Monthly Archives: October 2017

The March by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

For people like Joe and Jaz

A thousand flags joust the nationless sky
red, white, blue.
Those heavens are the home of our ancestors
of black, white, like me and you.

A thousand rags are the immigrants armour
St George of Palestine –
a life in bags from Drones of May and Obama,
Oh my darling Clementine.

A soldiers tags sway from her Mother’s neck
St Karen of Pwllheli,
A life in bags she is carried by Welsh Dragoons-
Mis-sold as British on telly.

A thousand noises yell violently what is British
none of them women.
A Sikh boy whispers silently, scared and skittish
His grandad fell at Ypres in British linen.

Amongst a plague of selective patriots I found the world
Aylan in the tide unfurled.

View original post

song of a cane flute by Donna Snyder

I am not a silent poet

…we are the children of bridges, bridges made from our backs, our tears, our sacrifices, and from all the ones who never made it across with us…. Junot Díaz

low tones solid as her father’s sweet bread
high notes sing the vibrato of son jarocho
of a woman near tears but speaking still
words deep within the memory of cells

the cells are theirs
the lengua is theirs not mine
I can’t presume to speak their truth
yet their indomitable vigor lifts me up
fills with me with a sense of solidarity
a feeling of common purpose
and feelings need not be truth
but are still facts

the strength of la gente bears me up
out of the inundation of hate
their strength through persecution
through the suppression of truth
their unbroken backs carry me
across the chasm seen between us
a bridge between fear and resolution
inspiring me to…

View original post 108 more words

Pandemic by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

the sickness spread silently
starting in individuals
then into groups, government, and religion
the altar was cleaned of statues
a mirror set on the Gold leaf table
beautiful people stood before it
women fluffed their hair
men adjusted their ties
that was the genuflection now
wallets were placed upon the scale
donations made by weight
still, they all came on Sundays
to be seen
to smile, shake hands, brag about their businesses
no one seemed to notice
the church and God being transformed
once more by those who made them
and the rules

View original post

Will anyone who witnessed the collision between man and the environment by Ed Stone

I am not a silent poet

I have the uncanny feeling I am being watched
by myself.  I move self-consciously,  clumsily.
There is no getting away from my hidden eyes.
For the past week I have been running
a peculiar fever , a low fever.  It makes my
feet cold despite the heat wave that engulfs
the city.  My tongue has a soapy flavor.
Any liquid except hot milk tastes brackish
and leaves me parched.  It is often impossible
for me to concentrate.  My thoughts become like
empty eggs floating in my head.  They collide
with crinkling noises.  I sleep dreamlessly,
never certain that I am asleep.  Sometimes
I am awakened by the sound of my own whispering
It grieves me that I cannot understand the words.

View original post

the employed poor by Martin Hayes

I am not a silent poet

they have a car a job with no contract they work for a company that has
a zero-tolerance policy on sick days and non-attendance they have a
flat with heating and food they have a bottle of wine of a night
they cook a pasta dinner for their two kids they try to buy their
kids new clothes and a mobile phone but it’s never the right
ones always 2 or 3 generations behind they are healthy but
nervous strong but fragile they have nothing in their
hands or tucked away under their beds they
are only one withheld monthly pay cheque
away from disaster one bosses decision
away from hunger one unfortunate
accident away from annihilation
one unplanned bill away from
tipping point one illness
away from seeing the
whole edifice of
their lives come
tumbling down
with no one
around to
help put
any of it
back
together

View original post 1 more word

Cambiamento di paradigma by Brian Crandall

I am not a silent poet

Depression, the quicksand of the mind

Creeping death

A dark shadow, slowly, ominously, painfully strengthening its deadly grip

On my conscious self

Pulling me under

I try to escape

Desperately reaching out for help

I try to take flight before I succumb to smothering suffocation

It was then I found

That my wings were bound

Era il dolore che ha portato la depressione

It was Pain that brought Depression

Pain grips my body,  squeezing angrily

Fiercely determined to crush my bones

Hoping to hear the snap, snap, snap!

As bones fall like dominoes

Pain laughs as I cry in agony

Throbbing.  Burning. Gasping

Grasping at the air, finding no one there

Dolore mi stava trascinando alle caverne di inferno

Pain was dragging me to the caverns of hell

Depression is a vacuum

Emptying my lungs of life-giving oxygen

Siphoning every molecule of life from me

I am the astronaut in space

Whose fabric has…

View original post 150 more words