Night Commuters by Zayra Ives San Francisco, CA , USA Someone said on the news radio that they caught the rebel who forced us to kill our own families and wander in the night but we know the limits of forgiveness and survival, so tonight we will walk in darkness bare foot covered with rags. Don't ask me if I want to go home because there is no home and the smell of gasoline still lingers as rust blood in my mouth. They may threaten to nail my tongue to a board but I will not tell them what I have witnessed of human flesh. Truth is not reserved only for the dead. I know that. I have seen freedom chopped to pieces. I know the color of life as it seeps from a face. My heart has already been carved out and left in an open field for vultures, so I walk until my feet bleed, until the world opens its doors to help. by zayra yves all rights reserved Contact: email@example.com
The Hope by Antipodi ( Stuart Chugg ) Melbourne, Australia Vile minds concoct and deceive They appeal to the darkside of many who believe Racial supremacy, Bigotry, Exclusivism, Powermad These are the demons that kill and make me so sad Yet.. With blind eyes we see and watch on Soon our precious diversity may be truly gone. The this vile ooze seeps to invade and stay They dull and plunder our very minds this way Why.. Does a loving mother cry to a wilderness of ears Pain and suffering has been repeating and going many years So why do we not speak out with tremendous cry Do we just shrivel away in a corner whilst millions die I ask.. Is there hope or has all reason and goodness forever flown Do we just sit smile , ignore whilst the evil becomes home grown No , we must as brother and sisters unite against this awful tyranny We must stand up, be counted and yell .. Then.. love and tolerance will become our standard banner and freedom bell.. Copyright 2005 Antipodi (Stuart Chugg)
Peace by Rob Ganson Washburn WI. USA Fleece of the lambs, bloodied by dogs of war Peace is the gift I would leave my children Love is the message I shout from mountains Above all, may our hearts grow generous we all love our children,desire calm, see the light of human understanding "What happened to the golden rule?" I plead. but no one seems to hear, or to heed it lagging behind in our evolution nagging fears about war, and pollution This isn't the world that I want to leave fist pounding on table, I scream to all we mustn't forsake them, hear the great call See the light,do it right, give peace a chance Copyright 2005, Rob Ganson
The following poem is a rewrite of a poem that was published in a book called 'Poets For Africa' edited by Susann Flammang in 1986. The copyright has reverted to Mike Scheidemann . President, 'Voices', The Israel English Poetry Association. Hunger – The Other Face of War Most times, so wrapped in pain of incompleteness, each one of us, We overlook our basic needs and the hungers of others, wrought by warfare. For some of us a self-absorbing suffering is an indulgence, a soft cross to bear; We can no longer afford it what with the genocides that plague the earth And old Ma Africa leading the rest with sunken breasts where flies feed Off the tears of the eyes of children. Meanwhile the sanguine claim; Life’s hardships surely exalt human love. I say; remember Rwanda and Dafur Where the stranger reaps dark harvests, seemingly forever. There as elsewhere on tired soils death is a wearisome visitor, a carping relative Who passes through like the sultry wind but whose departure is long overdue. Surely the greatest irresponsibility is borne By anguished beings who choose to ignore And cruelly rest inactive. Only Mother Nature Can play the posture of indifference as her right? Have we not severed the incestuous chords With the natural world embedded in its soils And chosen the expression of brotherhood For our individual freedom? Darkness may seduce and destroy the curiosity Of children. When can we all embrace again The joy of the child-like, our natural right? Let us not be content to bemoan and accept; Let us bear all the woes of the world Upon our collective shoulder. Copyright : 2005 by Mike Scheidemann
------------------------------------------- ANGER NOT THE GODS by Tom Berman This is a land of ancient gods They have not left this landscape They reside in the anguish of the stones in the gray bark of carob trees and the dimness of karst caves They sigh in dry thorn stalks on summer hillsides Their breath hovers in whirls of dust This is an old, hard land with a surfeit of memory It does not take much to stir passions or memories when the wind rustles the leaves in the olive groves Tread lightly on the land of ancient gods. ----------------------------------------------- Published in Shards, a Handful of Verse ( Tom Berman , Writers Club Press,2002). ------------------------------------------------------ Tom Berman Editor in Chief Israel Voices Anthology Kibbutz Amiad, Galil Elyon 12 335 Israel e-mail:firstname.lastname@example.org. il email@example.com Tel: 972-4-6909476
