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#100Days100Poems Day 6

 

Much things to say about this poem from Leslie Speikes, but the poem really speaks for itself, out loud. We are all its “I” and we are all most certainly its “We.”

 

 

 

Just like poor Paula Alquist in that old black and white film,

They keep telling me that my capacity is limited

that social media and the media media

Have turned my pretty little head and my ability to comprehend has diminished

But no matter how far back into the dark I am pushed, i can still feel the shift and shimmy

Of the earth.

Even though I can’t see and i can’t hear

i can sense that

The world is tilting so far to the right that all our hopes have poor’d right on out

And we’re left sitting in the dark afraid. believing we are alone

My senses ache

We’ve been fucked in the dark for so long that a flash of artificial light causes us to rely on

Their lies and forsake our hearts, but this light?

It is only Gaslight

they will use these old scars to convince me i have done this to myself

We are so screwed down that you look crazy if you stand up


I am not crazy. I AM NOT CRAZY.

The lights have been turned on in another part of this White house

Someone is looking for jewels and they are using my fuel to do it

I am NOT crazy . I hear sounds. People are thumping just on the other side of this glass roof, but, but, I am told that I am not scared. While I stand here with my hands up and my father bleeding at my feet. I am told that there is nothing to be scared of now that the monster is slain . The blood of our sons and daughters cools and congeals on club house floors, but There is nothing to fear. I am being raped behind the dumpster in the alley and I am more guilty than my brutalizer, but I am told there is nothing to fear. And, if I don’t carry this baby to term, you tell me I’ll go to hell, but if I go home unmarried and pregnant, I’ll live in hell, but there is nothing to fear, and if there is nothing to fear, there is nothing to fight, and if there is nothing to fight then there is no reason to prepare.


My People, we must prepare!

 I am told that I am not scared,  but that I am crazy

I am not crazy

I am being slowly, systemically,  and institutionally driven out of my mind

I am lost because i have been misled

My teachers taught me that the good fight the evil…and win

That down is bad and up is good.

Leave behind the dark and  and walk in the light

That if I root for the underdog eventually we all get on down the high road to Paradise.

But sometimes?

        right now,

     today, pulling our mothers back from graves and  talking our brothers down from ledges,

 i feel these lessons returning void.

You can smell my fear.

 it smells like

cities burning and

people consuming each other

It feels like everyone above is tap dancing in the bones and ashes.

 they keep shouting down to me that

I am the crazy one.

Perhaps they’re right.

I’ve heard you go insane when you spend too long awake without dreaming.

So i will pick up the power of a dream and a mountain top.

I will believe again in the strength of this heart and that heart….and that heart.

And that heart

I will duck slings, twirl past arrows, and i will not return their fear with fists or bullets

I will pray, I will shout, I will cook dinners and have you over to eat at my table

I will read, I will listen and I will watch, I will sing, I will write, and i will vote

I will raise my fist in power and open my arms to love

 i will march as far as I can

And I will cheer you on as you march further.

We are not crazy.

We were broken

But now we knit bone back together with spirit and hold hands as we walk out of this

 long dark night together

© Leslie Speikes 1/25/2017
 

*****

For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!
Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.

Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !

*****

 

 

 

Posted on by waxyandpoetic

#100Days100Poems Day 4

Just a few days in and it already feels like the world around us is pretty heavy. At times like these, it often helps that we have limericks to keep it light and make us laugh.

 

There once was a president named Trumpet
who liked to have pee with his strumpets.
He would set down a cup,
ask Russian harlots to fill it up,
then lean his hair down and dunk it!

 

© David Siller 1/23/2017

 

*****

For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.

Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !

*****

Posted on by waxyandpoetic

#100Days100Poems Day 2

Today’s poem comes to us from Catherine Harren Barufaldi. An untitled haiku, its brevity does nothing to diminish its power, or the stark contrast it makes against what we’re fighting.

 

 

Mine will be just fine,
he said. Not enough for me
Since they are all mine.

 

Author: Catherine Harren Barufaldi. All rights reserved.

*****

For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.

Read, follow, share, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !

Posted on by waxyandpoetic

M. Jordan, where is my painting? — NPM

The following is an attempt at a sonnet in French (panic not! a translation, rough like sandpaper, follows). For those francophones who follow the blog, it is not really a sonnet in French, given the sketchy scansion and non-rhymes of some lines. So let’s call it a faux-sonnet, or a fauxnnet, shall we?

 

 

La Société Surréaliste
 
 
Les araignées et les citrouilles font la grève,
dans laquelle je vois des immeubles flambés,
allumés par les dalmatiens-pompiers.
Au jardin, un chameau lit un journal, fume, rêve

de l’avenir, de l’eau.  Il feint d’ignorer l’élève
qui essayait de nouer un plan.  Mais il s’est
noué dans ses idées.  Et le chameau, il sait
libérer cette peste—ils s'associent à la grève.

Les araignées, les citrouilles sont sérieuses
bien que le chameau et l’élève dansent et chantent
en écoutant la musique des manifestants.

Je me demande:  Comment on capte le merveilleux?
La télé montre cette spectacle obsolète
et n’importe où quelque dieu se gratte la tête.

The spiders and pumpkins are on strike,
in which I see burning buildings
lit by firefighter-dalmatians.
In the park, a camel is reading a newspaper, smoking, dreaming
 
of the future, of water.  He pretends to ignore the student
who is trying to come up with a plan. But he's caught
up in his own ideas.  And the camel, he knows
how to free this pain in the neck--they join the strike.
 
The spiders and pumpkins are serious
even though the camel and the student sing and dance
while listening to the music of the protestors.
 
I wonder:  How do you get the marvelous?
The TV captures this obsolete spectacle
and where ever you like, some god is scratching his head.