Them, by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

There is a man on line
who says they are a hardy people.

They are nomads, used to deserts.
They know how to survive,
that not everywhere is scarred by war.
He has been there, and he knows.

Everyone lives near the mountains,
can magic water from the sands.
Everyone can ride a camel, or a horse.
They are a hardy people, and they will learn.

Tell that to the kid standing wide eyed,
watching the murder missiles fall,
straight as heart seeking arrows,
shining, like nothing he’s ever seen before.

View original post

LaToya Marries An Impoverished Marxist, by Clara B. Jones

I am not a silent poet

for Robert Wayne Williams

He tried to honor Gramsci’s prison notebooks.
But, ‘Toya required means. A comrade fighting
worldwide oppression married to a princess.
Thesbian Ché chortling for cameras, never
exposing flaws, never so beautiful as in
death, revealing tiny pimples—an otherwise
unworldly face. “Revolution” a meme, violent

insurrection modeled by Lenin, the oppressed
led by a nobleman defrocked, clothed by
tsunamis of Red Tides and by a red flag rough
as workers’ palms, labeled “amoral” by well-fed
republicans, stable hierarchies prevailing,
formed by guilds and nation-states avowing
private ownership. A husband whose theories might

have earned praise, competing with Jackson’s Lenin
Prize, but privileging private domains over service,
showing ingratitude to his Frankfurt School.
Habermas lies disappointed but in wait. It is neither
confirmed nor denied that the husband was once a
belligerent entity, acting on Marx’s behalf, armed
with munitions of scholarship, writing documents as

deputed as manifestos…

View original post 165 more words

Burdened, by Roberta Monokroussos

I am not a silent poet

when your conscience is laden with guilt
as most of our consciences must be
do we get active politically
do we revise our budgets wisely
do we look at the people and say, “hello
how are you today”? before we go
before we go on our merry way–
off to our errands–not thinking how
we can make amends
do we do this everyday as we take note
of all those who die by famine and draught
of all those who died by genocide
and all the blood needlessly spilt
o our consciences are burdened–no doubt
by skeletons not yet dead and children’s eyes
seeming to pop out of their head
pity all our consciences so burdened with guilt

View original post

Blatant by Robert Garnham

I am not a silent poet

This is who I am.

The only trick that nature pulled

Was to instil its hate in you.

I’m still your son.

There were childhood days of sun

But this isn’t playtime,

It’s very real.

If I could change the way I feel

Just to please you, I would.

I haven’t strayed.

The path is as obvious as it always was.

..

I will not sully your house

Or your name.

The touch I crave is not alien, nor supernatural,

But human.

I’m not the first to feel this way,

Even if I am your only.

Why would you want me

To be lonely?

..

This is who I’ve always been.

There was no switch,

I didn’t press a button

Marked with unwitting defiance,

I was not inspired by soap opera shenanigans,

Nor whims, nor fashion statement,

The suburbs will not catch fire

Because I have transgressed whatever manly

Aspirations…

View original post 269 more words

Posh People on Grime, by The Scribbling Ape

I am not a silent poet

View original post

Brokering Peace, by Ananya S Guha

I am not a silent poet

Syria they have used

you as a battle field

for a long time

your body is a soldier ‘s

your skin pocked with infinite

marks of hurt before death

scarred with wounds

of women and children

where is your history

your soulful people

are they in the blood

of those fields?

where are those fiesty

signs, love or music

where are those who have

let this hell loose on your

bosom, where do they sit

or are they swathed in your blood

your coffins?

whose conscience

whose voice speaks in those

sabre rattles, in those booms

of artillery, who now will mediate

or broker peace

among mangled eyes, nose, face, ears?

View original post