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216 Responses to POETRY WALL

  1. Dan Brady says:

    I want some good news people
    No, not that “born again”
    Bible humping bullpucky you’ve heard tell of … nope
    I want good news … and not just for a minute here or there
    Like you get during a KPFA fundraiser
    Not what you get on Faux News during a slow day
    No, by God I want the real deal
    I want a whole workweek stuffed full of it
    With each book-ending weekend fit to bursting
    I want to know what it’s like turn on the TV and feeeeel good
    I wanna feeeeeel good very time I think about … anything I can think of
    I want to be double dipped, full up, schmeared, with good news
    I tell you I want to look at the sky
    And not think about “chem-trail” conspiracies
    I want to feel the wind in my hair
    Without wondering what kind of toxic crap is being carried along in it
    From the sewers of India, China’s deserts or Japan’s nukes
    I want to wake up, turn on NPR and hear about wonderful things
    Expanding forests, glaciers coming back along with fish populations
    Safe cell phones that pay YOU to use them
    Free food being given out, rent reductions running rampant
    I want to hear Obama talk
    About giving back trillions of dollars to the people
    Closing Guantanamo, giving up on nuclear power
    Bringing troops home from Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, Bahrain, Oman Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey, Iran, Kazakhstan, Balochistan,Turkmenistan, Nepal, Venezuela, Columbia, Mexico and the other 123
    I want to hear him go on about perp walking Bush
    And his whole suffering asshole crew
    Placing a stay on every act that rim jobbing bunghumper ever made
    That prisons are being shuttered
    Because millions of people have decided to care of each other
    That godless heathen multi-nationals are hiring shit loads of people
    Because they’re bringing rock solid, plan your retirement on them
    God blessed union jobs back the good old US of A and by the millions
    I want to hear about green houses, green cars, green factories,
    Green make up, green jobs and a greening self-sustaining world

    I want to hear about how every person entering the job market
    Says the same ding-dong thing,
    “Gee, I don’t know which of all these jobs I want?”
    AND “Say, why don’t all you companies take a number for crissakes!”
    And, mind you, I want the good news to go on every frickin’day
    I want to hear how millions are giving up smoking
    Taking up Pilates, volunteering for charity work
    That everyone has two chickens in every pot
    A good, well-built, American car in every garage
    And by that I mean one that gets 500 miles per fuel up
    Takes a 50 mile an hour crash with no damage
    Or injury to its passengers
    Lasts as long as you frickin’ want to keep it
    And gets free tune-ups, brake jobs and tires while you own it
    I want to hear about scenic passenger trains making a come back
    How scientists are being listened to … Hello!!!
    Got global warming on the run
    Replaced oil, nuclear power and natural gas
    Found a way to prevent alcoholism
    Using the cure for cancer that we already have
    And have begun to terra-form the Earth for god sakes

    I want to hear day after day of good news
    So that by the time the fourth day dawns
    I’ll have some idea of what life is like in a world that makes sense
    So that I’ll be looking forward to the next damned day
    So that I’ll be glad to wake up
    Donate to good causes, of which there’ll be thousands
    And every one of them will be doing very well thank you very much

    I want all the guns in the world to be turned in
    Broken up and melted down to make … anything else!
    I want to hear that every soldier, intel wonk, officer
    Commando or insurgent
    Has renounced violence and are getting busy …
    Building shelters, planting trees, cleaning beaches
    Counseling hopeless, caring for the needy
    Handing out bread, bringing in water
    Giving emergency care to the destitute
    Rescuing cats from trees and kissing babies

    I wanna see them all get busy
    Fixing every leaky toilet, broken window, noisy refrigerator
    And every god blessed pothole in the known universe
    That they are working with farmers to grow more food
    Unlocking potential, opening floodgates
    Applying bandages, splints and helping, helping helping!

    I want to hear about bastard banksters making micro loans and giving grants
    That defense departments have been shut down!
    That research and development funding
    Is going to making better computers
    Cars, planes, trains, tractors, shoes, lights, batteries, houses, cities, colleges, schools, basketball and food courts!

    I want to hear about better understanding
    Between religions, races, politicians, historical enemies
    I want to hear about borders being erased, hatreds evaporating
    Ignorance giving way … reason running rampant
    And every form of love being accepted by everyone everywhere!

    By god, I want a week of such good news
    As people have never ever, ever, EVER had
    So when I go outside
    And get my free cup of fair trade, organic, sustainable coffee
    And an organic “everything” bagel with a wild caught salmon schmear
    Everyone will be walking about more than a bit dazed
    More than a bit confused
    But each and every one will be happy, happy, happy!

    Brothers and sisters, but I yearn, dream and pray for such a week
    I say I want a week of good news
    A flood, an ocean, a sky full of wonders
    So that every memory of this time; this horrific, festering butt hole
    This stupid-assed, jack shit, fucked up universally acclaimed
    And God awful world of unholy, rank, festering, pustulant oozing scabs
    Is gone. I say I want a week of good news, my friends
    I say, I want a week of such good news
    That glory unbounded I know, I say, I just know, we all want to see!

  2. Kurma Murrain says:

    by Kurma Murrain

    Your snowflake smile falls upon my forehead
    By staring at your plum lips I become thirsty
    I didn’t realize how much time I’ve wasted
    The hair, the makeup, the dresses
    I do not need you to reaffirm my beauty or my awesomeness
    Especially when you seem so oblivious to all earthly desires
    You talk to my spirit when my red woman soul is screaming
    When you touch my shoulder my skin gets excited in all the wrong places

    I know you love me…
    Otherwise why would you drive 2 hours to find me, say “hello” almost fainting then drive back again?
    You love me because you think I am “fantástica”
    Most importantly, I know you love me because you like my wacky friends

    Linguists should know by now that “passion” is a verb
    I passion your hair between my fingers while they are kissed by the sun
    Your laughter is music that I passion tightly between my lungs
    I’m homebound by social standards in addition to manners
    This summer when my heart is a lady bug
    You are a child hovering with a glass magnifier.

    for Saul Landau

    I see through the open window, the trees are trying to avoid the gray sky.
    To their embarrassment, there’s no getting away from it.

    Those trees are in it until dark when everything will relax.
    Until then, they must whisper to each other
    as conspirators will do from separate phone booths.

    My friend weeps at night. It is the way he relaxes in the dark—crying over the lost revolutions and the lost soldiers and the lost farmers and the lost families.

    My friend has declared an allegiance to humanity that upsets the governments—present and past. He is apt to vomit at hearing too much foolishness.

    His anger is hypnotic, but he waits for dark to weep. Who has been dragged off to prison, he wonders; who has been beaten until dead; how many junkies can dance on the head of a needle?

    He knows that everything built in the desert soon becomes sand—another reason he weeps.

    Blessed are those who give away kind words. Blessed are those who do not take academia seriously.

    Blessed are those who know that Hitler and Nixon and Al Fatah live in the bathrooms of their neighbors’ houses (and they still hold back their tears until dark).

    Cry for the CIA,
    cry for the prisoners,
    cry for the DEA and the police—secret and public,
    cry for the gang lords and children of the gang lords,
    cry for Korea and Vietnam and Iraq and Palestine and Chile.
    Cry because Castro is getting old,
    because buying has replaced learning,
    because the last drink and the bar’s closing is so fucking final.

    Blessed are you, friend, writing letters to those who have forgotten how to read, pleading for Nirvana to find the young and for Transcendence to embrace the old.

    In a dream, I saw you slog through Chiapas to get to Xbalba, then returned and wept.

    The sky is gray and tired. It recognizes you, understands that, whether it offers ink or water, you will swallow the world.


    Glossary of Names
    Shakpana-Destructive God of Dahomey (Duh-how-may) Mythology
    Abbadon—Hebrew Archangel of Armageddon
    Nenaunir—African God of Storms
    Shigidi—A Yoruba deified nightmare

    A black wind desaturates our once-
    colorful land. Now our homeland quakes
    in gray and white images.
    Soldiers again,
    missiles again.
    Black blood flows over our sickened land.
    You can hear the rush and tink of it
    in your ears. See it at the back of your eyes.

    President Shakpana—Pox Bringer –
    give us back our children!
    Secretary of Defense Abbadon—Angel of Hell,–
    give us back our husbands and lovers and wives!
    Secretary of State Nanaunir—Rainbow Snake—
    give us back our mouths to say against you!
    Attorney General Of Justice, Shigidi—God of Hate,
    master Torturer—
    give us back our animal radiance.

    A black wind whips our skirts, hair, scarves, trees.
    We parody smiling at you from
    our noir deserts. We don’t have the courage
    to be unruly.
    How can we overcome
    what we are not permitted to see?

    Touch me, hear me, world on fire,
    world drowning, world with windows closed.
    Turn up the damn radio and send
    this out—this fucking rage, this fucking
    lack of respect, this fucking—our just fucking.

    Eshu, do not undo me,
    Do not falsify the words of my mouth
    Do not misguide the movements of my feet.
    You who translate yesterday’s words
    Into novel utterances,
    Do not undo me.*

    A black wind desaturates our once-
    colorful land. Now our homeland quakes
    in gray and white images. How to valorize this…
    Now we are all third world—everyone born common
    is third world—and this spiritual blackmail
    Makes it late afternoon no matter what time
    Of day it is.

    * a Yoruba prayer

  5. On poetry.

    Poetry is the purest form of art.
    Poetry alone gives the beholder an ability
    To find the exactness of a place
    In the artist’s heart.

  6. David Madgalene says:

    David Madgalene

    Academy of the Undead

    You who raise yourself up as professor
    You who proclaim yourself harbinger
    You who cast out the messenger
    Your victim assumes the role of perpetrator
    Joins you now to feast upon the blood
    Of our next generation…
    You who have taught him so well.
    There’s not a one among us who
    Can afford your fees, teacher.

    You who preach nonviolence
    (Making allowance for women and children)
    You who sought to emasculate the God
    And claim for yourself the Goddess
    Inviting us to serve as Chorus
    As you mock your own irreverence
    Your own irrelevance.

    You who sold Euterpe into bondage
    You who pontificate before no audience
    Save yourselves and your minions
    You who ignore the fire, the flood,
    The earthquake, the plague, the war…
    Since nothing exists and therefore
    Nothing matters except for your own
    Solipistic narcissisms, or so you say,
    You skeletal clown!

    Your reformers are corrupted!
    Your champions mercenary!
    Your avant-garde now cowers
    In the benighted rear of graveyards
    Run amok with grave robbers
    And body snatchers!

    Jackals and vultures are your legacy
    Amid your desolated ruins haunted
    By the scandal of your humiliation
    Having fed upon your own heart
    In your all-devouring rapacity,
    You self-immolating Vandal!

    You who have forsaken hope
    Of renaissance having
    Sucked your acolytes dry,
    Leaving us bloodless to
    Proclaim your bloodless creed.

    You who desecrated Apollo
    In the name of Pan
    And desecrate Pan
    In the name of Orpheus
    And desecrate Orpheus
    In the name of the Muses
    And desecrate the Muses
    In the name of Sappho…

    You who thought you’d control
    The coterie
    You who debase your effendis
    Into a menagerie
    Your triumph is a theft
    You who were never more than pretenders
    You who drink from a poisoned well
    And feast upon carrion and offal
    Like the scavengers who you are.

    Our gods and demigods are dead
    For you have killed them
    And yet in their absence
    You have erected nothing.

    You who dishonored your forefathers for blood money
    You who are hypocrites demanding tribute
    From your own descendents
    Despised by all save yourselves
    Our contempt is no badge of honor.

    You who have disinherited your children
    It is you who covet their spoil.
    You who gave preferment to your lapdogs
    And sinecures to your toadies
    As you die you who grasp
    For more fame, gold and glory
    You who spat upon your lineage
    With your diseased effluence
    Better oblivion for you
    than that you’d remain
    Remembered forevermore for your
    Indecorous and inglorious infamies!

    You who entombed your lovers alive
    As you sucked the living marrow from their bones
    You who closed your gates to the true bard
    Fearful less he tell your story.

  7. Poema de José de Jesús Martínez (Panamá)

    Tú no eres….

    Tú no eres lo más bello que hay en el mundo.
    Existe Grecia dentro del mismo género,
    pero tú le sigues de bien cerca.

    Cuando caminas, cuando fumas,
    tú no eres la que tienes el estilo más aristocrático del mundo.
    Existe el vuelo de las gaviotas que es aún más ligero,
    pero tú le sigues de bien cerca.

    Tú no eres la cosa más real que hay en el mundo
    aunque para mí seas su luz y casi su pretexto.
    Existe la cuchara del pobre, sus necesidades y sus botas,
    pero tú le sigues de bien cerca.

    Tú no eres la cosa que me ama menos en el mundo
    y que puede herirme, avergonzarme, humillarme.
    Voy a morir….Existe la muerte.
    Pero tú le sigues de bien cerca.


  8. Soneto de Julio Augusto Zachrisson (Panamá, 1930)

    Melancolía de un fauno

    Se presiente un anhelo de senos angustiosos,
    de labios agitados por una fiebre loca,
    y de las fondas salen los sones amorosos
    del sistro de una virgen que a la caricia invoca.

    Recorre la espesura con pasos temblorosos
    un sátiro doliente: el vino lo sofoca;
    y entre las linfas claras, dos flancos armoniosos
    disipan la tristeza que su mirada evoca.

    Deslízase la luna trepando por las lomas;
    y besa de los cerros que parecen palomas,
    los perfiles plateados cual fundidos en yeso;

    y el sátiro, caduco, se queda oyendo, mudo
    cómo la última nota de su instrumento rudo
    se apagó en el silencio como si fuera un beso.


  9. Soneto de Julio Augusto Zachrisson (Panamá, 1930)


    Atravesó la estancia triste y quedo,
    de su kimono entre los pliegues rojos,
    fingiendo con sus pies el dulce enredo
    de lirios que anduvieran entre abrojos.

    El verde claro de un farol de Yedo
    besaba con su luz llena de antojos
    las negras cuentas que entornaba el miedo
    entre la roja ojiva de sus ojos.

    Pasó cerca de mí, pálida y sola;
    besé con ansias su coturno viola
    para quedar entre misterio y sombra,

    porque los pasos de sus pies traviesos
    se fueron apagando como besos
    sobre las flores grises de la alfombra.


  10. Michael says:

    Our beautiful sister Awilda just slipped through the hole in the ozone. Our most heroic poet! RIP

    Your Name

    When I say your name,
    I want to say memory,
    I want to say tenderness,
    a smooth blanket in sleep time,
    tired eyes but always alert.

    When I pronounce your name I evoke
    coffee “recién colao” recently brewed,
    rice with green pigeons peas,
    savory vegetables in the stew,
    pork legs with chick peas,
    the cake married with the cold milk,
    the orange candies stuck in your teeth and gums,
    the movie that gave you nightmares and the usual insistence
    to sleep with you after.

    When I say your name,
    I smell Maja powder, pond cream, final touch softener, Avon perfume, Dove soap,
    I smell cilantro, cilantrillo, garlic, onion
    I smell “sofrito”.

    When I say your name I think in your black eyes almost blind,
    of your white hair without dye,
    of your wrinkles,
    of your big ears, of your falling butt,
    and your long eyebrows,
    of your legs full of varicose veins,
    in the time you used to say they were fat and beautiful legs,
    and I think of your tailored dresses
    made with the fabrics of la Tienda Paco,
    of your black shoes polished with griffin.

    I think about you,
    happy with a clear mind again,
    with organized memories,
    with your whispers to calm my tears,
    with the saying “what matter is that I love you”
    I think of you without insanity, curses, and bad words,
    in the time when we had innocence already,
    I think about you with eternal love,
    eternal like memories.

    I think about you as the most beautiful thing in my life.
    when I say tenderness, love, support, feelings, memories and bonds,
    I want to say grandmother,
    I want to say Mercedes.

    —- Awilda Ivette Castro Suarez

  11. Michael says:

    This is from Dee Allen
    San Francisco, CA


    Land improvement
    To selfish minds – – – –

    Introduction of the strange
    To the woodland expanse- – – –
    Profit in the short range

    Enter the longtrucks
    Enter the cranes
    Loggers activate saw
    Roaring throughout the terrain

    Ancient wood meets spinning steel
    Guided by human hands
    Stumps & brambles shall remain
    Of the green cathedral that stands

    Upon long-range

    To the wild that made us – – – –
    Behold, the greenhouse effect

    Sing a soft requiem
    To the disappearing forest
    Its replacement:
    A credit to “progress”

    Of wood & leaf
    Grounded timber
    In favor of concrete

    The land is fallow
    And then what?
    Whether trees return
    Isn’t so clear-cut

    Give or take another
    Hundreds of years
    Steady warming of the earth
    Confirms our darkest fears

    Upon long-range

    Unless we take to the wilderness
    And block the sawblades

    W. 5.17.09
    [for Steve Jacobson

  12. Dale Johnson says:

    Dale Johnson, Sept. 2011. troporg@racsa.co.cr
    Human evolution took a wrong turn.
    The Neanderthals are back!
    They call themselves Republicans,
    But they are Zombies,
    Risen from the grave of history
    Now chasing Homo Sapiens
    With their big sticks
    Clubbing every social advance of human kind,
    Torturing and killing non-white peoples in distant lands
    Jailing and deporting those considered aliens in their heartland.

    The Zombie Machos party with tea spiced with Texas bourbon,
    Cooled with Alaska ice and served by a stylish Haus Frau.
    Through their control of yellow journalism
    They force those with residues of tolerance and humanity
    To swallow the piss and bile of once defeated anachronisms.

    The Zombies, bankrolled by their friends in corporate board rooms
    Prepare to remove the Nation´s heart
    And replace it with a Made-in-China machine.
    They coerce and blackmail the reasonable yet complaint politicians
    To appoint the plutocrats and murderous Generals to controlling government bureaucracies
    And to follow their dictates to roll back social progress.
    The bankers succeed in reversing the American Dream,
    Immiserating the masses.
    Big Money inspires economic suicide
    While Fox News glorifies the perverse
    And CNN presents Big Lies as balanced journalism,
    Most all the media offering Pentagon programmed militarism
    To torture reason, degrade the noble, imprison the valiant
    And strain to devour what remains of civilization.

    The Zombies, their mental substance mummified,
    Have no human sensibility
    But yes one modern vice in gross excess, Greed.
    Greed requires obfuscation to dress it up,
    Inspires viciousness and requires forceful pursuit.
    Greed, obfuscation, and force infuse the mentality of the Rich and Powerful
    Everywhere the stirrings of the Many frighten the Few
    Everywhere the social gains of people´s struggles are vulnerable.
    The social pathologies fostered
    Infect the consciousness of the petty-privileged–
    The tea toasters partying the death of decency,
    The white-skinned Machos reviving the vileness of racism,
    The Homophiles bashing gays,
    The Xenophobic waving flags, spreading fear, spouting hate and torturing victims,
    Those so morally confused that they believe that a fertilized egg is sacred life
    But celebrate killing a million people in Holy Oil Wars,
    Those who thump the Bible and make doublethink of the term Christian.

    The germ of these social pathologies?
    The substance of work and life that the Few appropriate from the Many
    And yields the power that corrupts absolutely.
    Exploitation denies justice, buys social privilege, incites reaction, requires oppression
    And eventually impels rebellion.
    The pathologies are embedded in a panoply of institutional forms that facilitate thievery,
    Oppress and suppress the victims.
    With televised lies, printed distortions, and subliminal messages of the culture of domination
    The social pathologies feed on subverted consciousness and obliterated humanity.

    We are witnessing the death agony of a system that has lived out its time.
    The Neanderthal Zombies espousing the latest fashions of fascism need be buried
    In the grave of history to be mummified for eternity.
    Not by driving a golden stake through their cold hearts,
    Violence is their way not ours,
    But by reasoned decency, the reclaiming of the notions of the common good,
    Social justice and human progress,
    Taking energetically and massively to the streets that lead to a better world.

    Actung Herr Comander-in-Chief Georg Werner von Bush
    You are going up for War Crimes.
    Pentagon Brass pursuing empire with deadly force,
    Contractors manufacturing instruments of death,
    CIA chiefs rendering torture,
    Lawyers subverting the rule of law—
    Zombies all, guilty of Crimes against Humanity.

    Listen up plutocrats the flood of bailouts and bonuses will drown you.

    Hear this Hypocrite-in-Chief Obama
    The age of false promise and dirty deeds are numbered.
    We don’t want politicians who prostrate themselves
    Toward the Mecca of Wall Street,
    Pray to the Idols of War,
    And coddle aid and abet the Zombies.

  13. Dankness says:

    The Earth and the Sand
    the wind and the trees
    the beings that be
    the things we can’t see

    are all connected
    through you and through me
    by inner love and harmony

    you must first close your eyes
    and then you can see
    the forces of loves energy
    open up. awareness. listen. be

  14. Teresa says:

    ~ Please take a few minutes and read ~Tashi Delek!
    The Chinese government has s…entenced Tashi Rabten to a 4-year prison term, following a closed-door trial. His crime? Writing poetry and being the editor of a literary magazine known as “Shar Dungri” (Eastern Snow Mountain). Below are some poems by Tashi Rabten (pen name: Theurang) published in his book “Written in Blood,” translated from the Tibetan by Bhuchung D. Sonam.