What if? by Bill Healey , Liverpool, England I’ve fixed up a room for my daughter For when she returns from Lidice She will come back to featherbed comfort. She never came back. The room still awaits her Because what if? I’ve fixed up a room in my father’s house For when all my brothers and sisters come together They will know their father and their mother. They never came back. The room still awaits them Because what if? I’ve fixed up a room in my heart For when my hope returns from nowhere It will find a home filled with sunshine. It never came back. The room still awaits Because what if? © Bill Healey , 2005
SHADOW OVER ZIMBABWE for the Shona sculptors lost to AIDS by Alex Gildzen , Santa Fe, New Mexico hard work to carve leopard stone chisel sinks into spots a kind of love too much chiseling stops lonely stone Copyright, 2005 __________
No Reason To Kill by Margaret J. Brown-Bailey New York, USA When I think of genocide Darfur comes to mind, I think how can anyone hate their human kind? To maim, kill or antagonize because of one's legacy or profile, This is downright hostile....... There is no reason to kill, Taking a life is not a joy or a thrill, Hating someone because of their heritage, Makes me think that mental care is imperative, Have people in the world all gone mad? To this question I ponder...... Because I feel sad that they are terminally insane, Why else would they rain down wrath on a people so humble? Causing them a lifetime of pain. Copyright, Margaret J. Brown-Bailey , 2005
CHILDHOOOD MEMORIES OF THE HOLOCAUST by Helen Bar-Lev Jesusalem, Israel I was born in New York in 1942 Of my age that day I am not sure when my mother sent me to fetch a newspaper from the nearby candy store How old could I have been? Four? Five? Not more My mother took the paper to the kitchen window where the sun shone through in a peaceful way She was probably thirty-five, the age my daughter is today When she saw the paper, she cried I'm certain I remember the moment because I'd never before seen tears fall from her eyes. My child’s eye had seen the picture in the newspaper as I skipped up the street full of pride because I was old enough to be sent on an errand so important But that child’s eye could not comprehend it yet till this day remembers it and can now interpret it: a mass grave of men and women who had died already skeletons A site so horrific that I still cannot deal with it And then when I was ten I saw a photograph of an oven – a crematorium – a door in a stone wall and had a vision of being put in too weak to call, I too a skeleton The door shuts The fires beckon The flames searing I wake up screaming Barely breathing And from then until I was forty this dream returned to me much too frequently I the American child consumed by a guilt nearly intolerable How was it possible that I was here, alive when all those other children, there, had died? © 2004 Helen Bar-Lev www.helenbarlev.com
A Century of Sacrifices by LHelene Donovan Los Angeles, CA , USA nine million for their faith nine hundred thousand for their culture ninety thousand for their imagination nine thousand for their humility nine hundred for their courage ninety for their opinions nine for their truths Even one person killed for who they are can not be ignored or forgotten. Doesn't everyone know this? Or do we prefer our fear? "A Century of Sacrifice" was inspired in part by the Holocaust of Jews, gypsies and others during WWII as well as current atrocities in Africa and elsewhere. I also learned about the Armenian genocide when I taught at a school where Armenians did not attend (or teach) class on Remembrance Day in April. Now I live near Little Armenia in Los Angeles... I encourage you to include their story in your narrative. Here's a link that may help. http://www.armenian-genocide.org/index.htm Copyright 2005, LHelene Donovan
" Yperite " by Jan Theuninck Zonnebeke, Belgium late at night a mist fills the valley. without knowing it suffocates like a dark power. on the fields our dead bodies and under the grass a brown soil © 2005 by Jan Theuninck
