Poetry Page 3
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:  crowned.compassion@gmail.com

Main Page
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


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


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 ..


love and tolerance will become our standard banner and freedom bell..

Copyright 2005
Antipodi (Stuart Chugg)

Sign InView Entries
      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
             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
Tom Berman
Editor in Chief
Israel Voices Anthology
Kibbutz Amiad,
Galil Elyon 12 335
e-mail:berman@amiad.org. il
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
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
                           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
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.


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

         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, 2005Michael Brownstein
                               POB 268805
                               Chicago, IL 60626-8805

             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
               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 MISCELLANYIndia

PHONE: 00-91-33-2359-2788

NEW DELHI 110011

Defining Moments
     By Nordette Adams
               New JerseyUSA 

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

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
                         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:

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

Phone: 320-308-5642
Email: sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu
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 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.
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 IslandCanada

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:   campbellkendall@hotmail.com
..Click here to add text.
A Poet's Wish

                               by H Stanbrough, Editor
                                     The Raintown Review
                                     Pittsboro, Indiana
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
          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 2006Richard Amburgy

              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



                          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:    shellas13@yahoo.com
The Spider Men   *
              by Phattkat  (Bob ....)
                    Somers Point , New Jersey
                                 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 coming
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 Sadler      

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: dammy2k2@yahoo.com
Mobile n0: +234-803-359-5374
Price of Innocence 
       by Sandi Alford-Valkman


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…


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…


Awakened on a bomb filled night,
my mother screamed in utter fright!
Exploding plaster took our lives
and dust now coats my vacant eyes…


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: sandi_alford@hotmail.com
      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




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


…                     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.

PHONE NUMBER:+234703-9062297....

Price of Innocence
                        by Sandi Alford


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…


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…


Awakened on a bomb filled night,
my mother screamed in utter fright!
Exploding plaster took our lives
and dust now coats my vacant eyes…


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
of penury's grip
in penniless places
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


Charred Paradox
    by Ryan Wicks

Switched back will be soon cauterized

rinsing sins with sinks of flame.

A martyr for believing in

self-inflicted martyrdom.

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