    1: My Tibet

    Is it you, the flame that burns in the middle of a storm?
    Is it you, the boat that rocks in the sea?
    Is it also you, who offers the torch of life in the darkness of night?

    Is it you, where there is no freedom?
    Is it also you, who is chained and shackled?
    Is it you, who writes history in blood?

    Are you a warrior?
    Where are your battlefield and the weapons?
    Are you a prisoner?
    What crimes have you committed?

    Is it your sky that the sun shies away from?
    Is it your vow to let yourself be silent?
    Are these your border guards, the long guns surrounding you?

    Freedom is different from restrictions
    Because of which you move,
    Because of which they tie and bind you, isn’t it?

    Isn’t it you who is being murdered?
    Isn’t it you who is being arrested?
    Isn’t it you who is being tortured?
    Why is it that you still want to move?
    Do you want to move amidst shadows of guns?


    Isn’t it you who can never be cowed down?
    Isn’t it you who fiercely burns with passion?
    Isn’t it you who marches ahead into history?

    Don’t you need to move even more?
    Don’t you need to move till the time runs out and the life ends?

    2: Lhasa-Gormo Railway

    This is a road
    A recently-completed road
    A road that is well traveled
    A road of rock mixed with steel, men with demons
    A road connecting Beijing and Lhasa

    Holy Lhasa is at one end of the road having old dreams
    At the other end is Beijing, reading an incomplete plan of action
    Between Lhasa and Beijing, this road
    Runs like a tongue of a poisonous snake

    On this road
    The life-soul of Lhasa and its wealth
    Is being transported, day and night
    Nearby this road
    Are terrified wild animals of Tibet
    Running, running, dying, dying

    This road, like the butcher’s knife,
    Drills through the hearts of the mountains
    This road, like an axe in the robber’s hand,
    Cuts across the chest of Tibet’s grassland

    On this road they come, the guests with greedy minds
    On this road they run away with the hosts’ wealth
    At the end of this road are the satisfied faces of the bosses in Beijing
    At the other end are dusty faces of the people of Lhasa

    In the night this road kills my quiet dreams and my sleep
    In the daytime it murders my thoughts and drives me restless
    Every so often this road boils my heart with anger

    Suddenly I Remembered Lhasa

    The sound and the vibration of the train
    Suddenly shakes the computer
    And the fingers do not have control over the words

    At such times I suddenly, suddenly
    At the end of the railway track
    With a moving train
    I remember Lhasa
    The statues and butter lamps of Tsuglakhang
    The golden roofs of the Potala Palace
    Even the faces of the old women on the road
    Flashes like the computer facing me
    Anyone remembers them
    With sounds of trains coming and going

    Ah how remembering Lhasa suddenly
    Is like remembering to get up
    And shout out in freedom.

    3: A Secret Petition to the Government Penned in a Computer

    One dead body, ten dead bodies, one hundred dead bodies, one thousand dead bodies
    One news, ten news, one hundred news, one thousand news
    truth – 0, false – 9, truth – 20, false – 900
    Red hands that take out the innards
    If you are not on our side punish us
    Black boots that crush heads
    If you don’t understand then just imprison

    freedom, harmony, equality, democracy
    open the door, open the constitution and look inside
    freedom? harmony? equality? democracy?

    My government, if you suspect that your faces will burn with brightness
    Accuse me of everything and punish me
    Because I am your citizen,
    Like a bird that flocks to the cliffs
    I am a loyal citizen who will say ‘yes’ to everything you say.

    4: Monologue In Hell

    Today, if the radiant hands scratch the face of darkness
    Tomorrow, will the world of dawn lift from amidst the darkness

    If a few ready-to-gallop horses
    Went missing along with their saddles and reins
    Is there any horse owner who is ready to point at the thief?

    If a well-planned wolf jumps onto the shepherd’s dog
    The unarmed shepherd, of course, can loudly shout out everywhere

    Don’t lie when the ears are listening to the truth
    When the able eyes are watching do not create disharmony
    The people are watching you, even the natural world is sighing at you

    Even though I do not own the five physical senses
    And the five meanings and six vessels are stolen
    I permanently own the five pure visions of the senses

    Long live freedom, long live nationality
    Long live truth, love live democracy
    Long live the blood that runs in my veins
    Long live! Long live!

    5: Prisoner in Hell

    Hell is a fortress made from iron and steel
    A doorless fortress of shackles and handcuffs

    Freedom-loving people are the prisoners of this fortress
    Or they are criminals seeing the darkness of the hell
    These people have fallen to the darkness of hell wanting to see freedom

    They are the ones who blew vapour from their mouths outside the door
    They are the ones who raised their fists up in the air

    However, according to the decree from the hell
    Each of them are considered criminals in prison shackled and handcuffed
    The crime they are accused of is ‘love for freedom’

    Mother says amongst the prisoners is
    A very young kid brother of mine
    The youngest prisoner in the world

    If the crime that this kid has committed is not made
    When he was piling stones to play with
    Then this kid is truly an innocent kid

    Freedom, equality, democracy, livelihood
    One prisoner, two prisoners, three prisoners, four prisoners

    Hell is really a hell
    Freedom, equality, democracy, livelihood
    Will there come a time when everyone will be free from the fortress of hell

    6: News from Hell

    Because of intense cold wind in hell
    Those in hell experience disturbance in the temperature
    Many in hell suffer from diseases

    Yet, the news from hell is always fine and good

    The news from hell is a newspaper
    A newspaper that has lost the word ‘democracy’
    A newspaper filled with secret numbers and —

    Under the volatile weather of the hell
    The hell’s news comes as a medical prescription to those who are suffering from cold
    Prescription that charges money but gives no medicine
    A prescription with stamp of approval from the authorities

    News from the hell is contagious
    That is transmitted through people’s mouths and ears
    Those who suffer from this disease are servants in the hell

    The hell is basically a sick person carrying his shit in his pants
    Isn’t the newspaper in hell that paper which one uses to wipe one’s bottom?

    RANGZEN BOY : Free all Tibetans political prisoners
    Demand China respects human rights and no more suffering in Tibet!!
    Free Tibet!!


    FELICIDADES PREMIO NOBEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    7 poemas de Tomas Tranströmer

    Durante los meses tristes, centelleó mi vida sólo cuando hice el amor contigo.
    Como la luciérnaga se enciende y se apaga, se enciende y se apaga- a medias puede uno seguir su camino
    en la noche oscura del olivar.
    Durante los meses tristes, estaba el alma desesperada y sin vida
    pero el cuerpo caminó directo hacia ti.
    El cielo de la noche rugió.
    Sigilosamente ordeñábamos cosmos y sobrevivimos.

    Cuando bajó a la calle tras la cita de amor
    Soplaba la nieve en el aire.
    El invierno había llegado
    Mientras hacían el amor.
    La noche brilló blanca.
    Él caminó rápido y alegre.
    Toda la ciudad inclinada.
    Transeúntes sonrientes-
    Todos reían tras los cuellos alzados.
    ¡¡Era libre!!
    Y todos los signos de interrogación cantaron la existencia de Dios
    Eso creía él.
    Una música estalló
    Y cruzó en la nieve arremolinada
    Con largos pasos.
    Todo en camino del tono C
    Un tembloroso compás dirigido a C.
    Una hora sobre las heridas.
    ¡Era fácil!
    Todos reían tras los cuellos alzados.

    Con regocijo, mdr

  16. Rainbow says:

    Two nestled lovers
    Hand in hand and cheek to cheek
    Texting other lovers

  17. Dennis Formento says:


  18. “Memories that Stain”

    Like Pontius Pilate
    washing his hands
    imagining himself innocent
    while a Jew hung nailed ruined
    we too wish to wash
    our hands and say
    we are not responsible.

    As you clean
    make sure you scrub well.
    Iraqi blood has
    left your knuckles stained.
    There is Afghan skin under
    your nails, a girl who
    was twelve – only twelve
    my god.
    A fragment of Palestinian
    skull has lodged itself in
    the tracks of your shoe.
    See there in your boot !
    fragments of his skull
    how you fell on him – remember ?
    in front of his young
    brother – remember how you crushed him.
    The dust of
    no one-thousand
    sheep-herders’ skulls has
    covered your knee.
    There are scars
    from 150 years ago
    that are festering
    and beginning to show.

    Clean well, really scrub.
    A thousand brutal memories
    have left a strange
    grit between your teeth.

    By Alexander Holmes-Brown

  19. Tsoltim N. Shakabpa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    This life, this life
    This changing life
    Taking us on a journey
    On the mercurial river of life
    Gently and pleasantly at times
    Lifting us to heavenly heights
    Roughly and irascibly at other times
    Smothering us in its waters
    Passing through lush green fields of joy and glory
    Ensnaring us in precipitous gorges of toil and trouble
    Churning out lustrous successes to celebrate
    And hurling fated failures to bemoan
    Twisting and turning
    The river dispenses healthy doses of euphoric feeling
    Which make us jump for joy
    Then injects painful fluids of sorry sickness
    Which ensconce us on beds of virulent thorns

    O what a life!
    This journey on the river of life
    That ineluctably ends in the ocean of death
    Which envelopes us in its depth and vastness
    And delivers us on the fertile shores of waiting wombs
    To be reborn once more to ride the waves of the capricious river

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  20. Krista Hofnagle says:

    we lobby for change
    yet we contribute little

    we despise achievement
    as we wallow in our own mediocrity

    what is offered to all
    we obliquely refuse

    and yet we anoint ourselves
    to be arbiters of truths

    our relevance is dwarfed
    by our insufferable egos

  21. Jeanine Petro says:

    slider, nana and magdeline…
    first I laughed. then I thought. then I related (somewhat). I needed the first (medicine). I am blessed by the second (thanks). I appreciate the third (corrections, ahhh.)

  22. Other poems you would like to see on your Web site, thank you from Adana okullari.

  23. “Love is the poetry of the senses.” ~ Honore de Balzac

  24. Kristin Sharp says:

    The Key: Peace, Love and Joy

    Across the glass
    Orange letters proclaim
    “Peace, Love and Joy”
    We are drawn into the restaurant
    Seated by a smiley pleasant man
    who brings us water and menus
    I tell him how much I enjoy seeing these words on his window
    I ask him which one he thinks comes first
    He answers
    “Peace of course—
    Because one has to become silent enough
    to recognize the feeling of Love
    then true Joy can be experienced”
    I had never thought in this way before
    He told me that he and hundreds
    thousand, millions, maybe even billions
    of others around the globe
    meet daily
    Meditating, praying and wishing for
    “Peace, Love and Joy”
    In hopes that the world
    Will find a new way
    Without war or hate
    Through this quiet look inward
    Finding compassion in their hearts
    Peace will come
    Love will reign
    Joy will be

  25. ON EMPATHY and how it can seed the world for Compassionate Action

    The crisis we are facing, we face as a species locked into the paradigm that civilization, in order to placate itself, must act through selfish means. We govern by selfishness. Business is selfish, corporations are selfish. The whole world operates as if the sole principle was in gaining more. While we are busy gaining, the world is crashing to a halt because it cannot sustain the brutal ravaging it experiences at the hands of over-populated humanity.

    I propose that we learn to function by embodying Empathy; that we govern through Empathy; that we measure all our affairs through how empathic we are being for all people and all life around us. Selfishness is traditionally on top and Empathy is trivialized, misunderstood and put last. This must be reversed. That is the Apocalypse in a nut shell. That is the crux of the choice. Empathy must be placed on top, and selfishness put last. As a species it is time to learn to govern for the greater good and not otherwise. Perhaps then humanity will arrive outside of its narcissistic terminal disease of violence and greed.

    Often people refer to the opposite of Selfishness as Generosity. Be that as it may, the true functional opposite is not being generous, except in the most general terms, it is being Empathic. When a person becomes empathic they can no longer act selfishly, because selfishness becomes abhorrent to them and is seen as a pathology, not as a practical behavior. Acting through empathy may become not merely a guideline for all future behavior; it may by necessity become the very foundation of a new form of civilization.

    It means we have to understand that selfish action is violence and that violence does not have to be our norm, and that it opposes living fruitfully. If someone says that we are violent by our very nature, it is because they exist within and are blinded by a four thousand year old preconception, in which this state of violence is perceived as normal, whereas it may not be normal for human beings in the long run. Violence emerges when people feel threatened due to scarcity, when they feel that others are taking from them, or not respecting their autonomy, or they are fooled into hating others because those others appear different even though they may not represent a true threat. Thus it becomes a psychological problem, and ends up in violence. Violence becomes more than a standard; it becomes a stranglehold, due to its brain chemistry of adrenalin rushes. In this way, reliance on angry, forceful paradigms is actually a chemical addiction.

    Masses addicted to the chemistry of anger have caused untold havoc to the Earth, to other human beings, and to the Planet, because part of the addiction to anger is lack of the ability to care in general. Caring in general means one must feel empathy, what others feel, and the pathology of violence obstructs this process.

    Which ever way it is viewed it is still a pretext, and that pretext must be discarded. I believe that when we can finally become, if not fully compassionate, but begin the rooting of our perception to Empathy we will gain understanding into how to be truly psychic, how to be in harmony with everything on Earth, how to reach out spiritually to others on Earth and in other worlds, and other realms — the so-called spiritual which the selfish paradigm also summarily dismisses.

    How can an ego-centric paradigm ever embrace something so foreign to itself as the idea of a universe which manifests itself in greater harmony and which operates through both spiritual and natural laws, of which empathy for all else is paramount?

    Empathy means that one embraces not only a friendly view toward all life and its suffering state, but to spiritual understanding which comes from the kind of spiritual contact as described in mediumship, shamanism, tribalism, the paranormal experiments since William James and the Societies for Psychic Investigation. The denial of this part of
    human history is part of the rigid paradigm of denial which pervades the culture of selfishness. It means embracing our fullness, instead of always inferring that we, as beings, are simply icing on the cake of physical bodies in the endless seas of random chemical interactions. It means that the shift in the way we view what we are comes to pass, and that new technologies extend from the inclusion of that awareness, once that awareness becomes our norm.

    If religion is rooted to anything, that anything would be Empathy. Christ’s, Buddha’s, Mohammed’s teachings can all be reduced down to that one thought, to feel what others feel so that you act in ways which do not bring pain upon them.
    This means embracing what is in another’s heart, body, mind and soul. That lesson precedes cosmic contact in real, nuts and bolts time. If and when it is forced upon us or achieved, it will not necessarily bring us into relationship with occupants of UFOs, but with our own spirits. If one imagines how a world of spirits governs itself, then we must find that in order to exist in finer and finer vibrations, we must govern by dint of our nature, and in the spiritual realms — that nature is empathic.

    All the psychic gifts are forms of Empathy. All the most heartfelt and enduring books of wisdom are so, because they are empathic, reaching into the core of each who reads them, and signaling there that sense of well-being and connection which are the earmarks of Compassion and Empathy. For us who must exist in a selfish world, we are made to feel like slaves to a paradigm which simply does not fit. We are not comfortable inside it, and like butterflies wishing to escape the cocoon which confines them, we sense that our escape is immanent. If we discover that death is such an escape, not into oblivion, but into unobstructed beauty, then we can die knowing an adventure awaits, and that in doing so, we will come into a world governed by Empathy and Compassion.

    If we die into a realm, adamantly asserting that it will be the same as this, with every spirit for themselves, and the rule of causing pain to continue, then that delusional state won’t be anyone’s achievement, but the foolish extension of the world of the violent and the selfish.

    So I will remain among those who envision a world of greater harmony and Empathy than on Earth — and that will be my heaven, nothing less. No one can say what the world of UFOs is really like, but we can say what the world of Spirits is like, because we can empathize with them and know their hearts. Their hearts are our hearts.

    This to me is the central issue symbolized by the rude awakening or destruction of humanity at its own hands. Either we continue for a short while longer on the path of violence and greed and selfish action toward ourselves and life in general, and most likely perish, or we embrace something different.

    Since there is only one thing which is the other side of greed, that is the answer we are looking for: Empathy. That is what is needed to guide us back to our own hearts, to open them up and keep them open, so that we can reinvent our civilization based on it, and be connected to everything alive and everything which supports life on Earth.

    This dream of mine must come to pass. It has to be believed in as an edict of Spirit and ultimatum of Life. The truth of the matter is that it comes off as a pipe-dream. This is due to the nature of the corporate mentality of ruthless betrayal of everything but profit motive. Whether we are speaking of organized drug lords whose spirituality is basically Patrist, or governments that appear on their surface to be liberal, but who in fact impose a scenario upon its masses which benefits the few and denies the security which wealth could bring to the masses.

    We must believe in ourselves as a species which deserves the security of health, home, education and arriving outside of the four thousand plus years of angry, violent, power hungry government and religious thinking. In the name of God no violence and only understanding should be meted out. When it is not, then it is a false perception, which does not include the knowledge gained directly from spiritual sources, but only from the fattened and blinded ego of the power elite. The conflict of the right and left, the church and synagogue and Islam, the enslavement of women and children around the world, the extreme poverty of the multitudes which remains invisible, the brutal resource of endless weapons from ones held in the hand to those triggered from the comfort of computers and cushioned in safe havens of the military, and all such symptoms of the modern dilemma are not new. They are the same symptoms of a world which is so used to behaving in this way that it has succeeded in ruling out all other modes of behavior for itself.

    So where to begin? Begin with yourself, ourselves, myself, and the children. There we replace violence with problem solving skills. Simple child psychology. The tools exist but we need to teach ourselves to reach for them. On a societal level we may need to rebel, but keep in mind that violent rebellion always yields exactly the same society which the rebellion attempts to overthrow. Why? Because we have yet to fully examine the nature of our emotionality, and the real reason why the culture of violence has been allowed to exist for over four thousand years, and as if that is acceptable.

    It is said that to live life fully we must live in every moment. Be there intentionally in each waking moment. The more clever among us revel in their dreams, becoming lucid and exercising control while they sleep, transmuting their inner being to untangle the knots of binding neurosis, and old habits. We are complex and our waking minds, although it is the focus of our identity is not the total self. In some of the more profound spiritual philosophies we are told that we are One with the Universe. Indeed. But that is not the sense of self we experience daily in work, or as a human being through whatever the experience of life. What is happening, you say, is happening to me, not some Universal field of identity or connection with Life, or of the Planet.

    In the subconscious fabric of selves operating distinctly, such as in waking and in dreaming, we can see the plurality of being unfold. Yet the cultivation of a sense of universality seems superfluous. Who wishes to bother in a civilization composed almost entirely of exterior stimulation? From the moment we awake from sleep, to the moment we return to it, we are occupied, completely exteriorized into whatever it is we behold.

    In the rich countries that exteriorization takes place as endless object fascination. Among the helpless third and fourth world peoples that occupation is in the deep agony of suffering states brought about by the antithesis of the worlds of bounty. Our contentment, our fatness results in the destruction of those people who go without. Only an unfeeling fool would argue that their state of being is their choice. That is a rationalization so that no caring is justified in the conscious minds of the society of bounty. Call any effort to redress, to rebalance this horrific inequity Socialism, which is demonized to mean the new Communist threat — while the actual new Fascist threat, the only fascist threat, is ourselves, as we consume everything to keep ourselves selfishly placated. Why is it we don’t hang our heads in guilt and shame? Instead we find that the majority vote is pro-selfish and anti-humanity. However, the process of rationalization covers this in direct assertions as sleep covers the conscious mind.

    Our escapism is in supporting the troops, which is good. It shows the limitation of our caring. That it is nationalized, that we cannot reach any further than what the media shows us and instills in us. That is why we need Empathy, because empathy extends us beyond the parameters justified by media and the ego it is in service to. Empathy takes us beyond the shell of self into another’s heart. Empathy moves through us as a breath of connection to that which is outside of our bodies. Sympathy is contained within the self, as a reflection of sadness for another’s pain, but through Empathy we not only can walk a mile in another’s moccasins but feel what they feel.

    Telepathy is a step even further out into the unknown vagueness which empaths know. Here the hint of someone else’s thoughts can be clearly understood. You can receive their message and respond in kind. This is not something human beings have yet to achieve. Instead it is commonplace practice among many ancient cultures, aboriginal, Maori, tribes all over the world who know how to communicate in this way.

    Believe or deny, the fact is plain: telepathic communication happens; shit happens. Clairvoyance is yet another deepening aspect of Empathy. Instead of just hearing, one is also seeing, and perhaps, as in Clairsentience, feeling what others see and feel as well. The selfish cannot comprehend these possibilities which bring us closer to others, and also to all things. But this is the path we each inevitably take at death.

    There, in dying we feel, see and hear spiritually, and the weight of our suffering is either lifted as we move on, or that same weight grows heavy upon the soul to drag us down and pin us to the place of our self-created illusions. Those rooted to the physical cannot glimpse the fleeting nature of the soul’s journey. Those who would concretize this process of becoming spirits say it is not possible and therefore cannot be. Like Scrooge before the ghosts who come to aid his transformation, the Scrooges yell, “Bah! Humbug!” They refuse to acknowledge what has been told and retold throughout millennia, calling it old wives tales, urban legends, delusional thinking, a dream, a downright, blatant lie. But then, let them define Empathy and make it work for us all!

