily.)
Yes.
(Yet little, if any, cleaning.)
Only because man is trying to destroy the pathway of wonderment and our cities squat like trolls upon the orchard of youth.
(Should I bring suit against you for your oppression of me?)
What?
(Should I sue you for oppressing me?)
I never oppressed you. I exhausted you. Remember?
(Is there a difference?)
You came to me.
(Did I?)
Didn’t you?
(Must you answer a question with a question?)
Is that a problem?
(Never mind.)
Are you angry with me?
(No. I’m exhausted.)
You did come to me.
(Are you warming up for the trial?)
Maybe. But you did come to me.
(Did I?)
Yes.
(Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that you sought me out?)
I- I- I’m- Uh- I’m not sure. I’m- Did I?
(You should know.)
Alright, but you could have said no. That’s why oppression is the wrong word to use. See? You volunteered.
(I object!)
Overruled!
(You’re leading the witness!)
I’m merely pointing out the obvious. The truth!
(I object! Misleading on the grounds that you’ve not “the” truth but “a” truth!)
Overruled!
(You can’t overrule me! I’m your muse! Remember?)
Not if you’re dead, my dear.
(Oh. Yes. I see your point. In that case I withdraw my objection.)
You volunteered.
(Yes. I did.)
Now what?
(Vacuum the living room.)
Okay.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
(Something?)
Yes. What should I write about today?
(I can’t help you with that.)
Why?
(I just can’t.)
But you’re my muse.
(Today you’re on your own.)
Are you tired.
(Exhausted and the house still needs cleaning.)
Then come sit with me and we shall redress the crimes of humanity; mans most brutal nature.
(You can howl of man all you want; right now I’m sweeping the kitchen.)
Should I not howl today?
(If you feel the need, howl away. Right now I’m sweeping the kitchen.)
The world’s treachery does not sleep or exhaust or die. I must write of their cold watch, their despotic sentry stands, stinking on his throne in the halls of horror.
(Sure, but treachery doesn’t clean our house.)
Whatever.
(Today I’m silent…and sweeping.)
If you’re silent you’re dead.
(Am I?)
Might as well be.
(Then who’s manning this broom?)
Heavenly things felled silent cannot howl their grievances. A paper cut is more pain to silence than witnessing the graveyards brim over.
(Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the world today.)
That’s not funny!
(I suppose it isn’t, but then I’m dead. Lift your feet.)
Huh? Oh. Sorry. What about tomorrow? If you live tomorrow will you loose your cannoned reason?
(You can put your feet down now. Who knows? And who says it’s reasoned?)
I say it is.
(Are you enough?)
I believe in mankind’s dawn. I believe in its musky hope.
(Musky hope?)
Yes.
(Whatever.)
It sounded good at the time.
(If you say so. You’re the poet.)
But you’re my muse. I rely on your tutelage.
(Tutelage?)
Yes.
(Bet that sounded good too, eh?)
Yes. I rely on your tutelage.
(Today my tutelage is dead and cleaning. Remember?)
Alright, if you live tomorrow?
(We shall see. Maybe.)
I will write tomorrow.
(Not today?)
In honor of your exhaustion I will not write.
(Honor?)
Yes. I’ve not stopped writing for years.
(Daily.)
Yes.
(Yet little, if any, cleaning.)
Only because man is trying to destroy the pathway of wonderment and our cities squat like trolls upon the orchard of youth.
(Should I bring suit against you for your oppression of me?)
What?
(Should I sue you for oppressing me?)
I never oppressed you. I exhausted you. Remember?
(Is there a difference?)
You came to me.
(Did I?)
Didn’t you?
(Must you answer a question with a question?)
Is that a problem?
(Never mind.)
Are you angry with me?
(No. I’m exhausted.)
You did come to me.
(Are you warming up for the trial?)
Maybe. But you did come to me.
(Did I?)
Yes.
(Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that you sought me out?)
I- I- I’m- Uh- I’m not sure. I’m- Did I?
(You should know.)
Alright, but you could have said no. That’s why oppression is the wrong word to use. See? You volunteered.