NIGHT by Michael Brownstein Chicago, IL, USA Honey locusts loosen their gold trimmed lips. Nearby the river slides through brush and leaf, past turquoise ponds, carved gullies, shadow and rock, tall grass and wandering gazelles. Blue sky and soft cloud slip through paths of light, the sun a globe to life and pleasure and security. But not for the child of the man on the clay, hands wrenched from bone and flesh, blood black, thick with silence. He has a need for tears. There are none. This day is somewhere else. Four gazelles bound by, leap over everything, too beautiful to ignore, and the boy cannot see any of this. He has eyes only for the dead hands of his father, melting already into sand. Copyright, 2005 , Michael Brownstein POB 268805 Chicago, IL 60626-8805 773-487=1309
CNN by Mitchell Geller Boston, MA, USA Chile, Cambodia, Rwanda, Sudan. The long sadistic totentanz of man. Sudan, Rwanda, Cambodia, Chile. Emotionless newscasts blandly relay blasted bloody limbs and severed sinews. The carnival of carnage continues. One must have sympathy for the Devil, his workload mounting - it's never level. Cambodia, Chile, Sudan, Rwanda. It strangles us - a giant anaconda. Soon Earth's only life will br plasmodia. Rwanda, Sudan, Chile, Cambodia. There will never be a paucity of atrocity. Copyright, 2004, Mitchell Geller
Iqbal Masih by Ryfkah La Mirada, California, U.S.A. Streets my daylight abode no longer a baby still I venerate my family We break bread each evening the flat kind with scent of clay Now and then as tempest cloud in fair sky there is none My mother quite sick requires an operation or else she shall perish She borrows money from the owner and at age five I imprisoned to toil in his factory to pay back our debts Carpet fibers weave into lungs I rest within their patterns dreaming their dyes Year after year I am captive to these ornaments for rich people in houses I never glimpse Now ten I run away I run and run and run like a seed pod from tree spiraling in late summer breeze There are people who care deeply They hide me and soon I speak for those subjugated still the other children my brothers and sisters at conferences with people who live in big houses with carpets made by child slaves Father forgive them they know not what they do In Pakistan though notorious this fame should procure my safety I am returned home thirteen like Ishmael Allah unearths my tears but his angel forgets to inform them Gunshot I bleed the crimson juice of pomegranates adorning hallowed space and ordinary substance Could there be life elsewhere without carpets in lives yet imagined Copyright, 2005, Ryfkah
HARVESTS OF CORPSES by SRINJAY CHAKRAVARTI This is drought or a creeping annihilation. This sun is an empty bowl, or the hollow fangless jaws of a sky with a desert yawn. Here the only rains that come are these whirlwind days of dry dust. The only cloud is a haze of heat. In this land of eternal famine, the only nomads are the vampires you call hunger, thirst and disease. Here your saliva is molten lead, your tears form diamond embryos, and death rots in barren fields under the watchful eye of pockmarked moons. Srinjay Chakravarti is a 32-year-old journalist, economist and poet based in Salt Lake City, Calcutta, India. His poetry and prose have appeared in various publications all over the world. His first book of poems has received an award from Australia. Poem copyright ( c ) 2005 Srinjay Chakravarti Previously published in \ THE NEW MISCELLANY , India SRINJAY CHAKRAVARTI BE 192 SECTOR I SALT LAKE CITY CALCUTTA 700064 INDIA PHONE: 00-91-33-2359-2788 MAILING ADDRESS: SRINJAY CHAKRAVARTI C/O DR. K.K. CHAKRAVARTY, IAS C II/ 51 SHAHJAHAN ROAD NEW DELHI 110011 INDIA firstname.lastname@example.org email@example.com firstname.lastname@example.org
Defining Moments By Nordette Adams New Jersey , USA What are you my brother that I glibly dispose of you, hoist your severed head and limbs high on spikes, trophies boasting my savagery while I dance your blood back into the earth, back into our mother's womb, joying in your inexistence? What are you my sister that I smile while two-legged beasts ravage your innocence into the sewers of man's arrogance, slice skins of pleasure from your life and leave you battered, disfigured in the bush? What am I that I walk past horror, preening, kissing the gleam of my De Beers that sings love songs to my perfectly manicured finger, drowning the cries of Africa in my diamond-studded ears? © Copyright 2005 by Nordette Adams http://www.writingjunkie.net
Mother Land (iv) by Deji United Kingdon Pie Chart Success accomplishment Detoured and delayed By an affect that's there Concisely ordained Perpetual tombola Encrypt in the life cycle Of an entrapped mammal As ours in hands with wand, circles Hands of foggy minds Cum foot of twisted legs Of what note will ye be hold As lives are gone, cut short as pegs American Dream where art thou? Opt for African, too weak to rise Still numb from days of shock Dream, dream, real dream Unlike that when asleep is felt. Come to think of it Isn’t it a mere fantasy; That we can dine in glee together For only in dreams we live In lasting ecstasy Copyright , Deji , 2005
