Monthly Archives: June 2019

/black power/ by Clara B. Jones

I am not a silent poet

You wanted to meet Pope.L, but he failed to understand the details of playing the market by using proper tools to open doors on Wall Street where traders are bullish about CO2 and global warming since drones fly through toxic air. You should share your wealth with negro men using malware to revolt at Goldman-Sachs® and Nordstrom’s®—where Afrobots are subject to virtual attacks. You’ll figure it out though the poor eat more pork than any other group, and it’s time to ask Norway to cure the obese. You have infinite data on your laptop, but gigabits could offer so much more. You defined black power as a financial game played in Harlem and Grosse Pointe or in homeless shelters selling lottery tickets at reduced cost—proving that spite never evolved in the colored race. Some day you will send post cards to everyone on welfare inviting them to an Ibsen play…

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The Third Child, by Frank McMahon

I am not a silent poet

Our state assumes the third child
Needs no food or clothes, shelter
Cot or  toys. Our state assumes
That what is stretched and threadbare
Will go further when moral fibre
Is applied. Our state assumes
That just before you copulate
You both will take appropriate precautions
And bear in mind that for the poor
Conception should be subjected
To rigorous analysis
Of all the costs and benefits.
Our state assumes that for the poor,
The joy of a new-born child, the third,
Should be tempered by poverty and want.

Our state assumes that all the rest
can procreate carefree and have
as many children as they want.
They are the ruling classes after all.

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Two windows, by Mandy Pannett

I am not a silent poet

There’s a green and daisy window
brimming with light. A river where fish
gleam and swim and an old stone bridge
where people stroll in a merry moment of day.

There is a window, Magritte style, devastated
by fragments of rubble and dust. A river swollen
with blooded limbs and a bridge that’s severed
into two parts; an un-merry moment of day.

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It is the sound, by Frank McMahon

I am not a silent poet

of a child abandoned on a hillside
of a man’s tears falling across a rock
of a seabird caught in a trough of oil
of a whale lost amongst the throb of engines
of a mother pleading for the life of her child

It is a sound
drawn from wet, wind-hammered fells
drawn from the curlew’s piping
and the lapwings winter cry
drawn from the farmer robbed of his fields
drawn from the tribes driven into exile
drawn from a saw cutting bone

It is a sound distilled
from the edge of extinction
from war’s obliteration
from the driving out of mercy.

It is sound that grinds against the skin
that lacerates the heart
but is not heard by all and so it must be amplified
a threnody for the loss of hope
played by the last surviving piper.

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Crapperwocky, by Sue Barnard

I am not a silent poet

(with profuse apologies to Lewis Carroll)  

’Twas Brexit, and the slithy Gove
did drone and prattle all the while;
All creepy were the Rees-Mogg’s leer
and the Farage’s smile.

Beware the Brexitbus, my friends –
the figures lie, the words deceive:
“A fortune for the NHS”
to tempt you to vote Leave.

Beware the immigration meme,
the poster that incites to hate,
the promise to “take back control”,
the lies exposed – too late.

As Leavers gloat, Remainers weep.
The country can do naught but fall.
Meanwhile, the snarky Maybot seeks
a way to please them all.

“This is my deal,” the Maybot cries,
“Trade, backstop, and passports of blue!
Three times I set it forth to you;
therefore, it must be true.”

Cockwombles all refuse to see
the UK dying at a stroke,
and turn deaf ears as through the land
six million cry: “Revoke!”

“Oh loathsome day!” the…

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Haibun For Race Dysphoria, by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

for Kara Walker

Jamal has been diagnosed with a severe form of Race Dysphoria, producing anxiety, even psychotic episodes, by desires to identify as a racial type other than the one assigned at birth. Since he was six, Jamal has felt like a white person, never eating collard greens or fried flounder sandwiches. His mother called him a “picky eater” though she sometimes worried it might be more than that. Jamal’s father was convinced he was gay since he showed no interest in sports except fencing which he watched on PBS® every Friday at nine. When his brother, Tyrone, played rap music, Jamal hid under blankets in a fetal position which his counselor said was a sure symptom of Oedipal conflict and regression to a pre-sexual stage. [Race Dysphoria* was appended to DSM-IV by a near-unanimous vote at the Spring A.P.A. convention in 2018. Members disagreed about how the…

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Two poems by Susan Jordan

I am not a silent poet


It happened a long time ago. I watched it on television in shades of grey. It started with smashing windows, the glass jagged over black space inside. On some of the windows you could see ‘Jude’ in ugly writing. Men in uniform were marching down the street: young men with short, short haircuts and bland faces looking straight forward. Then you saw the people in the street running to get away. Some of them seemed pleased, but then there were the other ones with stars pinned to their clothes. They looked frightened when the fires started. Old people spoke who had been children then. The children didn’t understand what was happening, but they understood later. An old man opened a box and took out the yellow star he’d kept for seventy years.



It hurts when the prod shocks through your skin
when cages cripple all your limbs

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