(I object!)
Overruled!
(You’re leading the witness!)
I’m merely pointing out the obvious. The truth!
(I object! Misleading on the grounds that you’ve not “the” truth but “a” truth!)
Overruled!
(You can’t overrule me! I’m your muse! Remember?)
Not if you’re dead, my dear.
(Oh. Yes. I see your point. In that case I withdraw my objection.)
You volunteered.
(Yes. I did.)
Now what?
(Vacuum the living room.)
Okay.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
LIKE SHEEP GOVERNED BY JACKALS
Cost of America's War in Iraq
$331,785,350,395=Blood money.
-The Jackal- The ancient Egyptians believed a jackal-headed god, Anubis, guided the dead to those who judged their souls. Such beliefs were probably encouraged by the jackal's cleverness, nocturnal habits, eerie howling and scavenging.
-U.S. soldiers take cover as a group of Iraqi children throw rocks at their position, on the edge of Sadr City, in Baghdad, Iraq, in a Monday Sept.18, 2006 file photo. According to the U.N., violent civilian deaths in July reached an unprecedented high of 3,590 people, an average of more than 100 a day.
$331,785,350,395=Blood money.
-The Jackal- The ancient Egyptians believed a jackal-headed god, Anubis, guided the dead to those who judged their souls. Such beliefs were probably encouraged by the jackal's cleverness, nocturnal habits, eerie howling and scavenging.
-U.S. soldiers take cover as a group of Iraqi children throw rocks at their position, on the edge of Sadr City, in Baghdad, Iraq, in a Monday Sept.18, 2006 file photo. According to the U.N., violent civilian deaths in July reached an unprecedented high of 3,590 people, an average of more than 100 a day.
The August toll was 3,009 people.
-ITN reporter Terry Lloyd was shot in the head by American troops as he was being driven to hospital, the inquest into his death was told today.
An account by an Iraqi witness that was read out at the inquest in Oxford claimed Lloyd was still alive after the original attack on his car but was killed by US troops as he was driven from the scene.
The unnamed driver's account, which was read out by the deputy assistant coroner for Oxfordshire, Andrew Walker, gave new details of the last moments of Lloyd's life.
The witness's account was described as "very credible" by ITN's Nicholas Walshe, who led the news broadcaster's investigation into the journalist's death.
-People learned things, though. One participant learned that al-Jazeera had, in fact, never shown a beheading. During the conference, I frequently checked in with friends in Iraq. Most everyone I know in Baghdad is getting the hell out, assuming the day of open warfare in attempt to destroy the government is inevitable. Still, a few friends remain in Iraq. My friend Isam was looking for a new camera assistant after his friend had been shot by the U.S. military.
-ITN reporter Terry Lloyd was shot in the head by American troops as he was being driven to hospital, the inquest into his death was told today.
An account by an Iraqi witness that was read out at the inquest in Oxford claimed Lloyd was still alive after the original attack on his car but was killed by US troops as he was driven from the scene.
The unnamed driver's account, which was read out by the deputy assistant coroner for Oxfordshire, Andrew Walker, gave new details of the last moments of Lloyd's life.
The witness's account was described as "very credible" by ITN's Nicholas Walshe, who led the news broadcaster's investigation into the journalist's death.
-People learned things, though. One participant learned that al-Jazeera had, in fact, never shown a beheading. During the conference, I frequently checked in with friends in Iraq. Most everyone I know in Baghdad is getting the hell out, assuming the day of open warfare in attempt to destroy the government is inevitable. Still, a few friends remain in Iraq. My friend Isam was looking for a new camera assistant after his friend had been shot by the U.S. military.
LIKE SHEEP GOVERNED BY JACKALS
In the color of awakening our eyes glimpse frontward;
The still picture of life choosing our strange development.
Only as god-headed Anubis rises do we begin to sit up.
Does our blood not run with its unique being until shadow?
Our choices aren’t merely life, but its dancing nourishment
Of wish, yet we seem content in our slack jawed living,
Startled, like sheep governed by jackals.