BATTALION OF THE DAMNED by Mike Subritzky New Zealand March Battalion March! March the long African day, sing me the freedom songs, as we die bravely on, March the Battalion of the Damned. Stolen away as children in 1976 - to the training camps of the North where the comrades taught us the songs of revolution and the weapons of the cause. We were like rows and rows of fresh buds of young mealie corn nurtured and green in the early sunlight of an African dawn. March Battalion March! We trained hard - under the harsh discipline of the sjambok, and the bullet in the back of the head at midnight. We learned in the camps there was no place for pity or surrender in the guerilla war. We were like rows and rows of unripened mealie corn strong and slender in the burning sunshine of an African day. March Battalion March! We marched South in 1978 - to wash our bayonets in the blood of Smith's men in the Tribal Trust Lands of home. In contact and running firefight we cried and died as the helicopter soldiers of the Rhodesian Army sought us out in relentless pursuit. We were like rows and rows of shattered and strewn mealie corn devastated and torn in the splintered lightening of an African storm. March Battalion March! At wars end in December 1979 - we camped at Assembly Place Lima with the New Zealand Peacemakers. Tired and victorious we rested at Mhadlambudzi where we sang songs of revolution and cleaned our weapons after battle. We were like rows and rows of sun jaded mealie corn lethargic and spent in the afternoon glow of an African sunset. March Battalion March! In April 1980 - we advanced from our camp at Essexvale to fight against Mugabe's men at the Bulawayo. Ambushed by remnants of the Rhodesia African Rifles our lead armour was struck by rockets and then the gunships fell upon us, with their frightening sound and endless cannons. We fell like rows and rows of ripened mealie corn harvested in blood and bullets in the red gloom of an African twilight. March Battalion March! How we died that day - there at that dusty ambush outside of Bulawayo. 800 Regulars and 200 Guerillas. The lifeblood of our entire Battalion is now but a ghost from another African war. Our bones lie like rows and rows of skeletal mealie corn stalks stark and silent as we lie here, in the moonlight of an African night. March Battalion March! March the long African day, sing me the freedom songs, as we die bravely on, March the Battalion of the Damned. Mike Subritzky NZATMC - AP Lima 1980 © Copyright Mike Subritzky - The Flak Jacket Collection In memory of: 1st ZIPRA BATTALION Zimbabwe Peoples Revolutionary Army Formed: 1976 from Rhodesian children stolen by Joshua Ngkomo. Operational: 1978 - 1979 Tribal Trust Lands of Matabeleland. Annihilated: April 1980 on the outskirts of Bulawayo. Average Age: 16.
Africa Sings by Steve Klepetar St. Cloud, MN, USA Africa sings, praise songs writhing into ribbons of blood and dust, thirst rising in broken throats. Turn away and your eyes dim, your ears fill with clay. Ghosts wail in the Sudan, the Congo burns. Hear fires roar as smoke pulses with rhythm of a thousand tongues. In the mountains of Kenya, strong runners tramp barefoot along stony paths. Sun blazes over township shacks, barb wire hovels where refugees slip out for water in between the raging bite of bullets in the dusk. We turn away, our tongues thick with mud of silence, our private tears blurry in leaden eyes. Africa sings in her misery, grace notes rising in sullen air. Copyright, 2005, Steve Klepetar Faculty Director of Advising SCSU Phone: 320-308-5642 Email: email@example.com
AFRICA – Motherland Umm Dunya (Name for “Mother of the World” by Medieval Arabs) Part V by V. K. Westbrook Des Moines, IA Iowa, USA Aree Aree was a gem among Sudanese girls She glowed with the radiance of ebony pearls. Her skin was as smooth and dark as the night Her smile the essence of warmth and light. One night Janjaweeds stormed through her village Killed her family and took all they could pillage. Aree tried to run but she could not escape Eight Janjaweeds beat her, then took turns in her rape. A woman named Casma found Aree behind a shed Where vicious Janjaweeds had left her for dead. She removed duct tape that had Aree bound Then picked her up from the damp filthy ground. Casma knew she’d better not wait Because