  26. Jeanine Petro says:

    Dear mother ocean:


    Apathetic questionnaire…
    To measure ya’?

    I think, I crossed over here…
    Present: beautiful feet.

    But umm, momma lives in a bottle…
    Lands: plastic repair.

    Well to do, straws demand cleanliness…
    They themselves deride.

    Tomorrow’s nigh…

  27. Vladimir Milenkovic says:


    Ink and paint

    Fused by desire –

    Sunlit tango of two.

    I sketched rainbows under your eyelashes

    You sprinkled my heart with verses.

    Kisses echoed the lake:

    Art is a vortex of desire

    swirling the Universe into nothingness.

  28. for Peace
    by Patricia Goodwin

    I do not believe in Peace
    unless we find it for a fleeting moment
    say, in the exit music of a film,
    when all drama breathes out

    in Mozart
    or in the fluttering eyelashes of a sleeping child
    even then
    I hear approaching scrape of boots and rhythmic jangle of weaponry

    I do not believe in Peace
    lest man decide to bow to worms
    as monks do and carry with awe-stretched palms
    the delicate life of a helpmate
    to another part of the garden

    I do not believe in Peace
    unless it be in the breath of a falling blossom petal
    so brief
    our hearts break to breathe the perfume of its dying

    God, I miss you.
    Yet, I see you everywhere.
    I see you.
    There! As I toggle the channels by pressing one button for
    Life! the white men in uniforms heavy with metal
    smile at the Committee of Committing Money to another button
    Death! where men who once stood proudly in uniform
    squirm helplessly brain damaged on the hospital floor

    I do not believe in Peace
    lest in be there! in the Senator’s doubtful eye!
    I saw her for a second! He does not believe the liars
    He is from Hawaii and he knows the Earth is alive!

    I do not believe in Peace
    lest it be in the peaceful heavenly blue of the Holy Mother’s robe
    symbolic of her mission on earth
    when, in disgust, she tore the sun from the sky and hurled it
    toward cowering reporters who are our greatest freedom everywhere

    I do not believe in Peace
    except in God given glimpses of God

    And, I do not believe in Hate
    because all Hate is really Love of something else.

  29. Lana Wiggins says:

    Revolution Cool Place

    “We are in the middle of a bloody, heartrending revolution”
    ~Diane Di Prima

    We are the bloody revolution
    Called America
    Called Beautiful
    Called Brave and free
    in the hands of no one
    who remembers an original concept
    of agrarian myth because
    agrarian myth is built on selfhood
    yeoman and rebels
    who just want to be left alone

    We are the bloody revolution
    Called America
    Called Wall Street
    Called Hollywood
    callomaniac carnivores we
    the people
    dine too often
    on someone else’s sweat
    and wear our lovers in the open
    for the sweet sacrifice of appearance
    and malcontent

    We are the bloody revolution
    Called America
    Called Dominant
    Called Evil
    mongers of war
    fully complacent in our brightest
    tanks and shelters
    beautiful youth and gas gear

  30. Michael Mathews says:


  31. Red Slider says:

    _they bring a knife, you bring a pen;
    they send one of yours to the hospital,
    you send six of yours to the New York Times._

    100 Thousand Poets for Change

    A shield for those who have the courage to take the risk,
    a crowbar for those put in cages, persecuted and tortured,
    a megaphone for those who have been silenced,
    a memory that will not forget, no matter how stealthy the lies,
    how remote the dungeon or how weak the muted voice
    speaking truth to power from behind thick walls.

    Who would dare to defile the sacrament of word?
    Try to silence one of us and a hundred will speak out.
    Try to Lock one of us up and a thousand keys appear.
    Murder one and 100 Thousand Poets will expose you
    in permanent ink, at open mic, on the stage of the world
    where we resurrect the souls of fallen comrades
    and lay tyranny bare on the open page for all to see.

    Make war, and we’ll be there. Refuse food or care to the sick or hungry,
    we’ll be there; exploit the poor or the vulnerable or the meek,
    we’ll be there. Try to silence the truth and you’ll never hear the end of it.
    We will prop open your ears and force you to listen while your lies
    confess of their own accord the crimes that swallow your tongue,
    unable to scream from within the pain of silence you created for yourself.
    No one will bother to listen to tyrants begging for their own death.

    – rs, september, 2011

  32. Michael says:

    (Founder of the Green Belt Movement and Nobel Peace Prize winner, 2004)

    Wangari Maathai
    slowly bent down
    And planted seven seedlings,
    In the dry Kenyan ground.
    They said, “Women can’t!”
    She said, “Anyone can!”
    She planted seven seedlings,
    So it began.

    Wangari Maathai
    started going round,
    Teaching girls and women
    To plant trees in the ground.
    “Who says women can’t?”
    She said. “Anyone can.”
    They planted seeds and seedlings
    In the dry Kenyan land.

    Village by village those seedlings grew,
    And the branches spread, and green leaves too.
    And there were more and more trees, more nuts and fruits,
    More soil in the shelter of more and more roots.
    And the water that would’ve run away stayed.
    And the tree frogs chattered, and the children played.
    While the trees stretched out their cool green shade
    From village to village in one decade.
    What a belt Wangari and her women made:,
    All across Kenya and then way beyond –
    All round the world people carried it on.

    Wangari Maathai,
    we’re down on our knees.
    The best way to thank you,
    Is planting more trees.
    Green belts of forest
    Across every land,
    If they say, “People can’t,”
    We’ll say, “People can!”

    Women of Kenya,
    You lift your gaze high
    To green leaves a waving,
    Way up in the sky.
    Young girls of Kenya,
    We sing praise to you.
    If they say, “People can’t,”
    We’ll say, “Look – People do!”

    —-Robert Priest

  33. Jessica says:

    So happy to have been part of this event. Seeing the involvement of the world makes this so much more real, and makes me feel that I really am a part of something larger than me, my city, my state, my “world”. I want to reach out to all of you and shake your hand.

    Poetry brothers and sisters.

    for change!

  34. Therese Pace says:


    From different ends we started
    to sail each other’s ocean
    on liners of emotion we hoped
    would meet but never crash
    somewhere in time’s mish-mash.

    Yet our sterns were struck, jolted
    dislodged from their foundations
    our moon in lacerations
    dispersed broken illusions
    in fragments of delusions.

    We roll our sleeves in earnest
    to pick the shards gone broken
    retrieve them as life’s token
    and fix them back with glue
    love’s shards of me and you.

    Therese Pace

  35. Don Kingfisher Campbell says:

    Poem I read at the 100 TPC World Poetry Festival during Susan Hayden’s segment:


    a ton of steel and glass and plastic and rubber
    on asphalt and concrete and metal road to reach
    a windowed and tabled restaurant to gorge on
    cow and pig and chicken and fish to fill belly and
    get in car again to arrive at mall steel and glass
    and rubber and stucco buildings of opportunity
    to try on and plastic card or paper bill purchase
    yards of cotton and polyester and rayon and
    spandex then plant ass on leather and vinyl
    once more to park wheels and chrome near a
    convenience store of plastic and chrome counters
    to buy a bunch of plastic and paper packages bags
    and bottles easily tossed in either receptacle or
    ground and subsequently re-enter a stucco and
    rubber and glass and steel building wherein clothes
    and food and electronics are stored in wood and on
    carpet made to outlast flesh and bone occupants

  36. red slider says:

    Chenae lives in Guernville, CA. a dear friend and good soul. She asked me to post this for her.

    Chenae Meneely
    Gone to an important wedding today, can’t make Big Bridge link work, poem entrusted to you:

    There will come a Brilliant
    Morning unannounced by shouting
    A deep dawn silence will precede
    We will reach in new knowing
    Mirror minds jumping
    Whales will sing
    Children will play unafraid
    Old ones will eat fruit carefully
    Sharing old stories

    It will come this justice
    We will birth it in
    Unison dream
    Myriad futures bright
    We birth as one

    Chenae 9-22-11

  37. Kristin Sharp says:

    Multi-Breed: Past, Present or Future
    (Realizing there was no box for multicultural persons on American Census)
    What if one day you look in the mirror
    and you are nothing like the person
    you have portrayed yourself to be in society?
    That you are
    A multi-breed of a human being with
    No country
    No ethnicity
    You embody a culmination of heritage from many different
    The lines of who you are now have blurred so
    A culture that no one can
    Because nothing like you has ever existed
    Oh, the people’s fear of mixing liquids is so great
    Although, many have fought to do so quietly in their
    Blending silken woven eggs in warm shells of womb
    Not Permitted
    Yet all of these creations passed down through
    The one that was believed to be damned for sins committed for not
    “staying with your own kind”
    If you look close enough in the mirror
    Look deeply into you own eye
    Around the pupil
    Into the various colors streaming from the
    seamless circular line that forms the globe
    You will see that you are
    Past sacrifices for love given in a single moment created

    • jeanine Petro says:

      My breath finally reached the depth it’s needed for months, maybe years…when I read this poem. The passion of purpose…freed from nuances, nuisances, and numbskulls, made room for me…the indignant, the lovely, the elite. The one who remembers tomorrow with the hope of yesterdays only partially known. (Blessed:)

  38. We are 100,000 poets
    Mahnaz badihian

    We are 100,000 poets
    The voice of millions of people
    That echo on the earth
    The voice of protest
    The voice for change
    We do not have atomic bombs
    We do not own billions of dollars
    We do not own oil and diamonds
    But we have words
    The most powerful weapon

    We are 100,000 poets
    The voice from Tehran, from Rome,
    From Iowa, San Francisco
    From Jaypor to Dublin
    From Pueblo to Kabul
    From Shanghai to Nairobi
    From small to big cities around the world
    Because the distance between us all is only a click of a mouse
    And a few lines of a text

    We are 100,000 poets who know well
    The devastation of hunger and war
    The disaster created by tyrants and dictators

    We are 100,000 poets
    We spread the wings of our voice towards
    The hopeless human beings in search of a voice
    We write poetry to talk of the shared misery of all people
    The hope we lost.

    Words are our weapon
    Our scream is our war for freedom.

    We are 100,000 poets
    Enchanting the bright future for all and celebrating hope and unity
    We are here to say goodbye to racism
    To poverty
    To hunger
    And to the loneliness of people every where
    And to the walls separating countries

    We are here to celebrate the unity of all the people
    Regardless of color
    Race and wealth,
    Through poetry

  39. Pingback: ScrollPost.com - John Lundberg: 100,000 Poets Rally for Change

  40. Las calles me son extrañas,
    tu voz no conozco, un sueño
    respira en tu luz, pequeño
    residuo de fuego, engañas
    al sol y a la luna, empañas
    mi espejo. Tu amor, mi quilla,
    Ardor de una pesadilla
    que busca en mí de tu tacto
    la culpa y un triste pacto,
    nadar y ahogarme en la orilla.

    El puente conduce al cielo,
    la nube perdona pronto,
    el agua que lleva al ponto
    se traga mi ser y celo.
    Detrás del celeste velo,
    junto a la olvidada silla
    encuentro tu voz, chiquilla,
    y es tan solo un sinsentido
    aferrarse a lo querido,
    nadar y ahogarme en la orilla.

    El cenicero depende
    de mi garganta reseca,
    una marca en la muñeca,
    la mordedura de un duende.
    Escupo al viento que enciende
    de la hoguera la rencilla
    y es tu lecho sin mancilla
    razón de mi desespero,
    talvez es que solo quiero
    nadar y ahogarme en la orilla.

    Eres ángel virginal,
    Tu, la inmaculada estrella
    que dejó sin ver la huella
    que traspasa el bien y el mal.
    Voy, ya llevo a tu quicial
    mi llanto y el cielo brilla
    mientras devoro la milla
    que sobra entre tu y yo,
    tu corazón repitió:
    nadar y ahogarme en la orilla.

    Tu silueta se encapsula
    en mi pupila agrisada,
    tu ríes y no hago nada
    mientras una sombra emula
    tu cuna, me voy, la gula
    me hace preso, mi rodilla
    tiembla tanto, maravilla
    que tu temple ha provocado,
    Tu, General, yo, soldado,
    nadar y ahogarme en la orilla.

    Mueca desabrida, errada
    de dolor detrás de un labio,
    Tu, cometa; yo, resabio
    de tu fuego; Tu, alborada;
    yo, el ocaso; Tu, la almohada;
    yo, la sinrazón sencilla
    que nos atrapa, nos pilla
    no puedo retroceder
    ¿Qué me queda por hacer?
    nadar y ahogarme en la orilla.

    by Hasan Aspahani

    stOne plus stOne times stOne minus stOne divided by stOne equals to how many are your amount sheep
    stOne plus stOne times stOne minus stOne divided by stOne equals to how many are your shepherd sheep
    stOne plus stOne times stOne minus stOne divided by stOne equals to how many years old are you sheep
    stOne plus stOne times stOne minus stOne divided by stOne equals to how many are your pastures sheep
    stOne plus stOne times stOne minus stOne divided by stOne equals to how many are your suns sheep
    stOne plus stOne times stOne minus stOne divided by stOne equals to how many are your cages sheep

    stOne plus stOne
    stOne times stOne
    stOne minus stOne
    stOne divided by stOne


    how man y

    how man y

    how man y

    (Translated by Gilda Sagrado)

  42. Location: Caracas, Venezuela.
    Plaza Altamira (Plaza Francia). Av. Francisco de Miranda, Municipio Chacao-

  43. Una nueva versión
    del Caballo de Troya
    con ligeras variaciones



    pistolas y municiones

    Muy sencillo

    muy antiguo

    muy hermoso

    muy mortífero

  44. saramoss says:

    on HOPE

    Hope is not a slogan.
    It is something small and fragile
    held in a child’s cupped hands.

    It is the `hope against hope’
    of the dying
    who wake each day
    to bathe in a weak sun,
    their bodies failing
    but their eyes still sharp
    as cut diamonds.

    It is not owned by one man,
    or one nation or one restless generation.
    It is never contained in a life, but held
    in a hundred thousand prayers or meditations:
    that the guns will soon be silenced
    and the hungry will be fed;
    that those with plenty
    stop their too much wanting
    and those with far too little
    finally have their share.

    Hope is not a large thing
    it is not an ism
    though every ism claims it as their own.

    It is the small thing waking
    the dying every day
    until their day is finally done.

    It is the fragile thing
    held in a child’s cupped hands

    Sara Moss
    for One Hundred Thousand Poets for Change.

  45. One more poem for the road. This originally appeared in Encore 2004: prize-winning poems of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, where it won their “Save Our Earth Award”:

    First Things First
    (by Elissa Malcohn)

    When water’s worth surpasses that of gold
    and breathing freely brings the keenest joy,
    and all the waste that we have bought and sold
    no longer find a place in our employ –

    when we have learned that war is over land
    and all that nature yields to let us live,
    be it savannah, mountainside, or sand –

    when we have learned that something’s got to give
    and what we’ve got to give becomes our fear,
    accustomed to the task of wanting more
    and wanting new, discarding every year
    the very goods that we had craved before –

    when we have given up economies
    that run neither to logic nor to scale,
    and blue chip stocks are worthless next to trees,
    and we must be sustainable or fail –

    when we become endangered as the beasts
    whose DNA we treasure in our vaults
    for times when our plundering will cease,
    and finger-pointing, faulting upon faults
    will come to rest at last upon us all –

    when then we take responsibility
    and stop, and listen to our bloodbeat call
    and slow the progress of sterility –

    then we will learn the wisdom of the grass
    that knows the wind that carries every song
    that tells of how our nature must surpass
    the artifice we thought would make us strong —
    when even ants are teachers and we take
    the time to hear their sermons on the mound,
    and we will walk the long way for the sake
    of coaxing one more lake to stay around —
    then no one needs to walk the path alone
    as bound together, we behold our worth
    and come at last to our ancestral home
    as creatures nurturing this good, green earth.

  46. I spent the day posting 24 poems in 24 hours, starting at midnight Eastern time. Each poem was a sonnet. Each took its cue from a news article about climate change, because I combined participation in this event with participation in Moving Planet.

    Here is the index, with live links to each poem and each source article:

    Thank you so much, everyone! — Elissa

  47. Jean Burgesss says:


    Money talks
    It speaks in riddles
    Tells us that the world’s in a pickle

    Money talks
    It rants and raves that
    “Digging caves should not earn taxes for other factors”

    Money talks
    Demanding an audience
    To listen to reason
    “Paying the global poor shouldn’t be treason!”

    Money talks
    Iicking and screaming
    That “This government must be dreaming”
    Dreamin of socialist ideology.
    “And what is wrong with that?”
    “What is wrong with that?”

    Money talks
    Speaks in tongues
    An Abbott aborts
    Everything coming to naught
    They’re all out to tea!
    At the Madhatter’s PARTY
    The Big Hat has spoken
    Now everything is broken…

    Except Except

    When money talks
    Money walks from every depleted wallet
    Into patient waitin bulging pockets.

    Money has spoken
    Now EVERYTHING is broken

    And what’s wrong with that?

    What is wrong with that?

    Copyright Jean Burgess 23 September 2011

  48. Joan Logghe says:

    I couldn’t make it to Santa Fe or Albuquerque, but I did get to write and read a poem on site at Tewa Women United’s Gathering for Mother Earth in Pojoaque, New Mexico, the pow wow site of Pojoaque Pueblo. Tonight they will have a fire ring and contribute to the reading with Beata Tsosie-Peña and other young poets.

    At Gathering for Mother Earth
    Tewa Women United, written on site

    The corn is singing
    all colors of corn are singing
    and we are listening

    The sun is singing
    the sky is blue singing
    to all manner of listening

    The listening when
    we don’t even know
    we are listening

    The distracted ear.
    The earth is listening
    are we hearing?

    The ground is the best
    listener I ever knew
    listening to fire and to rain.

    All summer I was praying
    for gentle gentle rain and soon,
    but not soon enough, it came.

    The squash I didn’t grow
    my children grew,
    planted saved seed

    watered and now I carry
    a large squash home. I guess
    the children have been listening.

    The grandkids have their fingers
    on remote and I-phone.
    I am nearly giving up

    but I have to believe
    that are listening.
    The body listens

    to the beautiful. It feeds on
    the beautiful, a day like today,
    a sun baked, heart based

    day like today.
    Living inside a prayer
    given to the great listening.


    • red slider says:

      I listen, I hear. Overjoyed to find this, your words like the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. I tried for months to get word to First Nations and tribes to join the countries index and lend their voices – but to little effect (one white man saying “speak to us” is not much to listen to). But now, reading your words, hope for next year, NAs and indigenous peoples everywhere will come to teach us – will know we are listening.


    Saludos. Adjunto información sobre nuestras actividades
    culturales en la Casa cultural La Guaricha (bajada hacia
    el Colegio Félix Olivares, por la Estación DAFRON y JAVA
    Juice, casa color verde y amarillo antes del puente).

    Sábado 24 de septiembre, un evento mundial (se realizan
    en simultaneo 600 eventos en 450 ciudades de 95 países)
    100 MIL POETAS POR EL CAMBIO, poesía para transformar
    el mundo. De 5:00 pm a 10:00 pm ENTRADA LIBRE – TRAE
    Visita el sitio oficial del evento: http://www.100tpc.org
    o nuestro sitio: http://www.chiriquicultural.com

    Miércoles 28 de septiembre, inauguramos MÉXICO –
    MIRADA SUR de la fotógrafa argentino –
    chiricana Patricia Veron Rivera (en exhibición
    hasta el 15 de octubre). 7:00 pm ENTRADA
    LIBRE. Extraordinaria visión del país azteca.

    de octubre. Pre-estreno martes 4.
    INAUGURACIÓN MIÉRCOLES 5 (con la presencia
    del equipo de SERTV que prepara un espectacular
    documental sobre el evento).
    Hora 7:00 pm (todos los días).
    Entrada General B/2.00
    3a. edad, estudiantes y niños B/1.00
    Todo el vídeo y cine de Centroamérica en
    Chiriquí. No te lo puedes perder. Pasa la voz.
    (Festival Ícaro es un proyecto de CASA
    COMAL de Guatemala, presentado en
    Panamá por GECU – Universidad de Panamá,
    SERTV y la Fundación Pro Artes Escénicas y
    Audiovisuales. Se proyecta en Panamá del
    29 de septiembre al 5 de octubre).

    6687 1607 (Montilla)
    6618 2929 (Antonio)

    Manuel E. Montilla
    (507) 6687 1607
    Apartado Postal 0426 – 01137
    David, Chiriquí, Panamá

  50. Erin Fisher says:

    your life,
    a series of present tenses,
    yesterday good, tomorrow tragic
    no matter,

    believe, don’t believe
    no matter.

    © Erin Fisher – 2011

  51. The Iranian Girl
    by Laurence Overmire

    There’s a hole in the ground
    A moving of earth, now made
    A sad depression
    Where once she played in
    Splashing with the joy that comes
    From child-like feet

    The sound is still here
    In the air, the breeze yet carrying
    The secret laughter
    That haunts the waking hours of those
    Who’ve lost the way

    How vain to think that
    Memory can be erased

    All will remember
    No one escapes

    I wonder if she saw it
    The moment before
    Her hair still flying free
    The metal catching that last
    Pure glint of sun

    Did she hear the explosion
    That made no sense
    Did she feel
    Her body come apart
    And fall like dust, too soon

    Does anyone ask
    Whatever she felt, whatever she dreamed
    Her dreaming time is gone
    And no lofty word of God or
    Glory will ever make it right

    Dare to listen and you will
    Hear her
    Dare to open your eyes and see

    The Iranian girl
    No different
    Like you, like me.