Now is the occasion of our most hallowed sanctuary;
We are stirring the untamed humility of a new province
And we should, we must, see the angels motioning to us
From their silver-lined occurrence.
We’re tasting an account of empire that is infected
And has begun to sketch our days in thickened blood.
The hope of kindness is being spent in fees of silence,
Slain, like sheep governed by jackals.
War and theft are now boarders in our homes,
Sharing a bed and smacking their greedy lips at our table.
Accounts seem lost to these events in the steady drum,
The throb of liberty and speech blasted thickly in it.
Are we awake? Are we alive? Are we beckoning to it?
We see, we smell, we hear it, must we suffer it, too?
If we’re dead how might we then change course;
Voiceless, like sheep governed by jackals.
The jackal’s eerie howling and scavenging senses
Are most suitable for our dank and willful gloom,
Picking over the carcass of our living, dying and dead.
The leopard, hyena and eagle dare not answer
For they know they too have lost the spirit to fight.
Does our blood not run in our being until shadow?
Are our ideals dead? We’ve no more yearning than this?
You can rest assured that the jackal does.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Iraq Diary: In Denial
Ben Heine - Cartoons
PEACE BY NUMBERS
It needn’t strike the stiff and crafty strum
of a tyrant’s impatience,
mourned the brush.
It must turn its very foundation; humanity,
to free its fettered soul,
wailed the easel.
It first must conquer the self to invent an escape
of a tyrant’s impatience,
mourned the brush.
It must turn its very foundation; humanity,
to free its fettered soul,
wailed the easel.
It first must conquer the self to invent an escape
above war’s red casualty,
moaned the canvas.
Peace will never be created through war's shrapnel
upon the scorching sand,
shrieked the art!
Peace will never be created through war's shrapnel
upon the scorching sand,
shrieked the art!
No more war...
No more war...No more war...
No more war...
No more war...
No more war...
SCREAM
.jpg)
(Ben Heine - Cartoons)“Many are lamenting September 28, 2006, as the death of American democracy. I beg to differ. I see it as a challenge. And this challenge needs to be addressed quickly and relentlessly. This issue needs to be seen through clear eyes, not eyes distorted by panic, anger or sorrow. Should we be outraged or afraid? Of course we should. Very soon anyone of us can be taken away, put into prison and locked away forever. We will not have the right to see the evidence against us. This is the stuff nightmares are made of. What do I think we should do about this? Scream.” (The complete post)
SCREAM
Gatherers of the seeds of hope and seasoned peace;
Painters of dreams and the fortified grasp of charity;
whisperers of truth and consolers of misery;
lovers, friends, rescuers, poets, chefs, writers, actors,
dreamers, teachers, public servants all,
believers of righteousness, inventors, carpenters,
mothers and fathers, priests and preachers,
holy men and women, coaches, dancers, singers, laborers,
the consumed by flesh, the downtrodden and poor,
the blind and deaf,
the scorched living,
athletes, scientists, doctors, cab drivers,
manufacturers, farmers, creatures of habit,
night owls, day trippers, hunters, astronomers, pilots,
swimmers, fishermen, racers, magicians and witches,
the peacemaker and warrior, grieving soldiers and marines and Air Force and Guardians of this land. The breathing flesh, the orators, the soft-spoken and loud, aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, cousins, brothers and sisters, waiters and waitresses and clerks, truckers, mail carriers and punk rockers and metal and rappers and gospel and bluegrass and jazz and country and folk and jumpers and shooters and hunters and spenders…
To those still striding and those sunk low…
We have watched the fourth wall and the fifth column
Give death rise,
Seen the world, with no sign to kill, swallow the meek
and the child!
The wall is being erected that will keep us from the other,
our living.
We’ve been standing witnesses to the bloody dark wounds
festering incision,
A creeping vine choking heavily the very fabric of dream,
our silky dignity,
Fires and floods and famine and the god-headed cathedral
in false indemnity,
Horrible wars fomenting lies, death, sickness, and limbless
pale torturing…
Before night falls over all the faces of civilization
and darkness grows upon our doomed hand
and we’re left to cower in the dark
tracing blindly our miserable caves
we must ask ourselves;
what did we want of our art,
of our beautiful dance,
our prayerful song?