the child was in a terrible state. She dropped to her weak, wobbly knees and prayed, “Lord help this child, please.” Aree withstood more then any child should take She had courage and a will hard to break. Come morning, she shivered with chills and cold Her fight was valiant but king death took hold. Aree hung on through high fevers and moans This woman child of spirit, skin and bones. Finality flashed across her small ashen face, She was buried in a white dress trimmed in lace… Aree saw her sisters, she grabbed their hands They ran and sang together through cool wet sands Disease, death and sorrow are things of their past Aree and her family are happy at last. V. K. Westbrook , Copyright, 2005
Hopelessness x Millions by Linda Rose Wexford, PA. USA Brothers Of The Universe The blind can smell the essence of the rose on summer's wind The deaf can sense the rhythm of drums, played with sticks of tin The mute can watch the effect of the moon upon the tides All brothers of the universe; life is more than choosing sides. Man was born with feet of clay, birds with widespread wings, Some were born to be paupers; others deemed to be kings Children born, impoverished lives, struggle for a morsel of grain Others born with a silver spoon, never seem to feel their pain. Creatures living in the forests lush, and those buried under hills, Though surrounded by such verdant beauty, live lives unfulfilled. Humans were born with intellect and reasoning to make a choice. Do the eagles soaring over the mounains, have any less a voice? The sparrows outside the window, sing and dance with each other The intergalactic stars, sparkling at night, know that we are brothers. The gray necked goose, the mountain lion; the oceans white whale, Wake up! They're all brothers of our universe; all tell the same sad tale. Linda Rose February 14, 2006
Understanding the River by Kendall Campbell Prince Edward Island , Canada They must have tried to pass here, the rafts were soaked in red and the river was dying black. Along my way down the land conversed with my eyes. Both the crushing sounds of skulls and the smells of atrocity had confirmed death long before sight had a chance. With all my senses exhausted I still had no idea as to why. Copyright, 2006, Kendall Campbell e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
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A Poet's Wish by H Stanbrough, Editor The Raintown Review Pittsboro, Indiana USA A poet's wish is not to be thought right, nor is it to condemn or prove a wrong, but to provide a constant, haunting light. When millions starve to death without a fight while governments grow fatter, waxing strong, a poet's wish is not to be thought right, and coming to the aid of wisdom's sight, his end is not to write iambic song, but to provide a constant, haunting light. When misery, a homeless child's birthright, is granted normalcy by moneyed strong, a poet's wish is not to be thought right, nor is his wish to overcome by might, or to incite the teeming, homeless throng, but to provide a constant, haunting light. When children wander streets alone at night in desperation, begging to belong, a poet's wish is not to be thought right, but to provide a constant, haunting light. Copyright, 2006, Harvey Stanbrough ***
Voices by Richard Amburgy Mt. Sterling, Kentucky Perfection is attainable in the still life with window dressing, and the wry smile of the mannequin. Staring in the eyes of imperfection is fashion, like a flowing gown of flesh and blood and the skin of sacrifice. Eating all the sensibility, when tangled appendages slumber under the dark moon like goth in the gulag. The mannequin had no voice, only the tongues of resurrection bent over the nameless tomb where humanity rises like a million candles lit. The beauty of the mannequin lies between stark and nakedness and thousands of souls virgining the gauntlet of concentration. The mourning dove lands on the face of fashion, barbed wire stretched and stretched with the opiate of the thorn. Voiceless they lie under the quiet snow, carbon copies of genocide like mannequins tossed in a bottomless hole with no voice.. Copyright 2006 , Richard Amburgy
1944 by Judy Adams Chicago, IL USA The babe, she lay there quite alone - New mother stood half deaf and dumb, Wishing life were such that she could Reverse time - prevent what would come. Obsession had reigned, Enemies front and all around – This strange woman in a strange land; Now groveled on the ground. The man prevented nurturing - In fear she fell away Horrified that this was how it was - New life would end that day. And there, the child, colder still, Lay bottom right upon the sill – A mother's soul had lost its will. Copyright, 2006 by Judy Adams email@example.com