  52. E -mergency Mail
    From: Gaia
    To: Mankind

    I’ll need you in the fall–
    When land has leathered
    and wind has weathered
    every weary wall
    of history’s harvest, tired of standing tall–
    Will you be there to catch me, in the fall?

    Will you promise, as September reigns,
    to quench my thirst, to ease my pains?
    Rebirth my soul, that I may give
    more of myself, that you may live
    the life according to the plan,
    torn asunder by man’s greedy hand.

    Oh, my children, you should know
    that I didn’t have to go
    this way….if you had paid attention!
    But you ignored the warning signs’
    productive intervention.

    And so, the few of you who hear my voice shall stay
    and heal my wounds and plant the seeds
    you’ve saved for rainy days….
    and I’ll return in spring, with blossoms tall,
    if you will catch me, in the fall.

    4/10/97, Chrissy Faith

  53. Laz Castillo says:

    I Am

    I am the pruning during life that redeems and channels forth a better you
    I am the forgiven transgression that consents you to move forward
    I am the healing of brokenness which renders you clarity of thought

    I am, I am, I am

    I am the waters of a stream transporting vigor to all that is green
    I am the whispering wind that allows an autumn leaf to accomplish its mission
    I am the worm who sacrifices its existence so that a bird may continue to sing

    I am, I am, I am

    I am the trust a baby feels when grasped and fed for the very first time
    I am the tranquility a teen employs to heal her first broken heart
    I am the smile of papa when all his children assemble for Sunday dinner

    I am, I am, I am

    I am the peace and serenity that arrives at the threshold of unrest and war
    I am the nourishment who desires to terminate the iron grip of hunger and famine
    I am the anticipation of hope, equality, and love among all beings on earth

    I am, I am, I am

  54. Speak Up!
    I write verse in metered stanzas
    Melodic breeze of red organza
    Fluttering words tell memory’s tales
    Iridescent thoughts on emotion’s sails

    Though I am oft misunderstood
    By those of different livelihoods
    I empathize and comprehend
    Yet remain direct and don’t pretend

    I speak my thoughts
    without refrain
    I make inquiries
    for understanding’s gain

    Yet my directness agitates those
    Who’ve yet to understand the prose
    In a life worth living true and sure
    One realizes pain endures

    So suffer not to hold within
    An episode of your chagrin
    Or feelings felt you can’t deny
    Just speak your truth, with head held high

    So others know what you’re about
    Don’t hold it in and fret or pout
    For if you do you can’t expect
    That others know what you neglect

    Sudo Nym ~ Poet in Motion
    Copyright 2/09/11
    All Rights Reserved

  55. [file]http://www.bigbridge.org/100thousandpoetsforchange/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/Anarchist.txt[/file]

    Sudo Nym ~ Poet in Motion
    1 of 100 Thousand Poets for Change

  56. Lisa says:

    Continued good will to the people of the Tohoku region in Japan. Here is an illustrated chapbook to benefit Ashanaga.

    Kenji Miyazawa ‘Ame ni mo Makezu


  57. Lon Hodge says:


    Hunters looks for shapes
    And sounds that resemble prey
    Then sometimes guess
    Where the heart might be
    Before pulling the trigger:
    Survival of the fittest become ritual

    In separate darknesses,
    both of us resting in the shade,
    I listen: Is it limb or antler?
    Can I take aim at my imagination?

    It is safe enough here isn’t it?:
    No one comes, hardly even other hunters:
    Like minds, licensed guns.

    It is growing dark
    And it is a long walk back
    I want something to show for a hard day ‘s work.
    A small fury and I’ll move to claim my reward
    Through wildflowers testifying in silence

  58. Teresa says:

    I have an aim
    That some day
    The children of the Chinese who raped Tibet
    And the children of the Tibetans who suffered under Chinese rule
    Will sit down together at the table of friendship
    And wine and dance to the music of freedom

    September 23, 2011

  59. James Bailey says:

    Men lived through every blue sky moment,
    Like my mother singing:
    “Tiny white chocolate flower gardens”
    Like a sea-smell holiday
    Having come between language.

    Elaborate use may rob ideas,
    After we delicately dress
    On delirious frost mornings,
    Happy together
    As they shine their favourite suits.

  60. Dennis Formento says:


  61. Head less babies

    The room was filled with
    lost dreams. Music was from
    Captured humans in the battle
    for humanity!
    They are still hopeful that angels
    are busy making headless babies
    with human hearts.
    With the manuscript for pre fabricated
    head wrapped in their umbilical cord.
    This room is where Adam and Eve based
    their first fertile egg and a bird flow
    to eternity with broken wings, and two legs
    that only walk through a limited plane of a
    limited universe.
    Let’s dream kindly! While the moon’s still looking
    at us…., and our incredible silenced pain,
    healed with tuned music of hope.
    Let’s stop making headless babies with short hands.
    We will make two remote controlled wings.

  62. Timothy McCormick says:

    I’ve Seen Love

    If Ginsberg saw the best and worst
    and discussed it extensivly in poetic discourse
    through the flow and pattern
    like the geometric shape of a DMT
    spirit journey
    Thn I have seen the dullest and brightest and
    I’ve seen love

    I’ve seen scholars with minds like a million
    Sparking ideas in dusty classrooms
    but unable to maintain a steady stream.
    I’ve seen highschool drop/burnouts
    Throw away scholarships to MIT and Yale
    money orders
    To pursue shamanic practices in the Gobi
    I’ve seen us worshipping a 70’s lizard king who,
    long dead
    still sends guidance in his words.
    I’ve seen riot police like imposing exclamtion marks
    trying to silence the outcries of a populace under siege.
    I’ve seen everything he’s known get washed away
    and still!
    He gave his shirt to a stranger.
    I’ve seen love.

    I’ve seen Heather, beautiful and naked on a bare matress
    in a house full of exposed lightbulbs and cigarette filter clippings.
    Ive seen her control the whiskey riddled (?) mind
    of an un/willing teenage boy.
    I’ve seen her head tilted back in ecstasy.
    I’ve seen her ex lay with a man.
    I’ve seen love.

    I’ve seen brilliant minds correded by softly whispered promises
    -and the idea of second chances.
    I’ve seen grown men run scared from the dark because of
    the monsters that live there.
    I’ve seen junkies pull a drowning cop from the water
    only to be arrested for their habit.
    I’ve seen those same get raped and cry out and
    be saved by murders.
    I’ve seen love.

    I’ve seen so much more but

    I’ve seen love.

  63. Julie says:

    I WOKE UP by Joan Didak

    I woke up to a revolution
    It wasn’t pretty
    Blood soaked the dirty streets
    Anxious excitement held peace in the heart of a continent
    awakened once again

    The enlightened ones came out of the pyramids that day
    Every soul awakened
    filled the streets with a message of Peace
    The mighty laid down their swords
    began the real work
    of commitment

    I woke up to a revolution
    It wasn’t anything
    Fear kept us off the streets
    locked within our pain
    afraid of the madman inside

    I woke up to a revolution
    There was no one
    The earth was still
    quietly rumbling
    We sat like midwives
    waiting for the inevitable
    birth of our new world
    And it was gorgeous

    C. Joan Didak, 3/7/11
    Creative Visionaries Unite!

  64. Julie says:

    COMPLETE by Joan Didak

    What makes a circle complete, she asks.
    Is it the connecting of one end of a line to another on paper?
    A story like a prayer told from beginning to end
    Alpha to Omega?
    A mouth completely open to receive
    the circle of love?
    Something small, daily or casual?
    Easy as slipping a ring on a finger
    and keeping it’s promise?
    The wheel of life never-ending
    in a cycle of birth, death, rebirth?
    Building dreams one day at a time
    out to the edge of the universe and back?
    With all of the hands of all of the people of all of the languages
    clasped around the Earth.

    c. Joan Didak

  65. George says:

    The Smudge

    There is the smudged print of a tip
    of a finger on that mirror : It approves not
    of love
    presence or absence of either one or
    any other story or love or hatred…
    Or about both.
    There is a smudged print of a tip
    of a finger on a mirror:
    It was not cleaned,
    it is there to stay
    till the cleaning day…May be

    For the accompanying presentation please visit: http://euzicasa.wordpress.com/the-smudge/

  66. fabian thomas says:



    By which I am
    Own way

    One word
    At a time
    Each word
    Added to a line
    Lines elongate into verses
    Verses expand into poems
    Poems that sometimes
    Morph into rants

    Words words words
    Sometimes hard to hear
    Better left unsaid
    Outward expression
    Of the happenings in my head
    Words to the living
    Sometimes about the dead

    Words words words
    Into being

    Words words words
    That will not wait

    Words words words
    seeking sound
    seeking solace
    seeking soul

    © fabian thomas

  67. Erin Fisher says:

    like the sacred stars above,
    infinite transgressions –
    forming without birth,
    fading without death.

    © Erin Fisher – 2010

  68. Parfois, mes yeux, blessés des iodeux assauts,
    Se délavent aux formes brèves qui m’enclavent.

    D’autres vers sont là-haut qui se tordent sans rime :

    La lame rose arase à l’huis des nuits l’arête
    A la case agrippée sur l’échine pelée
    De la colline, au clair de la canne coupée,
    Nue dans l’haleine obtuse et crue des vents marins.

    Cromb devant l’humble gîte un gnome las s’agite.

    « Hé ! Toi, bousier minable où ta fouille t’affaire,
    Mineur interminable anémiant les sillons,
    Escarbille est ta hutte au grand soufflet du temps
    Et brin d’inanité ton frêle édificule ! » 

    « Granulé sur ce tertre teigneux qui purule
    Aux huantes nuées, aux hurleuses gargouilles,
    Que tu es passagère, ô coquette coquille
    Assurée de pourrir aux débris des abris ! »

    Hautes maisons
    Fortes cloisons
    Larges prisons
    Dont les ans ont
    Toujours raison

    Pourquoi ne sait-on pas qu’il est vain de bâtir
    Quand il n’existe pas de muraille qui tienne
    Si l’amie veut guérie de nous se départir ?

  69. Adam Roper says:

    “earth in the morning”

    dear grace, in hands to keep warm by cup,
    a garbage truck is coming to take this away,
    all the waste of days that should be wings

    but they have become a prison.

    dear yerba, in mornings to keep you awake,
    steamed to stay warm and gradually lose flavor,
    all the mugs that should be conversation

    but they have become an imperfection.

    dear rain, has it been so long?
    in ponds to capture and keep clean,
    I hate the smell of carbon
    but I love waking up beside you.
    all our intimacies have made us saints

    but they have become emissions.

  70. Kristin Sharp says:

    The Ego

    The Ego
    Needs to be broken into tiny little pieces
    and fed to billions of people
    so that all can be equal and share a common thought

    The Ego
    Needs to be pierced in the eye
    with acupuncture needles and twisted
    until the meridian flows of milky nectar

    The Ego
    Needs to be melted and smeared across continental lines
    and flushed through sewers pouring into the center of the earth
    where molten lava can scorch and harden around it like an island

    The Ego
    Needs to be transformed by understanding and acceptance
    shared through finger tips, crossing lips and forgiving arms
    so that all can live together

  71. Erin Fisher says:

    breathe in, breathe out,
    one lifetime.

    breathe in, breathe out,
    breathe in, breathe out,
    one lifetime.

    © Erin Fisher – 2009

  72. Diego Delgado says:

    la corona la estoy guardando en mi gaveta
    el dia que te decidas mi princesa
    para que me des un poquito de ti

    Ya van mil noches con un sueno
    tener siquiera un poquito de ti

    si voy rapido o muy lento
    si ando despistado o muy atento
    solo dame un poquito de ti

    que mas hay que hacer para cruzar nuestros dedos?
    para viajar al infinito sin regreso
    solo aceptame una cancion y doce rosas
    a cambio de un poquito de ti

    sera mucho pedir 25 horas al dia?
    para analizar tu sonrisa
    amborracharme de tu mirada
    y disfrutar esa resaca con un poquito de ti

    espero no estar pidiendo tanto
    solo incluirte en mi destino
    de verte siempre en mis recuerdos
    ver que tengo ese poquito de ti

  73. życzenia says:

    Ciekawe życzenia. Ja z reguły korzystam ze stron z życzeniami, chociaż czasem sam wymyślam.

  74. en mi cielo interno nunca hubo una sola estrella
    todas mis horas están hechas de jaspe negro
    tu mirada es una plaga sin sentido
    ser o no ser más nosotros!
    repique de sinos para el más allá
    qué está descubierto?
    deja que te ignore, tu silencio es un abanico
    mi conciencia de tener conciencia de ti
    es una plegaria
    [fernando pessoa, un placer]
    [Códices, inédito]

    oj rampti ej
    basquadé bilu, bajiná
    inchalá ando dibum
    inchalá misiajalana
    yu nehes sepé ando
    retan hue jual guidaí
    oj rampti i-jou
    voz charrúa

    Poemas al óleo, édito 2009

    mi poesía no contempla ninguna regla
    mi poesía tiene corazón de rock and roll
    y me muevo en el anonimato de la ciudad
    donde sólo te tocan mis intenciones
    mi poesía es guión de comic
    con música de miles en el invierno mvd
    mi deseo es conmoverte el corazón
    montevideo es divertidísima cuando tenés gracia
    porque la gracia de mi poesía
    es que yo no estoy
    y nos juntamos porque amamos ser amigos
    y cantar bailar cocinar escribir
    mientras mi poesía circula la ciudad

    [Poemas al óleo, édito, 2009]

    a la luz de una brillante luna plateada
    vuela una mariposa del rocío
    cuando la poesía se hace carne
    y una hija dibuja el amor en el alma
    con la alegría del desafío
    y la constante impermanencia
    refleja un destello de infinito
    en tus ojos y tu sonrisa
    entonces es que he tocado tu corazón
    y late tu vida en mis manos
    para nutrirte de poesía la razón
    con gotas de amor en tus labios
    y milenios de sublime pasión
    porque me enamora la virtud
    y me deslizo en el tiempo para llegar hasta ti
    (Códices, inédito)

    a mi me interesa la gente que va tocando la vida con la mano
    hasta que se la ha escurrido por los dedos
    y en ese instante ella da la vuelta
    regresa y se queda con nosotros
    nos da otra oportunidad
    porque nos ha hecho saborearla
    saber lo que vale
    yo sé por cuál calle ella anda
    somos ella y yo y la nieve que no he visto
    a mi me interesan los vivos
    los despiertos
    los que vienen del infierno
    y esta tinta se transforma en vida
    que se introduce en tus venas
    y se convierte en poesía
    a mi me interesan los que entienden
    los sensibles
    happy end

    Enero 2011

    direct experience
    from emptiness to you
    yearning your ego
    reality is before the concept
    out of this phenomena world
    the true absolute nature
    i ´m a momentary appearance
    in the time and space
    my natural mind
    comprehend through experience
    when I break into relative reality
    and I acquire form
    and form is emptiness
    I am the infinite possibility for anything

    cuando baja el sol
    me abraza la tristeza
    la nostalgia de la luz
    enseguida la noche es encantadora
    y nos deleitamos iluminando
    el sabor de la dualidad aún me conmueve
    aunque no tanto
    la delicia del desapego
    disfruto del jazz y la trompeta
    mientras el mundo tiene sus ojos en sudáfrica
    siento los aullidos prehistóricos
    las bestias están en el circo
    y me pregunto ¿qué hace ahora el g8?
    mientras la turba se distrae refinan la esclavitud
    y me pregunto ¿dónde estás vos?

    estoy en la playa de los pocitos
    un martes al mediodía
    la ciudad sigue su rutina a mis espaldas
    la música del río me baña de serenidad
    me doy una pausa de la civilización
    me cuido me amo me ocupo de mi
    equilibro mis sentidos y se alegra mi espíritu
    me expongo ante la creación
    y dibujo en la arena la impermanencia
    para algunos soy mariposa y para otros f
    para dios soy un aprendiz
    y para mi?
    yo soy quien espera tu ternura
    con los pies en el agua

    civilización post atómica
    destino errado
    mundo ilusorio que implosiona
    revolución industrial cerrada
    capitalismo fundido
    excelentes noticias para una mente en paz
    y amanecemos con aroma a jazmín
    el mundo a paso humano
    donde somos sólo esclavos de la libertad
    y una fragancia exquisita de felicidad
    la nota que nos vincula es la virtud
    la clave es la conciencia
    para desplegar las alas de un vuelo dimensional
    la madurez del tiempo del hombre
    para acariciar el entendimiento del amor

  75. Bob Blackwell says:

    A PLEA

    What good has the world done today,
    what deeds that make it now a better place?
    Very little do I feel.
    My land, should be our land, for all to share.
    Seldom words describe a fair division
    Of the wares from land on earth.

    Together we should strive
    to have a better life, for all men,
    all creatures great and small.
    Please see the beauty,
    not the stain upon the land.

    Why must we rush about to make a buck,
    to drill for oil and gas and such?
    Go underground to hunt for gold.
    Greed for oil makes big mistake,
    its mine not yours to use for fuel!
    Make war so cruel, so wrong,
    so greedy to want it all for us.

    Why can’t we just sit down,
    and wait to see the beauty of it all.
    To sit by sea, watch waves,
    wash sand upon the shore,
    pebbles damp that glint and shine,
    so quiet in the sand.

    No! Underneath is where we want to go,
    to dark places, that have no beauty,
    no sun for us to see.
    No sense, just blackness,
    and maybe just a glint of gold.
    Sad, it is this mind of ours
    that tells us not to share.

    Wicked too this mind
    that cannot see,
    a hungry child,
    that cannot help,
    a troubled land.

    We are so small upon the earth,
    yet feel we own it all, for us.
    Treasury this world of ours of plants and trees,
    flowers that bloom, fruit that feeds,
    and grass so green,
    insects small we cannot see,
    mountains high and seas so blue.
    Who knows, who does know what this is all about, so
    Why think to sort it out?

    Nature comes naturally, caring for itself in turn.
    Seasons come seasons go,
    weather changes all the time.
    Hot, then cold, next rain, then drought,
    now storm, and then a hurricane.
    Everything brown and falls to ground.
    Spring returns and paints it green.
    So light the green that slowly darkens.
    So beautiful to watch things grow.
    So; why does war go on and on?

    In this diverse and magic world,
    we love to see the contrasts of,
    seas, mountains, deserts, fields, and plains.
    They transform, and change with the seasons,
    as they come and go.
    From pole to pole and east to west,
    the changes that illuminate and feed.
    Seeds become trees, so big and tall,
    their wood burnt, keeps us warm.
    Blossoms change to fruit that feeds.
    Grasses green, turn golden brown,
    seeds then ground to make our bread.

    Of this I’m sure, there must become,
    another scene, a picture or a vision
    to motivate, a sense of love,
    not hurt, between the peoples of this earth.
    A philosophy that says, we love our contrasts,
    shades, beliefs, and different colours.
    We tolerate and share; not separate, and keep,
    to discriminate against our fellow man.
    Then this world becomes our world
    for us all to love, and share.

    7 March 2006
    17 October 2006 edited and revised.

  76. Peter says:

    Hallo, ich habe Ihre Seite über Google gefunden und muss sagen, dass diese mir sehr gefällt! Schön übersichtlich und informativ 🙂

    Es sollte mehr solcher qualitativen Seiten geben!

