Daily Archives: October 25, 2017

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…

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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

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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.

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