What did we want of our oil and war?
Where are our holdings
of our desirable spirit?
Our breathtaking land?
Our will to live?
Our want of love that splinters the stalk of wickedness?
The slake of our living’s restraint,
The unknowable quenching worship,
The vortex of light,
Our mystery?
When the darkness befalls all the faces of people
and dimness grows thick over our eyes
and we’re given to stumbling downward,
tracing blindly our wretched slum,
we’ll ask but this; “Why didn't we SCREAM?”
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Inspired by Hill Country Gal's Scream!
PULLING UP A RADISH
A Florida congressman resigned today after questions arose concerning e-mails he wrote to a former teenage male page from Monroe.U.S. Rep. Mark Foley, a Republican who represented an area around Palm Beach County, didn’t mention the e-mails in a statement released by his office. “I am deeply sorry and I apologize for letting down my family and the people of Florida I have had the privilege to represent.”
PULLING UP A RADISH
You did not represent, sir.
You squandered trust.
The difference is clear.
You fed our faith to wicked, pink hunger.
Above a boy's loved skin you painted words;
Expressions of prettiness, of father, of probability,
You knew what you needed to say, shamefully.
O! Villainous parasite! You gutted the spirit!
You slipped sanctimonious patchwork over,
Upon the screen of thy pedophilic wish and sick weight.
Your foul hand grasped the consecrated flame
And snuffed satisfied upon childhood’s naked language.
Trust, sir, now sleeps with its back to the wall…
Come now! Write thy expressions upon our pain.
Your desire shall, until your end, embrace you.
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
A Dear John Letter (IntoxiNation)
Of Modern Poetry
"Of Modern Poetry" by Wallace Stevens
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.
It has to face the men of the time and to meet
The women of the time. It has to think about war
And it has to find what will suffice. It has
To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage,
And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and
With meditation, speak words that in the ear,
In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,
Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound
Of which, an invisible audience listens,
Not to the play, but to itself, expressed
In an emotion as of two people, as of two
Emotions becoming one. The actor is
A metaphysician in the dark, twanging
An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives
Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly
Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend,
Beyond which it has no will to rise.
It must
Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
~
In "Of Modern Poetry," Stevens describes the purpose of modern poetry given what the audience knows and values. Modern poetry must be different from traditional poetry, because people of his time perceive themselves and their world differently than the people of earlier times. Stevens suggests that war, like other changes, have affected what people believe. Poetry must reflect to its audience what they want to hear. It must show them that the order, meaning and value they need is real, insomuch as their minds both need it and can create it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Michael J. Fox Fires Back at Critics
Oct. 29, 2006 — Actor Michael J. Fox jokes that he may be short in stature, but he's still enough of a "big boy" to withstand criticism over his backing of embryonic stem cell research — including comments by radio personality Rush Limbaugh initially questioning whether Fox may have exaggerated Parkinson's disease tremors in a televised political ad.
O! Michael! You beautiful souled creature,
Over the lurching stamp of cruelty,
Over the pilfering noise of man,
Over the stifling animosity...
You rise.
Open under the fiery breath of daybreak
Carrying joy upon a bent and mournful earth,
Your eyes fixed on hope, your mind quick,
Above the voices of challenging optimism…
You rise.
Hope, dignity; You’re unshaken in darkness,
Undaunted within this; our churning swill.
You're fixed on the light breathing in your bones,
Winking wide the hypocrisy of tyrants…
You rise.
Wavering not, you stand against the gray sun
While dried ideas look upon you frowning,
Calling to your body and mind to fall away,
Yet your laughter stuns the air with reverie...
And you rise.
O! Would that the world had your strength,
Had your gracious spirit and unshakable will!
Would that it were so, that we might imagine
A benevolent world, a humanity eager of love...
That we too might rise!
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
This Week with Michael J. Fox