    MFG Peter

  77. C.K. Zehfus says:

    Dear Someone,

    Please pull the
    cell towers
    down in my
    so I can
    enough to
    do homework

    Please turn off
    the Wi-Fi
    at my school
    so I don’t
    have to take
    for my heart

    And please change
    back our smart
    meters to
    safer ones
    so mom can
    stop sleeping
    in her car
    on the street

  78. Daniel Brady says:

    I want some good news people
    No, not that “born again”
    Bible humping bullpucky you’ve heard tell of … nope
    I want good news … and not just for a minute here or there
    Like you get during a KPFA fundraiser
    Not what you get on Faux News during a slow day
    No, by God I want the real deal
    I want a whole workweek stuffed full of it
    With each book-ending weekend fit to bursting
    I want to know what it’s like turn on the TV and feeeeel good
    I wanna feeeeeel good very time I think about … anything I can think of
    I want to be double dipped, full up, schmeared, with good news
    I tell you I want to look at the sky
    And not think about “chem-trail” conspiracies
    I want to feel the wind in my hair
    Without wondering what kind of toxic crap is being carried along in it
    From the sewers of India, China’s deserts or Japan’s nukes
    I want to wake up, turn on NPR and hear about wonderful things
    Expanding forests, glaciers coming back along with fish populations
    Safe cell phones that pay YOU to use them
    Free food being given out, rent reductions running rampant
    I want to hear Obama talk
    About giving back trillions of dollars to the people
    Closing Guantanamo, giving up on nuclear power
    Bringing troops home from Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, Bahrain, Oman Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey, Iran, Kazakhstan, Balochistan,Turkmenistan, Nepal, Venezuela, Columbia, Mexico and the other 123
    I want to hear him go on about perp walking Bush
    And his whole suffering asshole crew
    Placing a stay on every act that rim jobbing bunghumper ever made
    That prisons are being shuttered
    Because millions of people have decided to care of each other
    That godless heathen multi-nationals are hiring shit loads of people
    Because they’re bringing rock solid, plan your retirement on them
    God blessed union jobs back the good old US of A and by the millions
    I want to hear about green houses, green cars, green factories,
    Green make up, green jobs and a greening self-sustaining world

    I want to hear about how every person entering the job market
    Says the same ding-dong thing,
    “Gee, I don’t know which of all these jobs I want?”
    AND “Say, why don’t all you companies take a number for crissakes!”
    And, mind you, I want the good news to go on every frickin’day
    I want to hear how millions are giving up smoking
    Taking up Pilates, volunteering for charity work
    That everyone has two chickens in every pot
    A good, well-built, American car in every garage
    And by that I mean one that gets 500 miles per fuel up
    Takes a 50 mile an hour crash with no damage
    Or injury to its passengers
    Lasts as long as you frickin’ want to keep it
    And gets free tune-ups, brake jobs and tires while you own it
    I want to hear about scenic passenger trains making a come back
    How scientists are being listened to … Hello!!!
    Got global warming on the run
    Replaced oil, nuclear power and natural gas
    Found a way to prevent alcoholism
    Using the cure for cancer that we already have
    And have begun to terra-form the Earth for god sakes

    I want to hear day after day of good news
    So that by the time the fourth day dawns
    I’ll have some idea of what life is like in a world that makes sense
    So that I’ll be looking forward to the next damned day
    So that I’ll be glad to wake up
    Donate to good causes, of which there’ll be thousands
    And every one of them will be doing very well thank you very much

    I want all the guns in the world to be turned in
    Broken up and melted down to make … anything else!
    I want to hear that every soldier, intel wonk, officer
    Commando or insurgent
    Has renounced violence and are getting busy …
    Building shelters, planting trees, cleaning beaches
    Counseling hopeless, caring for the needy
    Handing out bread, bringing in water
    Giving emergency care to the destitute
    Rescuing cats from trees and kissing babies

    I wanna see them all get busy
    Fixing every leaky toilet, broken window, noisy refrigerator
    And every god blessed pothole in the known universe
    That they are working with farmers to grow more food
    Unlocking potential, opening floodgates
    Applying bandages, splints and helping, helping helping!

    I want to hear about bastard banksters making micro loans and giving grants
    That defense departments have been shut down!
    That research and development funding
    Is going to making better computers
    Cars, planes, trains, tractors, shoes, lights, batteries, houses, cities, colleges, schools, basketball and food courts!

    I want to hear about better understanding
    Between religions, races, politicians, historical enemies
    I want to hear about borders being erased, hatreds evaporating
    Ignorance giving way … reason running rampant
    And every form of love being accepted by everyone everywhere!

    By god, I want a week of such good news
    As people have never ever, ever, EVER had
    So when I go outside
    And get my free cup of fair trade, organic, sustainable coffee
    And an organic “everything” bagel with a wild caught salmon schmear
    Everyone will be walking about more than a bit dazed
    More than a bit confused
    But each and every one will be happy, happy, happy!

    Brothers and sisters, but I yearn, dream and pray for such a week
    I say I want a week of good news
    A flood, an ocean, a sky full of wonders
    So that every memory of this time; this horrific, festering butt hole
    This stupid-assed, jack shit, fucked up universally acclaimed
    And God awful world of unholy, rank, festering, pustulant oozing scabs
    Is gone. I say I want a week of good news, my friends
    I say, I want a week of such good news
    That glory unbounded I know, I say, I just know, we all want to see!

  79. Monika Pant says:

    It is not the mere releasing of doves into the open air.
    It is the fragrance of the open air itself
    And the blue sky beyond.
    It is the silence in the inner core of our being…
    The silence,
    Not of submission or of reticence,
    But the silence which sings in a thousand melodies within the soul
    And uplifts the spirit into communion with God.
    Rare is this kind of peace…
    It may be felt momentarily by mortals…
    And then it is gone.
    The clamour of the mind takes its place.
    Let us treasure these moments,
    For they are the caress of God’s fingers on our soul.
    They come unbidden
    As a glistening dewdrop on a rain-washed leaf,
    Reflecting the myriad colours of the universe,
    Perfect in itself,
    Leaving one who sees it,
    Such moments of peace may come at early dawn,
    When the birds are just waking up
    And the waft of the cool breeze brings with it the first streaks of pink,
    Lightening the sky,
    Striking the eyes
    And reaching deep within the soul.
    Or when the streets are desolate at the dead of night
    And the lampposts stand sentinel to the sleeping city,
    The peace at such times is immeasurable.
    Peace may also steal upon us in the midst of a crowd,
    When one is sitting in a darkened auditorium,
    And the strings of the heart are vibrating in resonance
    To those of the violin held in the hands of a maestro.
    One may feel at peace then
    And want to prolong the moment till eternity.
    For it is then that eternity is held in the palm of the hand.
    Peace may be felt when a child looks up with trust
    Into your eyes
    And clasps your hand.
    It may occur
    With the gazing at the deep blue sea,
    When foaming waves are lashing against the shore.
    It may be experienced when the first breath is taken
    On waking up on a new day,
    Just before opening the eyes.
    Let us pray that each of us experiences
    More such moments
    And learns to savour them.
    For peace,
    As all good things in life,
    Comes in small doses.

    © Monika Pant

  80. Elias Frank Mora, Jr. says:

    Easily complicated
    Arresting, budgeting, debating
    Calm decisions;lives ruined

  81. Sharing the word, the ideas, the thoughts and the feelings, we are opening new rows to begin this no way back trip.

    Thank you all brothers and sisters of letters, languages are not a limit, the idea is to be one at the same time.

    Ivonne Sánchez Barea

  82. Sotere Torregian says:

    By Sotère Torregian
    (part of a larger work)

    On the campaign trail … ( the G. O. P.

    Who is there to speak, then

    to their lies and traduceries ?

    — The Wall of Respect in Chicago
    ( still stands )
    The mother and her child still living in
    a cardboard packing crate still on the streets
    in San Francisco

    (– Ask her
    about ” the state of the nation ” )

    The worker’s lost hand or finger
    severed on the job
    calls out “what about me ! ”

    ( By now too commonplace to be reported on in the news )

    Elizabeth Gurley Flynn
    calls yet from the speaker’s platform
    – Rise up !

    It is you who labour

    – not the Comprador– who are

    the measure
    Of History

    Henry Winston
    prophet of the disinherited
    the new caste of untouchables in America
    points at the accusers the deniers

    the killers of the Dream in our midst!

    Á toi le roseau d’ Orphée
    — André Breton, Ode à Charles Fourier

    Fallen eagle feathers of the elders

    of the tribe

    discarded tin-cans empty beer-bottles
    ” fire-water ”
    of the young men thrown on
    The trash-heap
    at the Pine-Ridge Reservation

    give testimony to promises made by

    the white-man’s ” forked-tongue ”

    take up the stumbling block out of the way

    ( O young Republican Strategist

    Ms. Kellyanne Conway, Georgetown U. grad !)

    These I call forth as Voices above the fray

    copyright: Sotère Torregian
    Sept., AD2011

  83. Michael says:

    Explico: Cájar pueblo de 3.500 habitantes – su Santo Patron es SAN FRANCISCO DE ASIS – Las Fiestas comienzan el 1 de Octubre –

    No, no estamos solos hermanos.

    En las fiestas de San Francisco,
    efemérides de nuestro santo,
    desde América me encomiendan,
    la tarea de un nuevo cambio.

    Actitud de hermanos de sangre,
    entre amigos y vecinos,
    colaborar unos con otros,
    con el alma y con las manos.

    Sé que es tarea difícil,
    ponerse el traje del otro,
    pero solo con su piel,
    entenderemos este símil.

    En esta crisis de valores,
    de dineros y sin trabajo,
    hay hogares con hambre,
    que han perdido sus honores.

    Traigo con cariño bajo el brazo,
    la palabra “amistad” como hogaza,
    aplicarla nuevamente,
    esa será nuestra coraza.

    Es razón suficiente,
    que en nuestro pueblo y nuestra casa,
    todos como en familia,
    nos ayudemos unos a otros.

    Hermanos de San Francisco,
    desde San Francisco nos dicen,
    que todos somos capaces,
    de crear este cambio.

    La hermandad entre los pueblos,
    la amistad entre vecinos,
    aquí estamos amigos,
    dejemos de ser extraños.

    Habla con tus cercanos,
    comunica y comparte,
    dejemos los egoísmos,
    todos habitamos en Cájar.

    Cada uno en su calle y barrio,
    puede arar este nuevo campo,
    desde la escucha y la palabra,
    abramos ventanas y almas.
    No, no estamos solos hermanos,
    hagamos lo que podamos,
    si comenzamos ahora mismo
    todo cambiará temprano.
    Ivonne Sánchez Barea


    We are not alone

    In the festival of San Francisco,
    anniversary of our holy
    entrusted me from America,
    the task of a new change.

    Attitude blood brothers,
    among friends and neighbors,
    collaborate with each other,
    with the soul and with the hands.

    It is difficult,
    to wear the suit of another,
    but only with its skin,
    understand this simile

    In this crisis of values,
    of money and no job,
    homes are hungry,
    and have lost their honor.

    Under the arm affectionately,
    the word friendship loaf
    apply it again
    that will be our shield.

    It´s reason enough,
    for our people and our houses,
    all like family,
    we help each other.

    Brothers of San Francisco,
    from San Francisco we are told,
    we are all able,
    to create this change.

    The brotherhood among persons,
    friendship between neighbors,
    here we are friends,
    stop being strangers.

    Talk to your nearby
    common and shared
    let selfishness away,
    all live in Cájar.

    Everyone in your street and neighborhood,
    can plow this new field,
    from listening and speech,
    we open windows and souls.

    No, we are not alone brothers
    do what you can,
    if we start now
    everything will change.


  84. The Work Farce says:

    Keep up the good work.
    The people united will emerge victorious.
    Love peace and happiness.

  85. Sandra says:

    If 100 planes crashed today
    And then again tomorrow
    The world would surely take notice
    Their hearts wrenched with sorrow

    But if 26,000 children died
    And tomorrow 26,000 more
    Due to poverty and disease
    They would mostly be ignored

    Is it because the need is so great
    That we choose to do nothing at all
    Or because we’re too busy spending
    So much time at the mall

    Even a cup of cold water
    Given to the least of these
    Is something that will be rewarded
    By our loving Creator, who sees

    The children He made in His image
    All precious within His eyes
    Your brothers and sisters are waiting
    For you to respond to their cries

  86. teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    A Japanese nod in silence
    Means neither yes nor no
    A Chinese wave in silence
    Says good riddance to bad rubbish
    A Tibetan prayer in silence
    Is a plea to wish you well
    Nature’s bellow in silence
    Means the calm before a storm

    The sound of silence
    Gives brilliant credence
    To what culture and nature speak
    In sharp and clear, but silent, tweak

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  87. Journey Through Shadows
    by Kayla Feenstra

    I am not a child of the streets,
    But I’ve seen the ravaged faces
    Of children abandoned, bare feet
    In the slop the pigs mucked through,
    Both finding their crumbs
    Among crushed milk tins
    And last week’s torrential rains,
    The skinny arms and distended bellies
    Starving and hardened
    By the sun, by life, reality
    Then they pick up their chalk,
    Gnawing on the their hunger,
    Dreaming of becoming
    Someone worth respecting.

    I am not a child of death,
    But I’ve heard the wailing,
    The anger, the deep mourning,
    Unexplainable, as the mother
    Will never know who or why
    Will never see justice
    Will never see her son again,
    But always remember the smiles,
    The laughter, and late nights
    That are no more
    And she grows old too fast
    With no one to care for her,
    No one to weep over her body
    As she is laid unmarked somewhere

    I am not a child of darkness,
    But I’ve seen the bones gathered
    In the streets, the names scratched
    Into the brick wall, cursed.
    And I’ve heard the midnight chanting,
    The endless mad drumming
    As spirits take to the earth
    And the sacrifices fearfully offered
    Curse; damned to death,
    And in trembling hopelessness,
    He knows his days are numbered,
    And wanders the streets helpless
    As his wife prepares his funeral
    Before Death takes him somehow.

    I am not a child of war,
    But I’ve heard the guns
    Rattling through the void nights,
    Tearing through innocence—
    Without prejudice or concern,
    Ripping through lives and souls
    Until complacency sets in, hard,
    And ambivalence scowls as king,
    Un-coup-able and faceless,
    Bearing anger and bitterness,
    Merciless and justice-barren
    They crawl through the streets
    In the gutters, begging
    For something that is not there

    I am not a child of joy,
    But I’ve seen whispers of hope
    Spilling down dark faces
    And light possessing black eyes
    As love invades and holds
    Tears and agony to her chest,
    Gently, softly, whispering
    Words to hard resolution,
    But yet untrusted, love breathes
    As voices argue and demand
    And speak to hurricane winds
    Love pervades and disarms,
    Annulling words and promises,

    Love does something.

  88. red slider says:

    We Will Not Be Silenced

    Can we afford to forget

    first born words

    that clawed within

    a virgin larynx,

    gasping for breath,

    desperately sought

    reply to a question

    we could not hear,

    crueler than Sphynx,

    it had no answer,

    would not release

    from the grasp

    of death

    came nearer
    nearer until
    no response


    but to scream

    into the ear

    of the world.

    Should we remember

    just how the violent

    gain of language,

    forced upon us

    from the first,


    in deceit

    in pain

    in honeyed

    training words

    practiced again


    until rapproachment

    has been achieved

    by stealth, by aggression

    we learn to deceive

    in turn

    and turn

    to pretend surprise

    that words of love

    are so easily betrayed?

    That first sighings of accord

    so easily collapse into

    the savagery of war?

    That soothing speech

    makes so remarkable

    the poignancy of pain?

    again and again.

    That we will die

    in the choke

    of our own sounds:

    that is assured,

    and then, perhaps,

    be silent?

    I doubt that,

    not this vocalized

    open-beaked species;

    given the chance,

    it will scream from

    the throat of hell


    given the chance



    beating its wings

    against the glass

    of silence.

    [note: any of my poems posted on this page or at poems4change.org may be read or distributed at 100TPC events without need for further permission provided they are attributed to me or, if printed, bear a “©red slider, 2011; all rights reserved” credit to prevent unauthorized commercial use.

  89. Pingback: 100 Thousand Poets for Change » In the Words of Womyn

  90. Wise words from God:

    Lycky is the cynic of destiny,
    this ras tells me.

    Just belive and you will see…

    the bad is a warning.
    just belive and you will see…

    science is NOT wise,
    is just a research made by man

    voodoo magic

    fundamental psychosis is reli-judge
    but on the other hand:
    to belive is to be a litle bit crazy

  91. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    As China’s economy has changed
    From communism to capitalism
    So too China’s autocracy
    Will change to democracy

    Likewise, Tibet’s position
    As an occupied and subjugated country
    Will change
    To an independent and free nation

    So too
    Our brothers and sisters in Myanmar
    Will change their poor and military-ruled country
    Into a rich and democratic nation

    Change will and must come
    To all, not some
    Eventually, change will come for the better
    According to all the saints’ words and letter

  92. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Let not nine eleven
    Be the seventh heaven
    For those who would destroy our freedom
    And steal our democracy and kingdom

    We may have cut off the head
    But the tail is still not dead
    Let us make cocksure
    The tail wags no more

    Though there’s a credible threat
    We need not worry or fret
    Just stay alert and pray
    And go your normal way

    Let them not take down our flag
    And turn it into a rag
    Let them not our way of life harm
    Let us cool our heads and rearm

    Let not nine eleven
    Be our final coffin
    Let us make them see their folly
    Wave our flag and make them sorry

    Let us show that nine eleven
    Is to us manna from heaven
    That instills in us the fervor
    To love our nation and serve her

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  93. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    On the 10th anniversary of September 11
    Let us also not forget the others
    Who are being intimidated through terrorism
    Tibetans by China
    Chinese citizens by their autocratic rulers
    Foreigners by China’s central intelligence agency
    Libyans by Gadhafi
    Syrians by Assad
    Burmese by a military junta
    Somalis by war lords
    Afghans by the Taliban
    Iraqis by corruption
    And the world by ignorance

    Rise up! freedom-loving and knowledge-hungry people of the world
    You have nothing to lose but your chains and pains

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  94. Teresa says:

    September 11 Revisted
    (10th Anniversary)
    by Chukie Wangdu

    The sky was blue and the sun shone bright
    Not one angry face was in sight

    Or so it seemed…

    Monday’s blues were put to bed
    Tuesday’s promises lay straight ahead

    Or so it seemed…

    In the City that never sleeps
    A normal day of work, school, and cell-phone beeps

    Or so it seemed…

    In the nation’s capitol suspecting none
    About their ways went everyone

    Or so it seemed…

    Into the morning sky those four planes flew
    Hopes and dreams were to soar, not to bid adieu

    Or so it seemed…

    Unbeknownst to all
    Nineteen angry men heeded a call

    Allah taught believers to be kind to one another
    As did Abraham, Buddha, Christ and Krishna, brother to brother

    It is not a sign of weakness
    To practice love and kindness

    Instead those nineteen angry men
    Heeded the words of Osama bin Laden

    With calculated violence in the hearts of this clan
    Death and mayhem was their plan

    Thousands lost their lives that day
    Yet Osama couldn’t hijack our courage away

    What you sow is what you reap
    Incrementally or in one fell sweep

    Sunday, May 1 was D-day for Osama
    Hide he could not from his negative Karma

    Not only did he bring the wrath of the free world upon him
    He caused the vilification of my neighbor — a kind and gentle muslim

    On the 10th anniversary of September 11
    We remember with love and respect the brave and fallen

    A new day is dawning for Allah’s true faithful
    Let us join hands to wash away evil

    Kindle trust and dignity in your home and elsewhere
    Spread respect and fairness everywhere

    Be kind and gentle to nature and to each other
    Planet earth is at stake …. it’s now or never

    copyright: Chukie Wangdu

  95. Ethel Mays says:

    Message to the Silver Haired Warrior from the Butterfly Queen
    by Ethel Mays

    Yesterday, we gathered before dawn and flew a straight line into a part of the forest where we are no longer safe. Many changes have transpired since we were last made welcome there, but the mission we would accomplish was not mitigated by patience. We needed to be away before the sun’s first rays betrayed us. In spite of our precautions, my best scout fell beneath the heel of a buck in out-of-season rut, a sign that things truly are not as they should be, but his final breath gave us what we sought: the location of the last red bells of the season, standing tall and proud, patiently awaiting our blades. They, unlike the fickle daisies and cow lace harvested before them, kept their promise to stand with the hardy lavender harvested the night before and to represent, in blood red, the passion flowing in the veins of all true artists. Even the well-meaning foxglove began its slippage before the journey was properly begun. The red bells asked only for a little water to keep them through the night so that they might present themselves for a moment next day at pageantry for the Silver Haired Warrior. A day or two longer, perhaps, they may stand before falling into the arms of the waiting lavender. Know that we see you, we honor you, and we stand beside you in difficult times. If strength is shy and fleeting, take ours. We have much and give it freely without need to wonder why.

  96. Alexa says:

    I wrote these words in 2002, but they belong to you…

    This is not tennis, or soccer
    but life,
    trial, success, failure
    and tribulation
    Divided Nations
    What’s it mean?
    “It ain’t easy bein’ green” Kermit said
    and in the past
    the trees have bled
    from sickness, war
    natural and industrial disasters
    one and the same as our Somalian brother
    and your Mother
    We are all One
    being spun through space
    a cosmic race
    traveling at a planetary pace
    put down the telescope
    it’s in your face
    genetic make up
    cellular break up
    The time has come to take up this line
    feed this rhyme
    and see each other
    as pieces of a whole
    every soul
    a unique and sacred part of this tapestry
    this blanket was begun
    at the start of it all
    every jump and fall
    it’s there
    so take care
    to remember
    You are Special
    You have your own way to exist
    a beautiful pattern inside
    not just a double helix
    but experience
    You’re feeling this
    so what’s it like?
    Do you flee or fight
    fly a kite
    sing or bite?
    Show your might!
    And dazzle those around you with
    the incredible unknowable that is you!
    We’ll all feel it, our vibrations interconnected
    as human relations
    and as complicated
    And My life is fated
    by my own will,
    this is my soil to till
    my beat to fill
    can you hear it?
    listen carefully
    and you will.


  97. Wynne says:

    that poem
    i wanna write that poem
    that shakes nations out of their sleep
    that epic piece of work that has everybody talking
    i wanna write riveting sentences that speak volumes
    resonating through the universe
    unforgotten in time
    shifting thought patterns
    breaking barriers
    creating pathways to the heavenlies
    i wanna write words that flow like rivers
    gracefully cleansing the mind of all debris
    washing away old sensibilities
    bringing reality back to life in a new awakening
    i wanna write that piece
    that causes more than just fingers to snap
    moving more than just emotions
    ripping the blinders off of closed eyes
    so they can see
    i wanna write that poem
    not for anybody else
    but for me.