Snow by C. Darcy Trie Las Vegas, NV USA winter came early this year, with mother trembling, father missing, and six little candles i will never blow grab a blanket, grab a coat, grab a brother and smash the bolt now hush now, no noise, see jonah, we’ll be little white rabbits going down the hole and yes we’ll play with rats their red eyes will be our sun their teeth our moon and come one day we’ll dance on the streets instead of under but until then all we have are yellow stars and the price we pay to wear them jonah nods his three-year-old eyes gulped into a face of eighty and clings and dreams of stomping feet of cloistered madness of shovels and pits and ovens not used to warm toes so finally he sleeps and then comes the snow the same snow seasons later that welcomes us back with a broken kaddish and moses the shoemaker points to each gray flake and says look there is your grandfather there is your grandmother there is your friend there is your neighbor wave child wave before they fly away and within the darkness they say i was too young they say this too shall pass they say i will forget wait child wait god will come to you but the snow remains gray grayer than my eyes and hair gray as the graves and ash & i am still waiting Copyright 2005, Darcy e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
The Spider Men * by Phattkat (Bob ....) Somers Point , New Jersey USA Occupation -Special Educator God was fast asleep that day and did not hear them moan They took Mama and my Sister God did not hear them groan Papa tried to stop them "please don`t do this" Papa said So they dragged him to the street and shot Papa in the head The Spider Men are coming coming in the night The Spider Men are coming devouring the light The whistle of the train still echoes in my brain They took Mama and my Sister now none of us remain My neighborhood is empty now no laughter anymore The Spider Men are coming kicking down your door The camp was cold and crowded acrid smoke was everywhere The Spider Men were laughing no one seemed to care They marched us to the showers told us not to be afraid The Spider Men are coming to lead us to our graves I still can hear the crying the praying and the screams They took Mama and my Sister I can see them in my dreams The Spider Men are coming coming in the night The Spider Men are c oming devouring the light ©2005 by phattkat * Authors note: Many of the victims of the Nazi regime, especially the children, said the Swastikas on the arm bands and uniforms worn by SS officers and Concentration Camp guards, reminded them of a big black spiders.
masuku: in the belly of the vale by Robert Sadle r need’s strong desire craves its cure’s food pain’s discomfort, weakness serves its lack on its empty edge famished bellies forget the unquenchable appetite of death is death in Swahili-land they murmur masuku, evil wind as Virunda’s volcanoes vented vapors attack hunger voicelessly sings its last-breath’s etude above the vales where carbon monoxides hide Virunda’s easy pickings, a carrion table’s set kill-smells rise to fill the urgent belly of hunger below a breath or two¾twilight’s sleeping blanket deals death for all, unless dumb-luck’s on your side bellies survive sans food, but not lungs without air each bite each non-breath understanding’s skewed hunger is forgotten but now there is no way back air always a given, was but a necessity in the end nothing in life, we discover, is as esurient as death it is permanence, not a misadventure on the mend better empty bellies than lungs empty of their food fresh winds mean life and the masuku means death ©rjs 1/26/00 RJS Poetic License #4121964 Volume 6, Chapter 7, Fatales Rimas, © Robert j Sadler 7.20.06
The Children Of My Mother Africa by Kingsley Keke Scraggy children all over the land, each with an outstretched plate held firmly with sore infested hands; feasted ferociously upon, by hungry flies. These pallied children, whose ribs reveal hidden horrors, horrors burdened by years of servitude servitude to penury and pestilence! These fevered frames, brimming with life so dear, spreading its arms in the sun's warm embrace like the tropic bougainvillea but now, a frustrated corpse death denied, for want of grave space! Are these the children of my mother, Africa? trapped in Artemis cave for nine moons learning survival in Mama's womb who broke forth, clothed in Mama's blood in pains, Mama wept for joy such as the manner of mortals for a child is born! But what has happened to your children, Africa? where is the promise of a sweet tomorrow? where lies our hope? Kingsley keke , Lagos,Nigeria 23401 email: email@example.com Mobile n0: +234-803-359-5374
