Daily Archives: November 7, 2016

Warriors’ Lament by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

The sun rises
upon their broken dreams
scattered pipes
laying on top of the unearthed graves
young and old being shot for standing on their ground
crushed beneath the boots of progress

Angry faces
pointing guns at
unarmed men, women, children
dreams of paychecks
that have been halted
by someone else’s world
these tribes have lost so many times before
these men think they will lose again

Bodies, dreams old and young
heaped up
like a mound of buffalo skulls
while their ancestor’s white bones
lie beneath the bulldozers treads

Still, they come
standing together beating their drums
like the ghost dancers of long ago
have walked through the portal
of time

Their message renewed
warriors dressed in old blue jeans
armed with the love of their land
shall defeat those who want them dead
their spirits drowning in their own greed
their arms tired
of their rifles needless weigh

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All Week by the Wednesday Poetry Collective

I am not a silent poet

                        after “Journeys” by Tom Pow
All week I’ve lived
between the first cup of tea
or coffee and the work
that follows: cleaning
the house and the teeth
and bodies of my children.
All week I’ve lived
on the food I can carry
by hand in bags on the bus,
or walking all the way home,
steamed up in pots and pans
in the kitchen.
All week I’ve lived
for the celebration of a King
passing, waited for the meeting
of friends, family, community.
All week I’ve lived day by day,
or for the next week,
or just for today.
All week I’ve lived.
the Wednesday Poetry Collective, writing with Marjorie Lotfi Gill on The Belonging Project

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Scars by Marjon van Bruggen

I am not a silent poet

Seventeen flat sceen plasma Tvs
(rock bottom, this week only!)
change their happy program.

I see images of the earthquake
that root me to the spot, while
people push and mingle around

and hurry, ´cause Australian wine
and English bisquits also fly
because of the rock bottom prices

you cannot let that go, be honest…
but my eyes are fixed on crumbling
houses, churches, fountains, falling

trees, and aimless running in
everpresent dust. Old men seem
to shrivel, clinging to their last

posession, a blanket, a mirror…
a dishevelled dog whines to rumble
The earth shook and left a wide scar.

Suddenly rock bottom
has another significance.

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