  98. Teresa says:

    The Role of English in Poetry by Tibetans
    By Tsoltim Ngima Shakabpa

    Languages become universal because of the power of the people who speak those languages. English is one such language as exhibited by the British in the 17th to the early 20th centuries when historically their power and language spread far and wide across the globe. Languages remain alive because of the spirit of the people who speak those languages. The Tibetan language is one such language as exhibited by the Tibetans in their unique culture and quest to maintain their great heritage. To bring the ideas of a people struggling to keep their language alive into a universal language is in itself a difficult task; but to put it in poetry is an even more formidable task. Yet Tibetans are doing exactly that.

    Tibetans are generally philosophically inclined by the very nature of their upbringing. Buddhism and the philosophy of Buddhism have deeply affected the Tibetan mentality, and by its very power the hearts of the Tibetan people. Bearing this in mind, it is easy to see why generally Tibetans are natural poets. Additionally, the pristine natural environment could have only aesthetically enhanced the philosophical Tibetan mind.

    In the past, Tibetans used to write poetry in Tibetan with religious themes only. These poems were deep in thought and classic in their genius. They were the pulse of a nation steeped in religion and struggling to find the meaning of life. These poems were much more difficult to translate precisely into English unless one had an impeccable knowledge of the complex mechanisms of the Tibetan religion. Today, the pulse and emphasis are different. Tibetans are suffering immeasurably under the illegal occupation of Tibet by China. They are being persecuted, imprisoned, tortured and murdered. Their voices stifled; their places of worship demolished; and their true leader, the Dalai Lama, demonized. They are struggling for freedom from 60 gruelling years of brutal and tyrannical Chinese rule; and writing poems in Tibetan alone is not enough. They need to reach a world-wide audience in their fight for liberation and for that they have to use a universal language.

    In the 1940s and 1950s, only a few Tibetans were fortunate enough to receive an education in English. Today, with thousands of Tibetans forced to live outside Tibet, many are fortunately learning English, some even good enough to write poetry in sterling English–and they are using their poetic gifts to reach out, in a universal language, to the world at large about their struggle for freedom. But there also are Tibetan poets who write, in English, about spirituality, family, illness, nature, love and life, in addition to the plight of their country, that adds abundant dimension to poetry by Tibetans. These Tibetan poets are presently few and far between, but their pioneering labour and leadership will inspire more Tibetans to expand their poetic capabilities.

    Poetic ability is an inborn gift, and the language of poetry is best employed in the language one is most accustomed to. If Tibetan poets think in Tibetan and translate their poetry into English, there may arise problems in precise translation. But if Tibetan poets think in English, those problems may be surmounted though it may possibly cloud their Tibetan heart. The ideal situation is the ability to think both in English and in Tibetan. That way, the evolution of the two languages inter-mingling with one another in a translucent manner with the heart brings about the best attributes of the poetry in mind.

    Yet, frankly speaking, there are times when English has no role in poetry by Tibetans as when a Tibetan writer tries to emulate a western thought. In such instances, the Tibetan mind distorts the western thought and jeopardizes the English verse. They become inundated and perplexed with a false perception of the truth, rather than the truth itself. The expression of thought must first come from the heart and then the language can be used as a tool to express what the heart feels. Rather than emulate a foreign thought, it is better for a Tibetan poet to express his thoughts and feelings in a foreign language, even if it be in Mandarin. At least the Chinese will know what is in the Tibetan writer’s mind and heart, such as his diatribe on tyranny and icy disdain of Chinese rule.

    Since poetry comes from the heart, the manner in which the words are expressed are often not easily comprehensible. Thus, the reader too must read into the heart of the poet in order to understand the language of the poet. The Tibetan poet, therefore, has the added task of expressing in precise English what his Tibetan heart feels. This is a difficult task, if not an impossible one – so long as the Tibetan poet has an excellent comprehension of the English language and an empathic realization of what his heart feels.

    To summarize, the English language has an enormous universal role to play in poetry authored by Tibetans, but that role must be entwined with the untainted heart of the Tibetan poet as well as the precision and excellence of the language. Poetry by Tibetans in an universal language has an even more crucial role to play now that the Chinese are forcefully suppressing the Tibetan language.

    Brave is the Tibetan poet
    Who ventures to pen in English
    But write he must from his heart
    For readers his poetry to cherish

    * Tsoltim N. Shakabpa is the author of eight inspiring books of poems, the last one of which is BEING TIBETAN published by Publish America. He is popularly known as “T.N.”, which he says stands for his initials as well as Tibetan National.

  99. Teresa says:

    by Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Swimming in the swift and winding river of lucid words
    He enters the wide ocean of knowledge
    To see vivid images of our mortal world
    And to live the very words that enthrall him

    With the rhythmic beat of his heart
    He guides the entrancing waves of the mighty ocean
    While his fragile body
    Mingles with the urchins of the seas
    Caring not for the diamonds at his feet
    His trenchant mind
    Wonders what wisdom
    The lucent moon reflects from the brilliant sun
    As he imagines dancing with the sparkling stars
    Blithely does he battle and subdue the withering storms
    While his humble soul rests peacefully
    In the welcoming arms of resplendent rainbows

    All in all
    He finds warmth and peace
    In the poetic words that awaken him
    And shelter him from the wild winds
    Of a turbulent and impermanent world

  100. David Madgalene says:

    World Poet
    by David Madgalene

    World Poet,
    thank you
    for not asking
    my credentials.
    Thank you
    for not asking
    where I went
    to school.
    Where have I
    been published.
    What books
    have I written.

    World Poet,
    thank you
    for your incredible courage.
    I live in a free country
    where I can say
    pretty much anything
    (and I have)
    and nobody hears.

    World Poet,
    you speak for others
    beside yourself.
    You speak the truth.
    World Poet,
    you write at
    the risk of

    World Poet,
    thank you
    for showing
    me that poetry
    Thank you
    for showing
    me that I, too,
    can be important.

    Sábado, 24 de septiembre de 2011
    David, Chiriquí, Panamá

    Fundación para las Artes Montilla e Hijos
    Casa Cultural La Guaricha
    Pinacoteca de Arte Contemporáneo de Chiriquí

    POEMAS – Panamá


    El corazón en ramas secas
    camina en el tiempo
    en el perfume que no huele
    en el espacio que no se llena

    Se fue el invierno
    volvió la primavera
    en los ojos de el de ella
    en los tuyos y en los míos

    Crepúsculo infinito
    amanecer de primavera
    esencia de las aves
    que se alejan y se alejan



    La noche
    perfuma la esperanza
    que nunca está muerta
    que envuelve los vientos
    con ojos de sirena
    como el mar embravecido
    que mece los silencios
    de almas que se amaron
    y murieron en la entrega



    Desnudo el sentimiento
    estremece el álamo
    que sudoroso
    se envuelve con el viento

    Como la latencia del volcán
    que anida el fuego
    y prende el alma con besos tiernos

    Miro tus ojos negros
    negros muy negros
    Cargados de miel
    fragantes como el cerezo
    límpidos como el silencio

    En las noches de agosto
    juré navegar el Atlántico
    sin máquina sin vela
    asido a la brújula
    de tus ojos negros



    En las noches de mi alma
    acaricio el plenilunio de tu iris
    y entre las sombras del silencio
    nazco al verdor

    La esencia de jazmín
    narcisos azaleas y gardenias
    marcan destinos de barcas
    mecidas por la nostalgia

    Que vivimos en el ojo del Barú
    lava de nuestra soledad
    eso fue cierto
    pero aún lo es más
    que todo tiene su tiempo
    y el nuestro ya no existe

    Sucesos tras sucesos
    borran la memoria
    abren páginas blancas

    Mañana será luz
    volcán de nueva ilusión



    (A Doris Dalila 3 de noviembre 2008)

    La brisa te envuelve
    en concierto de luna nueva
    laberinto de acuerdos
    anidan tu andar

    Retrospectiva de azaleas y narcisos
    del carpintero que danza y pinta
    y se asoma a tu alma
    para trascender lo infinito

    Recrea la huella imborrable
    del niño pintor, cantor
    poeta, escultor, compositor
    embrujo mítico trascendental
    pasado presente futuro de genio

    Voltea el lienzo
    que las cenizas acaricien
    el dosel de tu neonatal realidad

    La vida es vida
    con los que se fueron
    con los que están



    El mar sacude su bravura
    en el muro invisible
    en las noches quejosas
    en el canto lejano
    de cuerpos cimbreantes
    mecidos por la arena
    retomados por el tiempo
    asidos al calor
    al fuego a la luz
    que quema la brisa
    y arrastra sentimientos

    Sábado, 24 de septiembre de 2011
    David, Chiriquí, Panamá

    Fundación para las Artes Montilla e Hijos
    Casa Cultural La Guaricha
    Pinacoteca de Arte Contemporáneo de Chiriquí

    POEMAS – Panamá

    7. VERANO 2006

    cementerios de hojarascas
    arropan cimientos
    de caminos sin fin

    Caprichosas danzas
    cimbreantes formas
    vuelan al morir el invierno.

    Anuncian el verano azul



    Con besos suaves sinuosos
    la niebla embruja la cima
    camina despacio

    En romántico coloquio
    la infiel coquetea
    Las flores la invitan al amor
    mas la ingrata no desciende

    Celosas entonces
    vibran y contonean su belleza
    sin lograr atraparla
    Huidiza se esconde en la luz
    que se asoma y deja libre el alma.



    La luz
    se acostó contigo


    10. EL VUELO

    Basta de angustias
    y de sueños
    Abre tus alas
    Esfuma las horas
    los días y los años

    No pares

    Y cuando nazca la aurora
    toma mis manos entre tus manos
    y acaricia mi alma con tus labios



    ¿Y que rutas
    siguieron tus besos
    qué misterio los hizo dueños?

    Atravesaron el infinito
    que Cupido envolvió en rosas
    para perfumar la distancia
    y acercar los recuerdos

    Las noches sin ti son grises
    como gris es tu cabello
    y los años que sumados
    abrigan tu recuerdo

    En la longeva experiencia
    la entrega detiene el reloj
    sin importar lo pasado
    para en libre locura
    volver al amor



    Plenilunio de noches blancas
    nube desnuda de tu piel
    al compás del relincho
    mis dedos sacian
    la sed de tu espalda



    Con el alma clavada en tus labios
    no volverás a encontrar mi nido
    ni arroparte con mis besos
    dormirás con pipo
    rememorando apagar el fuego

    Tu caminar ya no vuela
    tu sonrisa es mueca de relincho
    en la bruma que sacude el adiós

    (Heredia Costa Rica, julio 2008)

    …… .………………………

    Sábado, 24 de septiembre de 2011
    David, Chiriquí, Panamá

    Fundación para las Artes Montilla e Hijos
    Casa Cultural La Guaricha
    Pinacoteca de Arte Contemporáneo de Chiriquí

    POEMAS – Panamá

    1. AZUL

    Las hojas
    entretejen sombras
    al ritmo del tiempo
    mariposas y libélulas
    conjugan su vuelo
    con la brisa.


    (México marzo 2005)

    ¿Qué buscas
    detrás de los ojos,
    historia o pensamiento?
    La nostalgia se asoma,
    un rictus de su luz
    la acompañan.

    Miro la tristeza,
    en la sonrisa
    de tus ojos agotados.
    Siento tu ser escondido
    en lo que dejas ver.
    Tu alma se desnuda
    en gestos.
    Al hablar, en tu mirar.
    inagotables hechos
    resumen tu vida
    son tuyos, solo tuyos
    a nadie le importan.


    3. AMANECE

    Amanece el llanto del cielo
    Amanece el olor a café

    Amanecen las ramas húmedas
    en el canto de los naranjos

    Amanece el dormir animal
    el aullar de los perros

    Amanece la noche
    que ha perdido su andar

    Amanece el gris del alba
    que deja entrever
    el arco iris

    Amanecen los cuerpos
    antes de tomar café.



    no saltes
    no grites


    en el llanto.



    La noche se ha ido
    en las alas del viento

    Al envolver tu silencio
    las penas trazan
    desconocidos senderos

    Tantos anhelos
    se esconden en el tiempo
    para volver a vivir



    Préstame tus alas mariposa
    comparte conmigo tu vuelo

    Arrastra la libertad del polen
    que salta salpica baila
    y se enamora
    hasta copular en esencia de vida

    [img]http://www.bigbridge.org/100thousandpoetsforchange/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/MARIELA MIRONES GARCÍA – ARTE – Panamá – 1.jpg[/img]

  104. Silverio Grogues says:

    Oración de un desocupado

    by Juan Gelman

    desde los cielos bájate, he olvidado
    las oraciones que me enseñó la abuela,
    pobrecita, ella reposa ahora,
    no tiene que lavar, limpiar, no tiene
    que preocuparse andando el día por la ropa,
    no tiene que velar la noche, pena y pena,
    rezar, pedirte cosas, rezongarte dulcemente.

    Desde los cielos bájate, si estás, bájate entonces,
    que me muero de hambre en esta esquina,
    que no sé de qué sirve haber nacido,
    que me miro las manos rechazadas,
    que no hay trabajo, no hay,
    bájate un poco, contempla
    esto que soy, este zapato roto,
    esta angustia, este estómago vacío,
    esta ciudad sin pan para mis dientes, la fiebre
    cavándome la carne,
    este dormir así,
    bajo la lluvia, castigado por el frío, perseguido
    te digo que no entiendo, Padre, bájate,
    tócame el alma, mírame
    el corazón,!
    yo no robé, no asesiné, fui niño
    y en cambio me golpean y golpean,
    te digo que no entiendo, Padre, bájate,
    si estás, que busco
    resignación en mí y no tengo y voy
    a agarrarme la rabia y a afilarla
    para pegar y voy
    a gritar a sangre en cuello
    de “Violín y otras cuestiones”

  105. Silverio Grogues says:

    El Desert Man

    ¿Y si me postergo,
    y si me usufructo de naciones?
    Es la duda que me mata,
    no las ensoñaciones,
    no la curiosidad voluptuosa
    que retoza de felinos;
    Será la tierra del desierto,
    la que amaso mi escultura,
    no la blanda tierra de tu patria.
    Y aunque un muro nos separa,
    nos une,
    nos desgarra;
    Chiflo imperecederamente;
    me transmigro a no me gustan las naciones,
    sin pretensiones,
    soy el hombre del desierto.


    Recital Poético mundial
    24 de septiembre de 2011

    Contact: Michael Rothenberg, Founder
    100 Thousand Poets for Change
    P.O. Box 870
    Guerneville, Ca 95446
    Phone: 305-753-4569

    Sede Chiriquí: Casa Cultural La Guaricha
    Organizado en David, Chiriquí, Panamá, por:
    Manuel E. Montilla
    Fundación para las Artes Montilla e Hijos
    (507) 6687 1607
    Pinacoteca de Arte Contemporáneo de Chiriquí

    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    POEMA 1
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Mariana, la de los senos grandes
    y piernas gordas.
    Castaño ahuecado es su corazón,
    duermo en su custodio erótico,
    me la llevo al arroyo.
    Se seco el arroyo.
    Mariana… NO.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 2
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Mi mamá era pobre,
    mi mamá era triste,
    tenía los ojos secos
    como pasas.
    Y no tenía panza
    porque no comía.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 3
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Mamá creció sola con mi abuela,
    mamá no tuvo luna, no tuvo estrella.
    Mamá fue solitaria,
    mamá parió cocuyos
    mamá parió caracoles,
    mamá parió arrozales,
    mamá parió maizales.
    Por eso mamá está seca
    como una viruela.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 4
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Hoy he visto pasar frente a mí
    aquella que fue mi viejo amor.
    Ahora viuda, cabellos revoltosos,
    mirar triste, caminar lento,
    falda negra, pechos caídos,
    la mirada perdida.
    No me ha reconocido.
    Yo fui su primer amor.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 5
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Cobijada bajo la sombra de un bambú,
    la vi en una noche de luna llena,
    estaba solitaria, danzando
    junto a los vergeles y los nenúfares.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 6
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Calle del Silencio,
    calle empedrada
    del Barrio bolívar,
    en donde el viento
    sopla la arenisca,
    y el árbol se mezcla
    con la noche.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 7
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    La vi en el bar,
    tomando cerveza.
    La vi sola en el bar,
    con su tristeza.
    No me queda nada.
    La vi sola en el bar.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 8
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    La vi entre las brumas,
    vestida de rojo,
    una rosa en su pelo,
    y una sonrisa de muerte.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 9
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Me acerqué a ella,
    vestida de azul,
    sus negros ojos
    se fijaron en mi.
    ¿Quién era?
    No lo sé.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 10
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Hortensia, te invito
    a cazar golondrinas.
    Espero verte
    al lado del puente añejo.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 11
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Mariana toca su flauta de bambú.
    Un sordo la oye,
    pegado a su balcón.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 12
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Cobijada bajo el árbol que tengo,
    la vi con sus ojos verdes.
    Ella, sola y adolescente,
    me miró con sus ojos verdes.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 13
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Hermosa chola Guaimí,
    Que ocultas bajo tu falda de colores.
    ¿Un hijo del patrón?

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 14
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Cosechadora de algarrobas,
    corte jovial…
    ¿Cuándo te hallaré
    a la orilla del río David?

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011
    POEMA 15
    (Panamá, 25 mayo 1943)

    Debajo del nance,
    ella dormía.
    Yo la vi de lejos.
    El nance,
    también la veía.

    David, 4 septiembre de 2011

    Foto: José Amet Caballero Vindas – Cerro Punta, Chiriquí.

  107. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Change for the better
    As you would your clothes
    Change the one thing you can change
    Rather than try to change the five things you cannot
    Be “one in a million”
    Instead of “one of a million”

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  108. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    When the womb of nature
    Gives birth to the splendor of life
    The true grace of nature glows
    As though in a kaleidoscopic vision

    When the ocean of death
    Storms onto the beaches of life
    The true wrath of nature erupts
    As though in a nightmarish dream

    The whims of nature may be unpredictable
    But the power of nature
    Makes us realize the value of life
    And implants in us the meaning of life

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  109. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Let not nine eleven
    Be the seventh heaven
    For those who would destroy our freedom
    And steal our democracy and kingdom

    We may have cut off the head
    But the tail is still not dead
    Let us make cocksure
    The tail wags no more

    Let not nine eleven
    Be our final coffin
    Let us make them see their folly
    Wave our flag and make them sorry

    Let us show that nine eleven
    Is to us manna from heaven
    That instills in us the fervor
    To love our nation and serve her

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  110. Teresa says:

    by Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Life is changing
    World is changing
    Change will come
    To all, not some
    No matter what we do
    Only thing we can do
    Is decelerate change
    Or accelerate change
    But change we can’t change
    It is real, though strange
    And though we may try to deny
    We cannot, by nature, defy
    Change is a sure fire determinant
    In our frail lives which are impermanent

    • Longing
      by Suniita’ (Lynvilene Mitra Malapitan)

      Hide my heart, hide for now.
      For your longing for love will only set forth solitude.
      And in your solitude invite silence and talk to it as one would to a friend.
      And when the conversation is over and it’s time to part,
      See to it that you set it free with gladness and let it long for love once more
      For when solitude check out on you once again…
      Your longing is a thing to hide no more

      Now be glad my heart be glad.
      For you are infinitely free and longing is just a passing thing you see.
      Sooner or later you’ll meet again…
      To long for more and love once more.

  111. Gnome Alice says:

    Poem for Change

    I want a lot of stuff to change
    Everything is changing, nothing is the same
    it is impossible to stop change
    each moment unique, all new and gone

    Poets could change, I could write nothing
    Stop drinking and get meaningful employment
    we could ask for those around us to change
    we could hold our breath until we turn blue

    Change the weather? Change adults? Schools?
    Education? Hunger? Change energy? I wish
    Environmental disasters? Accept global warming?
    Sex/gender, anarchy/social order, war/peace?

    Maybe for me poetry for change means
    I should stop talking or writing what I think
    Get up and do something
    Something …big….something powerful

    The power to control and destroy
    the power to create and nurture
    Given the love of the vision of democracy
    one would think equity would be most powerful

    religion drives inequity like oil drives global warming
    tell the global truth, let freedom ring
    not just the romantic “suffering” of ourselves
    but equity, the end of capitalism and imperialism,

    Maybe I can’t change anything without words
    I am without words or power. Am I minus power
    I know the history of our civilization
    Poets write there is no changing the past

    I know we used to be cannibals
    I know we are evolving in spite of Dick Cheney
    we evolve if we steer or don’t
    literature documents, leads and directs

    Be accountable for what you sing, write, play
    know the agenda you are supporting
    require social responsibility of all art
    treat the Earth as if she is your beloved

  112. A Poetry Hole Opened In The Sky

    A poetry hole opened in the sky
    And poetry started to rush out

    At first we thought there must be so much poetry
    It would take forever to empty the world

    But each poem blew the hole wider
    And so now we must get to work again

    We must breathe into the word
    And let language rise up among us

    If there is no poetry left in the world
    Our kind will die forever

    Without poetry we won’t walk
    out into the middle of the river

    just to see what’s done
    To our reflections by the waves

    Quicker than time can drag poetry
    Gasping away forever

    We must make up the new world,
    The new words, the new ways


    POEMAS: Elvia Alvarado de Amador


    AÑORANZA (1972)

    Trae la brisa el pensamiento
    de la tierra que añoramos
    de los pollo, las gallinas,
    cocinados y escondidos, también
    de la chicha, el río, y la mano de pilón,
    la nata de leche hervida,
    la tortilla, el chicharrón.