Price of Innocence by Sandi Alford-Valkman ~Innocence~ Where is daddy? Where is brother? I miss them so I have to wonder- but being a child of only five has left my bonnet a bee-hive… ~Ponders~ Thoughts fly around inside my head. I’m told, “Don’t worry, go to bed.” But sleep’s elusive as can be- I know for naught my destiny… ~Until~ Awakened on a bomb filled night, my mother screamed in utter fright! Exploding plaster took our lives and dust now coats my vacant eyes… ~Awakening~ So now I look down on the sight from high above in ethereal light- a village crumbled, streaked in red, with innocent victims lying dead… ~To truths~ Distance calls me; it’s time to go. But before I do, you have to know- I’ve witnessed more than eyes should see from each new dose of atrocity… ~What price do YOU deem too high? ~ Sandi Alford-Valkman South Holland, The Netherlands email: firstname.lastname@example.org
We All Bleed by Kendal Palmer Columbia, S.C., USA inside the interminable pursuit of love and happiness lives a homogenized plan of grand illusion like dripping watercolors after a rain life's canvas is painted with inherited esoteric verity no pain, no gain don't ask, don't tell let go and let God to Africa and back we all bleed from social consciousness wearing our little color coded bracelets inscribed with WHAT WOULD JESUS DO... or WE ALL HAVE AIDS IF ONE OF US DOES... all the while continuing to walk around with eyes wide shut keeping our dirty little secrets hidden within this realization is compounded by the fear of believing in nothing as we embrace some outside entity masquerading as the ultimate truth in the practice of deception it's the occupation of confusion which alters our perception creating blessed delusion glory, glory hallelujah
THE END OF THE MATTER … by NWANOSIKE EZEKWESIRI MICHAEL A soul alone makes the difference To lift the halo of a prolonged sentence It could be anyone at random A trace of terror, the scariest phantom To be the one…know not the meaning of the word AFRAID To wage war for the universally needed aid The difference S meaning syndrome Boldly enough, the debt has been paid For the future, era of freedom For bravery a great monument If a cure could be found by inference It is when much needed aid is given to those bound… By the chains of the pain-inflicting AIDS Till then, no better cure for the disease Than the drug being methods as these Viva love; viva cure It takes you and me to lead a generation alive, clean, and pure. NAME:NWANOSIKE EZEKWESIRI MICHAEL CITY:ABUJA COUNTRY:NIGERIA PHONE NUMBER:+234703-9062297.... E-MAIL:PLUTONICCITIZEN@YAHOO.COM
Price of Innocence by Sandi Alford ~Innocence~ Where is daddy? Where is brother? I miss them so I have to wonder- but being a child of only five has left my bonnet a bee-hive… ~Ponders~ Thoughts fly around inside my head. I’m told, “Don’t worry, go to bed.” But sleep’s elusive as can be- I know for naught my destiny… ~Until~ Awakened on a bomb filled night, my mother screamed in utter fright! Exploding plaster took our lives and dust now coats my vacant eyes… ~Awakening~ So now I look down on the sight from high above in ethereal light- a village crumbled, streaked in red, with innocent victims lying dead… ~To truths~ Distance calls me; it’s time to go. But before I do, you have to know- I’ve witnessed more than eyes should see from each new dose of atrocity… ~What price do you deem too high? ~ ©Sandi Alford-Valkman 2006
South Holland, the Netherlands
A Nation Born Of Need by Laura Lamarca Penetrate thoughts in minds untaught within the circumference of penury's grip in penniless places insufficiency traces, destitution delves and dips. Equivocal echoes etched in fear furrowed on frightened faces to lend a hand and understand crimes committed through lost ages. Compassion crows as passion grows and erudition erupts to flow and longing breathes to feed lost thousands in a nation born of need. Stand up, be counted... lend one voice to reach out to mankind, humanity suffers so we must teach of choice and life refined- combine compassion in equal hearts hold hands with your fellow man. by Laura Lamarca email@example.com
Charred Paradox by Ryan Wicks Switched back will be soon cauterized
rinsing sins with sinks of flame.
A martyr for believing in
The wire bought from civilized men
contrasts the sacred kindling.
A spice of bird pepper on clavicle
to singe the nostril of Elegua.
And a prayer that the village
does not come under fire
from Sudan. by Ryan Wicks firstname.lastname@example.org