Ruins by Peter Adair

I am not a silent poet

after William Blake

 

This isn’t a town you’d like to visit.

Arriving one night, I wandered through streets

Whose lights were smashed, I stumbled with the blind.

No guide.  No map.  Wheelchairs, I think, were dumped

in alleys.  Beggars crawled on their knees, squeezing

their plastic cups like rosaries.  One man screamed

for help, but no one came.  I hurried past,

too numbed to care.  And outside an open window

a mother wept for her hungry child

while a drummer thumped out his merciless tune.  He,

at least, was getting high.  Then the window slammed shut,

crushing someone’s fingers, crushing someone’s hopes.

I wandered on through each darkened street

until the sky burned red and howled and cried

and a god, just waking, yawned and fell back asleep.

Like metallic Furies machines clanged clanged clanged

churning out their mind-forged manacles;

blood ran down the factory, the palace walls;

and…

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The Archer by Peter Adair

I am not a silent poet

You were the archer who missed the mark,

the cyclist who lost his way in mist,

the runner fleeing his shadow.

When you fumbled your lines in school

Mr Brass snapped: ’Can’t you read, fool?’  Under

the ruck you curled up; studs trampled over you.

Rigid on the garden seat or clamped down for dinner

hands never touched.  The gods just nattered

on high or ate in silence.  You ached for praise.

How early were you broken?  Whose careless hand

one sunny morning shattered your glassy brain?

Those yells still echo, splinters pierce your skin.

Your heart or your nerves was the weak spot

the strong unerringly found.  Each arrow hit home

till you, the simple and blameless, were cut right through.

Bullies sniff their victim’s scent.  They marked you out

for sacrifice, smirking, laughing, dragging you

to the pyre where you shot back arrows from the flames,

taking a…

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neon nazism by Aad de Gids

I am not a silent poet

frail is the invisible vanishing of the cold, sudden

nevertheless still in biting wafts of nordic chill

in the bones felt, along now the upcoming lament:

teary eyes a, heave of the poetic poitrine of the

world so sad, so sad so intrinsically linked with

“world” that its hurt is our hurt that megalomaniac

ruins our ephemerality as our togetherness each

time to achieve anew yet the Thing disrupts and

fouls his own people. “of the world” yes to make

up this syndromology of sociopathic sociologies

fabricated by an entire insane contingent of these

people who trusted this nazi enough to vote for it

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Going to Hell by Ananya S Guha

I am not a silent poet

A legislator   rapes a minor

everyone is ashamed

not of the legislator

but of themselves

people keep silent

murmur, silence is

a better half. more understanding

keep silent. some curse the man

and do some verbal bashing.

but everyone is abash

that this could happen

here!

politicians are mummified

it is better to embalm them

in scathing darkness.

judicial procedures go by the book

he is released as per procedure.

by procedure too, let him go to hell.

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Drain the Swamp by David Wilson

I am not a silent poet

Drain the swamp

Of corrupt institutions

That serve their own purpose

Political pollution

Drain the swamp

Of career politicians

Who cling on to power

Without inhibition

Drain the swamp

Of litigant suits

Who smother the spirit

Of democracy’s fruits

Drain the swamp

Of corruption and vice

And ignore my past

I’m really quite nice

Drain the swamp

And fill it again

With liars and bullies

And millionaire men

So fill up the swamp

With intolerant laws

And scrap all compassion

Without even a pause

Replace what’s been emptied

With venom and hate

And boast of abuse

By person or state

Insult the disabled

And Muslims and queers

There’s nothing to stop us

At least for four years

Unless enough people

Sit up and take note

Democracy’s more

Than a quinquennial vote

Let’s stand and assert

That now is the time

To drain the new swamp

With its new stench and…

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Kenyan Ladies’ Karate Club by Nick Cooke

I am not a silent poet

So you prefer older gals?

That’s the tale we heard.

You think we’re ‘more safe’

than the fresher meat

because we won’t have

much in the way of

what’s called love life,

therefore we must be clean

and won’t kill you

after you’ve killed us.

Ingenious thinking.

You boys should be

in the cabinet

with stuff like that.

I suppose you’d turn

me round to face the wall

before lifting my blood-red skirt…

what’s that old saying

about mantelpiece and fire?

To you boys I guess

the lot of us are much the same

down where it counts,

but get this, kiddies:

we’re all in training,

spend our days like boxers

in the gym, belting

sweet hell out of leather

and now we’re ready to

kick for Kenya

and yes that includes

anyone making so bold

as to try & knock us over

like Mau Mau days,

and only fair…

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Tastes Bitter

I am not a silent poet

The newly-anointed Cheeto-in-chief

surrounds himself with authoritarian white men,

signs draconian orders—

issues a global gag rule,

complete roll-back of environmental protections,

disconnects the public comments switchboard,

scrubs White House website.

On Day Two,

he claims millions voted illegally,

short-lists potential Supreme Court justices,

rabid conservatives favoring curtailment

of first amendment rights, civil liberties,

unreasonable searches and seizures.

He green lights controversial pipelines,

bans federal agencies from social media,

insists on a total news blackout.

California’s Governor calls out Trump’s universe of non-facts.

Constitutional experts document President Pussy Grabber’s

violation of the emoluments clause, file a lawsuit.

The rest of us bombard legislators with demands,

vow not to take this shit lying down

like good little Germans.

Jennifer Lagier has published thirteen books, taught with California Poets in the Schools, co-edits the Homestead Review, helps coordinate Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Second Sunday readings. Newest books: Scene of the Crime

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Tick me to the end of days by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

It doesn’t tick, this I learned.
Scientists and laureates
meet in closed session,
discuss the end times
with measured words and argument.
When they break for tea
I bet they talk about their families,
that new play or book.
Maybe they vie for prominence
among their peerless group.

The majestic march of progress
spells a darker threat when matched
with tyranny and human greed.
The old sins repeat year on year
of conquest and of power.
These men cannot compete,
for those who’d win the world
are gamblers, chancers, haters
who’d sell their souls to soar,
and it’s them will kill us all.

It doesn’t tick, this I learned.
It screams.

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most of us just die by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

most of us just die

never knowing when

the end will come

not well

not aware

filled with those same

uncertainties we carried throughout our life

doubts and shameful moments

that were never discussed

never saw the light of day

age just crept up on us

as we lived our lives

unaware

a repetition of learned habits

that felt comfortable

most of the time

except late at night

when we wondered

out loud to ourselves

if there was more.

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