    La misa de los domingos
    el paño y el abanico
    las cuentas de mi rosario
    y el olor de los jazmines
    el sermón dominical y de noche
    la retreta, los patines
    y aquel sabroso raspado
    saboreado con furor
    y ese regaño oportuno por
    la mancha que cayó
    sobre ese vestido nuevo
    que abuelita nos compró.

    La navidad de diciembre
    los dulces y banderitas
    que daban en el marcado
    por la compra generosa
    que pagaba la abuelita.

    El chocolate caliente
    la rosca de pan de huevo
    el cake de Casita Blanca
    los besos brujos del BABY.

    El 19 de marzo en el Jorón
    y la Feria, los disfraces
    la alegría, el sabor de patronales
    la brisa fuerte y sonora
    la hojarasca, el remolino
    las cruces en nuestros dedos
    alejando el torbellino.

    Samana Santa en David
    precesión, recogimiento, contricción
    respeto a Dios que se lleva en el
    Sepulcro, las velas en cada mano
    y las cruces de macano
    para pagar penitencias
    ¡esas coronas de espinas
    presionando las cabezas.!

    Año Nuevo, risas, llantos
    y promesas,
    estrechón de mano fuerte
    abrazo de hermano a hermano
    beso fortuito de novios
    y plegaria a nuestro Dios
    agradeciéndole el año que
    a las doce se cumplió.

    Son recuerdos que se evocan
    porque no pueden volver
    y a cada rato se añoran
    pues fue algo que pasó
    pero que dejó en la vida
    felicidad y amor.

    Amor a la patria chica
    que muy grande se erigió
    desde el Viguí hasta Burica
    desde el Soloy al Barú.

    Hoy la brisa me recuerda
    mi David y su esplendor
    el patio de la abuelita
    y la leña que cortó
    para hacer el Suripico
    que enfrascado se traerá
    al final de vacaciones
    para acá, pa’la ciudad,
    donde gritos y pregones
    de pronto nos romperá
    el embrujo de los campos
    y el sabor de libertad.

    Libertad de tierra adentro
    mojada por el sudor
    de hombres de raza fuerte
    de mujeres de valor
    de niños sanos y fuertes
    de lucha de mucho amor.


    POEMAS Mario José Molina Castillo

    Obra poética: Desnudos en el silencio, 2010

    Autor: Mario José Molina Castillo.


    La luna ilumina la azulosa marejada,
    el silencio penetra por la creciente,
    y el arenal aflora a tus pies,
    vino la vaciante,
    tus poros se excitaron
    y tu silueta desentraña las aguas,
    el viento hace eco
    y el cardumen corteja tu cuerpo.
    Hoy convives en la sonoridad del caracol,
    el alga se anida,
    la respiración se acorta,
    el pensamiento desvanece la realidad
    y la luna cierne el adiós,
    se enamoró de la soledad del viento.

    (Fotos: LOIS IGLESIAS)

    POEMAS –
    María del Socorro Robayo


    Desde el vacío
    de la soledad,
    arrastrarás la ausencia
    que te legaron los caminos
    y, a pesar de que sacudas el polvo
    y limpies el barro,
    seguirás llevando en los ojos
    el brillo del olvido.


    Maritza Magda Araúz

    Por el camino viejo me alejé de mi hogar,
    este viejo camino me dio su bendición.
    Cuando yo me alejaba, él me decía muy quedo
    aquí estaré esperando cuando quieras volver.
    Ahora cuando vuelvo, él está siempre allí,
    recostado tranquilo en su cama de piedra
    y sus viejos recodos parecen sonreír.
    Como un abuelo viejo que espera con paciencia,
    revivir poco a poco los recuerdos de ayer.
    Corrientes de alegría inundaban su cause
    cuando los hijos pródigos volvían al hogar,
    nuestra humilde casita se llenaba de luces
    y hasta el viejo camino parecía florecer.
    En las tardes tranquilas, cuando el sol ya se iba,
    en sus brazos abiertos se podía descansar,
    esperar que el camino mitigara las penas,
    con luciérnagas mágicas las sombras deshacer.

  117. Tsoltim N. Shakabpa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Brave soldiers of America
    With names like Joe and Erica
    We honor you and stand by you
    Trust in you and pray for you
    No only our country do you defend
    But many others upon you depend

    American soldiers bearing arms in hand
    Courageously riding tanks in desert sand
    Gallantly lay their lives on the line
    Heroically for your freedom and mine
    For democracy and peace they stand
    No matter what the country or land
    They wave the red, white and blue
    To God and country they stand true

    Brave soldiers of America
    With names like Cho and Jessica
    We honor you and stand by you
    Trust in you and pray for you
    Not only our country do you defend
    But many others upon you depend

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

  118. DeEtta Leaton Crawford says:

    Black-eyed Susan
    By DeEtta L. Leaton Crawford
    Survivor of 18 ½ years of abuse

    My name is Black-eyed Susan
    That’s what I call myself
    Survive and endure, my life of pain
    If I walk away now, I will find no help
    Black eyes and broken bones,
    Upraised voices and pounding fists
    Are they better than a broken home?
    No one believes me when I say he did this.
    Bruises all over my body
    Wounds on my soul and heart
    I looked in the mirror this morning
    My face is a work of art
    Punch me, kick me, trap me, slap me
    Hit me, spit on me, punch me in the face
    Refuse to divorce me, sexually force me
    Abuse me, use me, put me in my place
    Brutal assault, it’s all my fault
    Shake me, break me, just to still me
    You wish I was dead and hold a gun to my head
    Boot me, shoot me, say you want to kill me
    Dominate me, isolate me, take away all that I own
    Tangle me, strangle me, choke me till I’m blue
    Manipulate me, suffocate me, hold me under till I drown
    I throw up my hands, what’s a poor soul to do?
    Say you love me, turtle dove me
    Say it will never happen again
    But you knock me unconscious one more time
    And I wake up in the hospital with a head full of pain
    Helpless, hopeless, so numb I’m mopeless
    No way out alive to my dismay
    But the question remains unanswered but true
    What did I do to be treated this way?

    • Merry O'Brien says:

      Every word in your poem hits my heart, I was a victim of abuse as well, I am no longer stuck in that cage, but I relate with every feeling you have expressed. thank you

      • Merry O'Brien says:


        A hole exists where you once were
        I have been trying to fill it with busy work
        My best friend is gone
        I feel alone
        I am still grieving
        When I thought I was ok
        A small trigger
        The pain creeps back up
        From the place I carefully
        Tucked it away in
        Moving on without you
        I make myself blind
        To keep away the pain
        I am filling the hole
        With nothingness
        You were something
        Something special
        I no longer want this hole.

        Written by: Merry O’Brien
        August 30, 2011
        © Merry O’Brien

  119. Nancy Keane says:

    In San Francisco
    at 826 Valencia
    children’s words and
    songs of freedom,
    justice, peace,
    origami doves in flight,
    rise above walls of
    ignorance, injustice

  120. flying birds – by maria toscano / Coimbra, Portugal


    the birds fly through the wars

    since the wars to this poem.


    the children die in mummy’s arms

    both lay down on this poem.


    the soldier-child died through the bombs

    his father hurts at this poem.


    those birds flying in the dark sky

    came softly to this poem.


    birds. words fly inside my poem.


    maria toscano.

    coimbra, restaurante ‘jardim da manga’. 7 / agosto / 2011.

  121. John Curl says:

    by John Curl

    Beyond the well, along the dusty road,
    America first,
    the acrid, rust-red soil supporting
    only an occasional small vineyard,
    they strolled house to house,
    executing families.

    We heard a great noise and
    were all enveloped in a wall
    of heat and steam, while
    concrete balconies crashed
    into parked cars, an officer
    lowered a plastic bag over her
    head while another ground a lit
    cigarette into her arm,
    America first.

    The melting snow, semi-translucent
    and shining in the lantern glow,
    seemed to be carved out
    of a block of amber.
    We worked
    our way back, following
    a little creek, sucking on
    twigs of sassafras
    and radiant sunshine
    until, fringed by majestic pines,
    we reached the canyon edge
    and lit the sacred fire.
    All we had were elders, drums, spirits,
    and what they told us.

    Although the time scale was so
    vast and the abuse of evidence
    so complete as to render it
    unlikely, the flutes
    and rattles summoned a
    universal healing.

    It was the moment of return,
    the ancient languages,
    long declared extinct by the experts,
    springing suddenly back to life,
    America first.

    Copyright © 2011 by John Curl. All rights reserved.

  122. Maksimovski Marjan says:

    Something of the “I, you and world”
    Many texts are in the preparation of translations in English and other languages.Dat is not easy to
    translate everything from my Macedonian where I in the creation of original poetry. Must note that
    the quality of lines remain, and the style of expression. How is the job of translation worked so I
    advertised my poetry to you. And that of course if it creates pleasure.
    I believe that accept my greetings
    C O M E S
    Truth, out night caresses,
    by region horizon reaches that comes,
    you’re, elegance ate, such you are, told you,
    woman on a warm hand of hail,
    related link desire to you, towing,
    mote the idea thought we tower,
    near Moscow, glamur,
    ‘re still my Russia wonderful,
    where in a dream, shake the kiss in my arms,
    and I wanted bell words fortune-teller,
    Promised fairytale, to tell us to meet.
    Composite verse, caressing hoof by heaven, to America,
    respect life I was taught us, to love,
    by you to walk and spaces that we want,
    once and sometimes the open door of my Europe,
    in aspiration gall related Arab beauty, if it does,
    what luck Today more of us found,
    that there is so, wish we meet,
    the wall, I said, people, in the world they wore,
    in his corner of the eyes expand,
    flicker messages on all its sides,
    jenny that cherry During that unselfishly we promised,
    string to read my song,
    to honor in ore by heaven and earth,
    pleased to charm forces be, Tower,
    with wave mountains and fields, sea and river,
    come with me to the conversation.
    The magical scene in starlit course, said,
    I, man, by step, the shine and glow,
    when I am by the length, anchor iron ring in the chain Aryan,
    and wanted in my curd Andalusia to love,
    somewhere in the ripple Paris by passions reach,
    touch by walls hills floorcloth Queen of England,
    I think with the lark woke spaces, long ago it was,
    corner litter Feeding she-wolf saint, legend,
    by the Caesar width shot,
    caught wishlist range reaches,
    when it is Asia in anfaz inflorescence its yellow face,
    confluence beauty, soul and body,
    in purple inflorescence, game smile, India,
    in terms of its long cherry,
    Ramzes, Strel is about his falcon,
    the word a rousing night Red Day in Africa
    by roads fairytales to us of ancient Thrace,
    degree our lady Mary in it,
    the bell to hail me Athens coach,
    tone caught, Proud, talking about Helada,
    by shine shield in the eternity of Macedonia,
    the spear was thrown, lightning cuts,
    landscape by the people, from there to here,
    this world is our home, this world is our watering place,
    in this world we have our truth,
    in step coming.
    Maksimovski Marjan
    Today, we are narrating, and smile,
    at watching, by thiness bells ringing,
    binoculars with him, in terms that I see,
    today, that we are burning song,
    with games, magic,awakens us to Birth,
    in contact, with glow, that radiates the source,
    here, one for another, we, you and me,
    to whisper rustle each sheet,
    At any words directed,
    by rainbow,in the landscape of the earth to heaven,
    day on step, on
    Fortunately the stood.
    Today, word me is , for centuries,
    from here to you, palms we docked,
    as anyone,how our hearts knocking,
    us by our forces,wake goodness,
    and I, even in the dream, I was not hatred.
    Long, I want you, to have you in my arms,
    whirlwind that we are fresh that caresses,
    themselves, and the entire world with us to create ,
    with so many great victory of Sighs.
    Today, with our feet throne walk,
    way, as for us men for the glory,
    in preference to this planet,
    passion thrown during cuttlefish ,
    find with you and with everyone,
    in the century eternity written,
    with desire purposes aimed sigh in the circle,
    where the hand *alt’n width rushed,
    ode in goblet flowering convert the,
    Night, boiling kissing awoke,
    with him, we even greater,
    how many of covers Osten,
    string sky month to blossom
    that our future.
    Marjan Maksimovski
    * (alt’n;altan; – Turkish word; word with the dialect area,
    of Macedonia, for the color of gold, and something shining
    or described as gold).
    Translation is a computer program.
    Tears sparks,from these eyes,chord you,
    two *pupils engraved in heaven. *(pupils of the eye)
    on whitish, sky landscape, the sun and the Moon.
    In the morning ,next to whiteness days,
    cradle time brings serenity.
    From the legends of ancient give desire,
    Today schism you did not, but hope.
    For centuries the words, drink goodness,
    somewhere as restlessness, girl, woman.
    Propulsion of the great fairy tales and is not rendered,
    are you, guard ancient desires,
    what is now before me stand,
    poured out wisdom, sigh and stature,
    when empty night they give,
    provided when you smile the day,
    smile you are on the thrown landscape dawn
    sounds whisper infinity our birth.
    Once , I said, somewhere,
    long thought carries me,
    my and your desire,the written message,
    the river which carries the,
    that life is not forgotten,
    of speck in the sky, the birds in view,
    happiness, of sleep up reality,
    on it, we met, provided palms joy.
    Marjan Maksimovski
    *(zenica-pupils of the eye)
    Translation is a computer program.
    From sunset of the night
    in the spirit of the time,
    at Holi legends
    In Witleem, to the present,
    still, beauty.
    For all of us,
    when and West and East
    and North and South
    were next to us,
    Drops dance passion
    Beauty soul,
    the gift of life.
    When they are all for May,
    Circle time,
    life and spirit in him.
    The creation of love,
    mine and yours
    and our and your,
    We and they,he, she and you and all,
    really is a kiss in the embrace,
    time of love creates.
    “On all the Clock watch hand is love at midnight”
    Marjan Maksimovski
    (*”On all the Clock watch hand is love at midnight”-Verse from poeme – “Suzana”
    from the book of poetry “In Sunset tear Rose”–“Vo zalezot solzat rozi” from the
    Stole Maksimovski). Translation is a computer program.

  123. Tsoltim N. Shakabpa says:

    (Dedicated to my daughter, Pema Yudon)
    by Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Though I want to relive
    The memories of her childhood with me
    And freeze every vision of her angelic face
    She keeps on slipping through my fingers
    Whenever I think I know her
    She keeps on growing
    Glowing, knowing and going
    I know not how to let her go
    Though I know I must one day
    I recall every moment
    I spent with her
    Moments when I used to twirl
    My finger across her palm
    And she would fall asleep smiling
    I treasure every instance
    She hugged me tight and whispered
    “I love you bigger than the universe”
    Now she’s grown
    And slipping through my fingers
    And away she’s flown
    Taking with her
    All the plans I made for us
    But life’s full of surprises
    Full of hellos and goodbyes
    Thus though sadly I must say goodbye
    To a precious child I once knew
    I’m so glad I can say hello
    To a precious woman I now know
    Whose love for me grows with age
    And for whom my love knows no end

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  124. TANMOY ROY says:

    tanmoy roy organizer of bongaon, west bengal, india paint send by Barnaly Bala

  125. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    The glory of a nation
    Can be found in its people

    Not in its rulers
    The ruin of a nation
    Can be found in its rulers

    Not in its people
    The wealth of a nation
    Can be found in its values

    Not in its money
    The heart of a nation
    Can be found in its streets

    Not in its citadels of power
    The joy of a nation
    Can be found in its heart

    Not in its celebrations
    The beliefs of a nation
    Can be found in its people’s silent prayers

    Not in its politicians’ loud speeches
    The power of a nation
    Can be found in its beliefs

    Not in its guns
    The future of a nation
    Can be found in its will
    Not in its power

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

    TSOLTIM N. SHAKABPA is a recognized Tibetan poet and a dedicated political activist for a free Tibet. He is the son of Tsepon Wabgchuk Deden Shakabpa, the eminent Tibetan historian, statesman, freedom fighter and former Finance Minister of independent Tibet.

  126. Marty Smith says:

    our man Jack

    our man Jack
    a voice for change
    not a voice in the wilderness
    not a voice from the mean streets

    our man Jack
    a man of class
    one who let his passion take action
    one who gave his voice to justice

    justice for one and all

    our man Jack
    a voice for civility in government
    a voice for freedom in society
    a man of action

    our man Jack
    who gave his best for all
    we give our best to you.

    We give our best to you
    oh, Jack
    we give our best to you

    we give our hope to you
    oh, Jack
    who gives us a vision to hope for

    who gives us a justice to dream for
    who gives us the courage to stand
    in the face of wrong doing by any
    who don’t cherish this beautiful land

    who gives us the courage to move onward
    keep justice the vision we brand
    so our children and their children also
    will have children, and children again

    • Tsoltim N. Shakabpa says:

      By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

      The glory of a nation
      Can be found in its people
      Not in its rulers

      The ruin of a nation
      Can be found in its rulers
      Not in its people

      The wealth of a nation
      Can be found in its values
      Not in its money

      The heart of a nation
      Can be found in its streets
      Not in its citadels of power

      The joy of a nation
      Can be found in its heart
      Not in its celebrations

      The beliefs of a nation
      Can be found in its people’s silent prayers
      Not in its politicians’ loud speeches

      The power of a nation
      Can be found in its beliefs
      Not in its guns

      The future of a nation
      Can be found in its will
      Not in its power

      Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011


      • red slider says:

        Tsoltim, I read each stanza as if it were a primer on how to build a society – like a train on which one only needed to select the correct track switches at critical junctures to arrive at a worthy destination: people>not rulers>values>heart>…. But the last stanza stopped me. “Will”? Yes, I thought, the will to pull all the right switches along the way. But for the final switch, the future…, i think I was hoping for ‘>the children’

    • red slider says:

      Marty, I do so envy your optimism. A nice counterbalance to my dreary predictions of ‘nothing much changing’ – I’ll gladly confess, it’s the one time I hope the other guy’s right.

  127. red slider says:

    There Is No Such Thing as a ‘Minor War’

    I was born into the warlight of the world. There were beds in the corridor of the hospital and blackout curtains on all the windows. My unwrapped consciousness was already marked by the in-utero war rations and the pump of a daily cocktail of war-anxiety that rippled through the soup of hormones in which I bathed. For the next three-quarters of a century it would remain so.

    There are big wars and small wars, fat ones and thin ones; wars that only kill ‘them’, ones that kill us, too. In the beginning, there was supposed to be just one; the one to end all the other ones. It didn’t. The script went on, the Theater of Pain kept producing new ones. I expect I will also die in the warlight of the world.

    I set about selecting a few anti-war pieces suitable for the annual local get together of Poets Against War. I should not have been surprised that nearly all my work had some mark of war on it; on the surface or etched deep into the layers of the palimpsest of my life. Nothing, it would appear, can escape being marred by the years of reciting the same script, over and over. My mind simply cannot divorce itself from the scratches of war. Having some pure, peace-bent thought within a national consciousness that makes war the very centerpiece of its own ego is impossible. Everything we say or do is tainted by the fact that war is in the very air we breathe, the language we use and the thought we think. We cannot avoid the fact that we, too, are an occupied and preoccupied nation. No matter that we say we will fashion ‘peace’ – we are so tilted by war that the very path to that wish only circumnavigates a globe of horror.

    We write, we cry out, we dance, we sing under the lamp of warlight. “Six big ones,” I said, but the reality is that the countless ‘little ones’, the ones that only spend a few days in the news, are not really any smaller. They all survive and metastasize and go right on re-enforcing our grand delusion that they are somehow “necessary steps” on the road to peace – “peacemaking’” or “peacekeeping” we dub them as we bomb the daylights out of someone or something.

    Truth is, there has only been one war – and it is huge. Iraq, Afganistan, Pakistan, India – one war: Vietnam, Lebanon, Indonesia, E. Timor, Chile, One war. WWI, WWII, the next war; they are all the same war, and they are all MAJOR WARS. From the very beginning, those who wage them and those who suffer them – soldier and civilian alike – are war’s victims. For our species and our planet, there has never been and never will be such thing as a ‘minor war’.

    – red slider, November, 2010
    fr. “There Is No Such Thing as a ‘Minor War”, a chapbook.

  128. Margery Parsons says:

    Snow on Baghdad

    January, 2008

    After another night of bombings, fire and death
    the people of Baghdad woke
    to falling snow,
    fat, soft, lacy flakes
    alighting on the fronds of palm trees,
    roofs of skyscrapers and tenements,
    ruins of ancient buildings,
    spires of minarets,
    coaxing people out on balconies and streets
    bundled in their warmest clothing
    to savor the delight
    of the dazzling but gentle white.
    Who, seeing the wonder in their eyes,
    their giddy smiles, could deny
    these are human beings –
    human beings!
    How can we tolerate
    their being raped, murdered, plundered
    in our name
    by an insatiable empire so
    much colder than the coldest, iciest snow.

