Category Archives: Political

Stand

By your side I will stand
When waters rise and tempest screams
When cannons hurl their hatred amongst us
When contention scrapes the top coat of consanguinity from us
When those who make bold the assertions of their crippled hearts,
When they proclaim as truth the spewings of their pustulant mouths,
When they claw away our freedom, for bondage of one is bondage of all,
When their priests affix us to their altars, splayed for the knife
By your side I will stand.
Together, unified, stitched into one flesh, one blood, one “Us”, one “We,”
Together, each hurls a clenched fist to the sky
Together we sing, we refuse to be divided
Together rainbows and black fists
Together cross and crescent
Together om and pentagram
Together, humans, The People
By your side I will stand.

Immigrant

This poem was written as a sort of call and response, from two very different points of view. The lines in plain text are from the point of view of an immigrant or those who side with the immigrants in the current troubles. The lines in bold italics are written from the point of view of, or referring to, or by the followers of the POTUS. Please click on the collage to enlarge it, in order to see detail.

 

A lonely crowd in straggling line
With blistered feet and all
They reach out to the bounds.
We must build a wall, he said,
A big and beautiful wall
To keep them out, the Not-Like-Us,
Ayudame por favor.
Aide moi s’il vous plait
Saeiduni min fadlik.
The iron face, peached with rust
Cratered with pustules of hate
Cloaked with lying just-his-way words
Help me please, the wounded beg
Help my children, the broken sob
Help my tribe, the shattered weep.
Fear-born the spells splatter from his lips,
Echoed by his acolytes
Chanted by his sycophants
Abandoned in haste, our ways cry out
Our rites and rituals left unspoken
Scout for our absent selves
Plucked, gemstones from seething sewer
Recited from disciples’ maws
So filth from filth descends
Destruction lies behind, Unknown loiters ahead
Condemned by obscure benchmark.
Is this our always fate?
Animals, proclaimed from desecrated shrine,
Not people, by bonafide human
So proper to despise
Help me please, the wounded beg
Help my children, the broken sob
Help my tribe, the shattered weep.
Turn back, the ventriloquist forces from our laws
Flung over the wall, the big and beautiful wall
The one built in our hearts.
“Give me your tired, your poor,”
The Lady cries, pleading for their lives
And they believed and we believed.
“Give me your children,” the tyrant commands,
“And my own land, to you I say,
“Give me my way or blood be on your hands.”