i didn’t think it would
ever come to this
where I literally could not breathe
because some heartless people in
a faraway place were
so selfish that they
cared more about giant corporations
giving them money
and keeping them in power
than for a little person
like me to be able to breathe
some great country
I’m astonished at their
sheer cruelty, depravity,
hypocrisy, coldness,
the lengths they will go to
to mislead their followers
so they can get more power,
make more money.
At what point is enough enough?
When does this cruel push for riches end?
They’ll stop at nothing because
this is about much more than just money,
it’s about that horrible thing(s) that
happened to them as children and
that they have to punish the rest
of humanity for forever.
Go see a psychiatrist instead of
destroying everyone and everything else.
how damaged do you have to be
to want to deny people health care?
who hurt you so much in your past
that you have to hurt others?
why do you only feel better when
you’re damaging other people?
who told you greed and lust for power
was a good character trait?
why do you believe in horrible things
while pretending to be pious?
when will you stop hurting other people
just so you can feel better for a moment?
why don’t you just look inside for once
and fix all your wretched bile?
We danced around
The AIDS
That was killing her
She so thin
Her skin transparent
A cough
That rocked her body
A boyfriend
She loved
His indiscretion
Writing a death sentence
For her
She did not cast blame
Accepting her lot
Living with the shame
A family
Unable to accept
Unable to forgive
Citing the Bible
For the scarlet death
She would surely face
God’s punishment
For women
Who lay
Out of marriage
I hugged her gently
Knowing the frailness
The reed
That was her body
The last time
I would see her
Death at 24
Joining the other four
He so callously infected
So now we have
To not think about
Anyone else and
Leave all these
Poor souls to
Fend for themselves
In a state of complete
Desperation.
We can’t let this happen,
We can do better,
This is not the only
Version of this world
We can create.
twenty-five years in the us army
still got that little boy haircut
wearing fatigues to the commissary
while keeping important contacts
run your household like a drill sergeant
your sadistic fantasy career and life path
canned images of honor, glory and respect
“clean that latreen with a toothbrush, soldier
you’ll be cleaning it every day for a month”
obscene defense budgets for war toy games
parades, holidays for those who gave their lives
for the failures of old men driven by greed
wear your dress uniform to simulate greatness
honoring a lifetime of service to our country
my hero!
days blur and lose their names
nights coagulate into darkness
leaders lack vision and direction
heroes can’t provide any cover
the plastic oceans all lifeless
flooding coastlines with debris
famine, cholera, dengue, ebola
stubborn bothersome third world
luckily all my stocks are now up
our arctic oil wells are gushing
finally, nothing to worry about
What a testing tool this poverty is
to keep the chaff out from the grains
to let the foolish world admit
all is not that gold in shining
and silver screens may not
always be behind all dark clouds
and between the moon and the bread
there always hangs hunger
as the poor never afraid of falling
from a cliff where death reigns
if there is the scent of food brewing
and if elsewhere amid junkyards
and in bio-undegradable polypacks
rotting for days and turning poison
food is visible to the eyes of those
starving emaciated shrivelled bodies
in skinned skeletons as they romp
the land not knowing what looks
life-giving is very soon going to
be spinning out death for them.
Poverty equates in hunger and death
telling nothing really matters
in this tyrannical world where
when the people die hypocrites
in slinging mud on every face are heard
when all is set for nothing to be clearly seen
to fix and find and fine the fools
who in cunning hide in havens
of safety that confusion breeds.
10 Reasons This Never Felt Like Home
1. Long back roads still rattle me. Still make me fear being asked to step out. The night stick, the gun, being turned to roadkill – being left on curb and forgotten.
2. The pitch black reminds me of the fire, the deep fried, boiled, tarred and feathered, the hanging and watching like gruesome drive in film.
3. Open fields remind me of the leather whip, of blood, of dragging and raking fingers through grass, still remind me of sweat-lathered cotton, body parts left out for fertilizer.
4. Farms and animals grazing remind me of the buying and selling of meat, the ripping baby from mother for consumption, the burning and branding, the slaughter, the hanging out to dry.
5. Big plantations remind me of house slave and field negro, of maid and mistress, of dinner service, bronze bodies as ornaments on antique shelf, expensive china fresh off the auction block.
6. State fairs remind me of ‘Come see the hanging Negro’, ‘Where can I place my bid?’ ‘This one has a strong back and good teeth, broad shoulders, and cheekbones.’ ‘Not the whole family, how much for the little boy and girl.’
7. Hunting season and woods still reminds me of running through forest, of bullets grazing black skulls, of branches cutting ankles, of underground railroads, of hiding under the creek, of coon dogs, and sniffing out the smell of a runaway.
8. The Cape Fear River reminds me of the drowning, the throwing bodies over the bridge to hide the evidence, the vanishing of whole families, how they threw us over ships like fresh water salmon.
9. Boxing matches still remind me of strapping brute blacks fighting for bets, the bare knuckle knocking out until unconscious for entertainment. How they used to toast to the tearing of flesh. Smoked a cigar in celebration when one was dead.
10. Southern belle and sweet tea still smell like centuries of injustice. Southern comfort taste like privilege. Southern hospitality still sounds too unsettling to ever feel like home.
The wind blows across the dunes,
low trees and shallow lakes.
It doesn’t weep or cry aloud
but it should.
The swells roll across the sea,
curl in foam then slap on the white sand.
They have neither words nor tears
but they should.
The luxury boats bob at their moorings,
and the restaurants stare out to sea.
They do not weep or cry aloud
but they should.
Should they not weep for the 369
indigenous men and boys
perished from disease, malnourishment
or the cruel violence of guards?
Should they not weep for the 3700
indigenous men and boys
cramped in fetid cells now converted
to luxury accommodation?
Should they not weep for men
ripped from the Karri forests of the south,
or the red soil of the north
and imprisoned on this low island?
Should they not weep
for these soft eyed men
with their bleak and hollow stares
and for all the horror of humanity’s history?
But always the wind blows across the dunes
and still the waves slap on the white sand.
They have neither tears to weep nor words to lament
but surely they should.
More at https://windofflowers.blogspot.com.au.
Rottnest Island is a popular holiday resort situated 18 kilometres west of Fremantle, the port for Perth, capital of Western Australia. Daily, ferries take crowds out to the island and there is little remaining evidence of its sad history. From 1838 to 1931 Rottnest was a prison for Aborigines, taken from all over the large state of Western Australia. The airless, untoileted cells, into which seven men were cramped, were a tiny 1.7m x 3.00m. One in 10 of the prisoners died on the island and lie buried there in unmarked graves.