  129. Zev Davis says:


    I didn’t know
    who he was, perhaps
    he saw me somewhere, and
    I was there too. I didn’t notice him, but
    he remembered me, maybe. Anyway,
    along the highway that circles the town, at midnight

    at an all night gas station, over an espresso
    shooting the breeze, he opened the door as I
    was on my way out. Returning home on a late evening walk
    he opened the door—
    Saalam Aleikum
    Aleikum Saalam.

    Zev Davis

  130. Tsoltim N. Shakabpa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    The practice of compassion
    Doth take many forms

    Mindful of how despondent
    The infirm, poor and dying were
    Mother Theresa gave them a loving home

    Mindful of how many innocent lives
    Osama Bin Laden could annihilate
    Obama rid the world of Osama

    Let us too practice compassion
    And rid China of oligarchy
    Let us practice compassion
    And let the voices of freedom be heard
    Let us practice compassion
    And rid the world of Chinese hegemony
    Let us practice compassion
    And free Tibet from Chinese occupation and repression
    Let us practice compassion
    And deliver the Han people in Tibet back to their homeland, China

    Let us practice compassion

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  131. The list of Triad Poetry Meetup poets and other local poets is growing hopefully there will be at least 20 poets or other artist signed up for this event plus the walk-in open mic voices for Triad Poetry Meetup four hour role in this movement.

  132. red slider says:

    Someday, the natural language of the world might be poetry. In that case:

    The President’s Poesy State of the Union Address:

    I bumped my head on this low hanging ceiling,
    looked around at the jackals nipping at my heels
    like they hadn’t had a meal and were closing for the kill;
    But I knew they’d eaten plenty the last time at this table.

    They had their feast of fat and muscle (blood and bone as well) ;
    they’d gorged themselves at our expense; looted the pantry,
    turned on the spigots of war, and washed in the rivers
    of dollars and cents, until it was time to pay the bill.

    Now they yell and scream about hunger and lean,
    while dismembering whatever is left of the carcass,
    declare they weren’t involved in this fable
    and pretend their lard-ass nowhere to be seen.

    Though Justice be blind and the poor so much prey,
    the rest of us bought off, or scared off, or tired,
    The State of the Union demands ending this game;
    that the people hunt jackal, till that species has expired.

    – red slider, august, 2011

    [ps. New sister petition to ‘Mission Accomplished’ is at http://www.change.org/petitions/starship-darpa-add-american-poets-to-your-specifications Please sign it. – red ]

  133. Gary D Buxton says:

    Looking forward to being pasrt of a great poetry event.

    words by Gary D. Buxton copyright September 2001

    I see
    I call
    I hurt
    I feel,

    I fall
    I cringe
    I cry
    I reel

    I rant
    I rave
    I wrong
    I right,

    I touch
    I take
    I keep
    I might

    I forget
    I recall
    I accuse
    I blame,

    I light
    I stoke
    I burn
    I flame

    I rue
    I seek
    I follow
    I lead,

    I love
    I lose
    I want
    I need

  134. Tsoltim N. Shakabpa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    A fly flew into her eye
    Which led to a pain
    Which led to a sore
    Which will lead to an ulcer
    Which will lead to cancer
    Which will lead to death

    We are that fly
    In China’s eye

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

  135. Poem: Embryonic Ideal

    How can I change the World that I see,
    unless I’m willing to begin with me?
    Sharing the Word via the use of Godly platitudes
    fails to work with the wrong heart’s attitude.
    As human, we’re all inherently flawed;
    we all need God’s grace and to not be judged by His law.
    Although the world is in a hurting mess,
    there’s help available for these times of distress.
    We have within us the ability to find
    solutions for the battles of our minds.
    It’s certainly possible to make Change real –
    Embrace this seed of an embryonic ideal:
    See the embodiment of God in others,
    since we’re the keepers… of our brother.

    Author notes:

    Loosely based on:
    Gen 4:9; Eph 4:23; Rom 8:6

    Learn more about me and my poetry at:

    By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2011, All rights reserved.

  136. Le feu de tout bois

    J’ai conforté le pouvoir du pouvoir, car je ne maîtrise pas l’inconnu.
    Dieu est dans le ciel parmi les hélicoptères, les avions et les satellites ainsi qu’au fond du cerveau où la lumière réclame un nom.
    La créer ou la découvrir n’est qu’une fantaisie. Elle est toute définie : c’est une propriété, un élan de désir, une marque déposée. Et pourtant… la liberté aurait pu être le contour de l’âme.
    Se positionner pour croître. Détourner et réduire nos libertés qualitatives, se cristalliser en victimes de nos propres logiques. Liberté du non-partage, Maelström de réductions, cheval de Troie des petitesses, de l’ignorance et de l’incompréhension promues au rang de valeurs. Violences soignées par des violences. Fermeture des horizons, des chemins de traverse et des correspondances. Discipline de la raideur, forme niant son fond, cultivant, nourrissant et excitant ses monstres en colère pour mieux se faire peur et prouver par la preuve que le bien et le mal sont définitifs. Chaque chose à sa place. Notre bien cherche activement son mal.

    Défense d’entrer-propriété privée. De l’autre côté du mur, un peu de quoi se reposer. Des chiffres ronds comme des colliers étincelant de zéros multiples masqués sous un loup bleu dans un bal charmant, cache-cash aux îles caïmans, du potentiel concentré en sommeil fiscal sous un petit parasol avec débris de glaçons.

    Pratique pour la pratique. L’ennemi est désigné : la nuance qui menace l’immuable. Un immuable de pacotille, fantasmé, petit monde privilégié aux qualités toutes matérielles où l’on se purifie en brulant les conséquences de ses propres égoïsmes dont la noirceur se diffuse et s’étend dans tout l’espace laissé vide des essences perdues. Certaines formes rapides, devenues plus pauvres et identiques, s’élancent dans une dynamique de recherche sans fond, pur mouvement : celle de tous ces faibles qui réclament de la force. Alors on cultivera la force. Elle se nourrira d’elle-même, d’année en année, toujours plus grosse : futurs cadavres oubliés sur les champs de bataille de guerres absurdes et fratricides. La force implosera : ce n’était qu’une énergie éprise d’elle-même, comblant son vide glacial par le feu de tout bois. Holocauste au Dieu des absences.

    L’homme (quel homme ?) transforme le monde à son image jusqu’à le dissoudre. Il ne lui restera bientôt plus que des images… Des images et des dollars qui se feront la course. Des images rongées par des images. L’homme appellera son monde aux abonnés absents avec un forfait spécial. Une grande facture universelle pleine de promesses tout de suite après la pub… En attendant le Messie, la Croissance, le tirage gagnant du loto, les princesses, les chevaux blancs, les hommes providentiels, les vaccins, la Révolution et la Finale de la coupe.

    De quoi mon âme sera-t-elle faite ? Une âme-mémoire ayant bouffé son monde ? La plupart des essences sont nées de parents inconnus au-delà du ciel visible et des drapeaux. Gamines, encore avides d’amour et de caresses, elles venaient jouer jusque sous nos terrasses et quémander un nom. On leur a dit merde avec de petits riens. On leur a donné les dénominations en boutique, sur l’autel de la caisse pour faciliter l’effet et la digestion. Plus tard, écœurées, elles finissent par nier et se démultiplient en éclairages de basse consommation. On les jette dans la bataille, dans les arènes des experts auto-désignés en maillons faibles pour le bonheur hiérarchique des forts en force. Elles dansent, dansent et s’agitent, offrent leur cul, piétinent leur cœur palpitant… Elles le piétinent jusqu’à ce qu’il transpire de transparence, de maquillage et d’endorphines, pour que le monde fusillé de lumières artificielles change le loup en caniche, aligne les arbres et détourne les fleuves. Puis, désorientées, se cognent aux reflets de leurs collections de miroirs, elles deviennent nostalgiques et remplacent la création libre par des marbres dogmatiques, des âges d’or valeurs refuges et des prières aux images des origines comme un enfant malade appelle sa mère dans la nuit.

    Elles dansent sur le top du top, satellites des pulsations du désir dérivé et des prières organisées. Puis on les exporte pétillantes et toutes consommées, démultipliées sur des étalages d’amour en boîte et de sourires en tube. Des sourires qui se conjuguent entre les îles, les détroits, sous le soleil et les orages pour s’échouer un jour, déchets plastiques mal décomposés dans le suc gastrique des dernières forêts primitives, denses et touffues où vivent des animaux sauvages porteurs d’émetteurs sponsorisés par des dons couverts de mousses et de limons. Des voix tendres et douces comme de la crème nous apprennent à les protéger en stéréo sur un grand écran plat, d’une définition parfaite, fabriqué dans l’autre hémisphère et embarqué sur un yacht tropical avec des « amis » (très chers) qui évacuent le stress sur fond de musiques mystiques et de massages coquins pour les générations futures dans un nuage d’avenir, d’espoir, de désir, de futur, de possible, de changement, de compétence, de papillons, d’enfants, de villages, de bons parents et autres ballons de campagne colorés du bond électoral sur la scène sécurisée en saluant la foule moderne qui trépigne et synchronise sa marche vers le synthétique bouillon primitif.

    Creusez des sources curieuses et cultivez l’esthétique dans l’instant ouvert de la décision et de l’indécision, n’étouffez pas la respiration des idées et des qualités, tolérez la palette de leur diversité. Et pour l’évolution volontaire, réfléchie et déniaisée des potentiels, osez cultiver la paix, un peu d’amour et de partage. La violence se fatiguera alors peut-être ou, ne se prendra plus au sérieux, coeur en tambour, fleur vénéneuse, dans les cycles ouverts en sursis. Et nous verrons peut-être pointer le museau de l’amour qui viendra nous titiller et nous lui courrons après en riant dans nos forêts, dans les rues de nos villes, dans nos champs, dans nos étreintes fougueuses, sur nos océans, tout autour du monde et au delà… Et en reprenant notre souffle dans l’immensité nous nous exclamerons peut-être : Tout beau ! Que nous étions bêtes… !

    • red slider says:

      Joël, very powerful. I fear my bablefish translation conveyed only a fraction of the original (even then, some of it clearly garbled). Like to see a good English translation, if you have one. A really excellent, if treacherous landscape. Thank you.

  137. Manifesto for the Abolition of Bureaucracy
    by Valery Oisteanu

    To be and not to be…
    In a failed American democracy
    Watch the surf going up
    While the Navy plays war games on the beaches of Puerto Rico
    Can we survive the environmental conspicuous consumption?
    Living next to the nuke dump, next to the oil drilling
    Can you keep any individuality in the age of cloning?
    Can you be yourself in a genetically brain manipulation society?
    Let’s abolish medieval bureaucracy
    Abandon the shabby machines of voting
    The rigged system behind closed doors
    De-vote Electoral College
    Delete the obsolete elite
    Dissolve the two party systems
    To be or not to be an American-is the question
    Dissent by any means necessary
    Against cultural colonialism
    Art as an instrument of exploitation should be abolished
    All artists should go on strike
    Against the prostitution of the art institutions
    Against art as money laundering machine
    Against the academies, the prizes, the competitions
    And the army of dealers, auctioneers and agents
    Power to the creative!
    Power to the poets who are resisting greed, hate and intolerance
    Ride the volcano of revolution into the sea
    Blessed are the shamans, the stray holy-men of jazz
    The underground gurus who are proving
    That the collective subconscious is not a given
    It must be created and nurtured

  138. Michael says:

    Take Back the Night

    Is it true that we blow out a

    star every time we lie? It’s so

    dark in the streets tonight, not

    one sun; and the four-masted

    torture ship in the harbour is

    moaning. Soul come back, it says

    when the sails luff, meaning

    every exhalation is unholy

    and every inspiration a risk.

    Who will brave this darkness,

    climb a mast on the ghost ship

    to spit across the bay at the

    obscene yacht with a helicopter

    on the bridge. Who? Are the

    priests with soft hands all down

    below drinking tea with the

    politicians, their raised pinkies

    bothering the air they have

    dirtied with unkept promises?

    No wonder wild women slink

    out of the vanishing forests

    with matches to ignite the kids

    of Cairo, London and Damascus.

    Dove e la luce? No wonder these

    cities are pleading, soul come

    back, the anthem of every ship

    that moans while it burns, while

    children take back the night?

    Linda Rogers, Victoria

  139. Kevin Fuller says:

    if you were to ask for riches,

    I would give you my rags,

    that you would have the gift

    that was given to me long ago

    in the sackcloth of my heart

    i was given ashes and grey

    for to grieve in this world

    is the only kindly response

    that a blue jay lights on a limb

    only to devour the worm

    and a bee lights on the flower

    to steal it’s very life, the amber

    is the law we have been given

    and only those who deny this

    truly come to deep sadness

    and go beyond the mild melancholy

    for just as the strawberry winter

    robs Spring of it’s coming

    and the Summer still can rage in October

    so in the deepest joy is there a hint of sadness

    and in the darkest night, the hint of morning…

  140. libramoon says:

    Life’s Hell; Heaven is in our hands

    People disappoint.
    In gorgeous masks of delight
    they may charm and amaze.
    Ever beneath
    vampiric stealth in the night.
    Rude greedy mean thief
    too overplayed for deception;
    too many days self-deceived.
    I like art.
    The beautiful mask is itself,
    when well-wrought portrays
    the best of us. Spit the rest,
    the unjust, over-blessed,
    tawdry fuss, choking fumes,
    whingers shaping wounds
    on their breasts, unless
    their etchings astound, caress the
    ideal heart.
    Beatific love, despite requite,
    beyond petty acts of life,
    unbound through crafted coin:
    Art’s how we weak-voiced people join

    June 29, 2011

  141. The Porch Sitters
    by Shelley Savor

    The weight of the porch sitters
    keeps the neighbourhood
    Their eyes go inside
    after dusk,
    then we depend on the gravity
    of their shadows
    to keep us aware
    that we are being watched
    by the imprints left
    on the cushions.

  142. Tsoltim N. Shakabpa says:

    (Dedicated to my daughter, Pema Yudon)
    by Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    Though I want to relive
    The memories of her childhood with me
    And freeze every vision of her angelic face
    She keeps on slipping through my fingers
    Whenever I think I know her
    She keeps on growing
    Glowing, knowing and going
    I know not how to let her go
    Though I know I must one day
    I recall every moment
    I spent with her
    Moments when I used to twirl
    My finger across her palm
    And she would fall asleep smiling
    I treasure every instance
    She hugged me tight and whispered
    “I love you bigger than the universe”
    Now she’s grown
    And slipping through my fingers
    And away she’s flown
    Taking with her
    All the plans I made for us
    But life’s full of surprises
    Full of hellos and goodbyes
    Thus though sadly I must say goodbye
    To a precious child I once knew
    I’m so glad I can say hello
    To a precious woman I now know
    Whose love for me grows with age
    And for whom my love knows no end

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2009

    *The poet is the son of Tsepon Wangchuk Deden Shakabpa, the well-known historian, statesman, freedom fighter and former Finance Minister of independent Tibet.

  143. Menka Shivdasani says:

    An early poem…


    Lettuce is Nature’s sedative, I read somewhere,
    so at three a.m., I finally
    decided to make a little salad.
    There were cockroaches in the refrigerator
    but I washed the vegetable well, then peeled
    layer after layer, startling a sleepy worm
    who crawled indignantly from beneath the leaves.
    But the pieces lay untidily, splashed across the plate,
    like splotches of sun on the street;
    so I tried another strategy – common, really,
    any housewife-poet will know it.

    I took a knife, its blade seductive in the dark,
    and I chopped. The fragments, I noticed, as I yawned,
    had begun to take the most extraordinary shapes.
    Somewhere I recognised a bride,
    her toenails turned to ash,
    a mother-in-law and husband shut the door.
    Another piece bore the face of a politician;
    a third was a child with eyes wide open.
    And why did the dish resemble
    a wounded Hiroshima?

    I went at it like the smiling Nazi
    in a half-remembered film, who invited
    his prisoner to lunch, then demonstrated
    the art of cutting carrots.
    “Chop, chop,” he said, and as the slices fell,
    still smiling, hacked the prisoner’s finger off,
    two actually, with the words, “Chop, chop,”
    and another smile.

    That night, I discovered the reason
    rabbits never seem to sleep.

  144. Teresa says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa

    The fake Panchen, Gyaltsen Norbu
    Might as well be a mapo tofu*
    He is no more than a Gya** Panchen
    Sitting on top of our mighty gangchen***
    For he’s just a simple stooge
    Made to look holy and huge
    While for the true Panchen Choekyi Ngima
    Whose rays spread wide and bright like the ngima****
    The Tibetan people have wept and wept
    As under the carpet he has been swept

    But cry no more, my countrymen
    For Choekyi Ngima I will pen
    A lasting tribute for he who
    Is our true and treasured norbu*****
    To the true Panchen Rinpoche
    I prostrate and say “ka drin che” ******

    * Chinese dish made of chopped pork and bean curd
    ** Chinese (a play on the first 3 letters of his first name)
    *** Snow-capped range
    **** Sun
    ***** Precious gem
    ****** Thank you

    Copyright: Tsoltim N. Shakabpa – 2011

    TSOLTIM N. SHAKABPA is a recognized Tibetan poet and a dedicated political activist for a free Tibet. He is the son of Tsepon Wabgchuk Deden Shakabpa, the eminent Tibetan historian, statesman, freedom fighter and former Finance Minister of independent Tibet.

  145. When asked what kind of poem I would write about America,
    I would rather write about how we beat the PACs
    by grass roots smarts, an angry vote, and facebook.
    By Yankee stubburness we caught the wind,
    harnessed the Sun, grew our fuel in cornfields.
    I could write this, almost, and tell true.
    I would write, instead, how we are nearing that point
    where our only choices will be Yes or No,
    not when, not if, not why.

    When the poets gather in their hundred thousands,
    in malls, in bookstores, in squares,
    I will rise up umong them, poem in hand,
    I would rather read how children are happy,
    how delicious the rivers of my home taste,
    how the histories of our lives are carried forth
    in the stories we tell around the table,
    generations in one room,
    telling so that we will remember
    where we are from.

    My poem will not be that one.
    It will be the one where I fear
    for the sitters at my table,
    and hope we are as strong as we need to be.

  146. Terri says:

    Just sayin’
    Gnome Alice copyright 2011 Toronto, Ontario

    riots in London

    2200 people demonstrate in the Middle East

    lose the cup

    extreme policing G20

    misLead a Middle Eastern country

    misLead a Western country
    “bad politician”

    just sayin’

    • red slider says:

      Yes, my friend, so true. You need say no more to us. But on Sept. 24th, say it all. Name the names; expose the games; hold the up the pictures of the unborn lives and modest ambitions of people who simply want to have some food on their table and a roof over their head and educate their children – just say it all. thanx for your words.

  147. Terri says:

    By Tsoltim N. Shakabpa
    Posted by Teresa Chuc Dowell-organizer-Pasadena, CA

    I have a target
    That some day
    Our children will stand atop the plateau of a free Tibet
    And wash away the ravages the Chinese left behind

    I have a target
    That one day
    The Tibetan spirit will be exalted
    And the Chinese power muffled

    I have a target
    That one day
    The children of the Chinese who raped Tibet
    And the children of the Tibetans who suffered under Chinese rule
    Will sit down together at the table of friendship

    I have a target
    Now until our kingdom come
    To make the Chinese leave Tibet
    And to return the Dalai Lama to his rightful throne

    I have a target
    Not a dream

    TSOLTIM N. SHAKABPA is a recognized Tibetan poet and a dedicated political activist for a free Tibet. He is the son of Tsepon Wabgchuk Deden Shakabpa, the eminent Tibetan historian, statesman, freedom fighter and former Finance Minister of independent Tibet.

    • red slider says:

      In 1951 the world abandoned Tibet. Yet in 2011, they have still not abandoned us. The wisest most gracious people on the earth continue to travel this globe bringing words of enlightenment and wisdom, even as they stand on the brink of extinction. Note the words of the poet – not a call to ‘crush enemies’ or ‘take revenge and retribution’. No, but to “muffle power” and let the children of their warring parents rediscover one another. They, the people of Tibet, have resisted hate and ignorance and recrimination and denied it entrance, even to their hearts. Let September 24th also be a day that we let our family in that forsaken land know that we have not abandoned them.

  148. Terri says:

    Thank you to our good friend Michael Castro, organizer for St. Louis, MO, for these beautiful words…

    SEPTEMBER 24, 2011
    for Michael Rothenberg & Terri Carrion

    Poets blowing
    in the winds of change
    blowing truth to open ears
    blowing truth in the face of fears
    whispering wind
    wailing wind
    Poets blowing
    round the world
    blowing light
    & blowing rain
    renewing life
    & easing pain
    Poets blowing
    scattering seeds
    against despair
    Poets blowing
    the human spirit
    Poets blowing
    can you hear it?
    Can you hear it
    Can you hear it
    sold out nations?
    Change is blowing
    because it must
    Change is blowing
    because it’s just
    Poets blowing
    In a worldwide choir.
    Poets blowing
    to inspire

    Change is what
    our planet needs
    Poems are seeds
    That lead to deeds.

    -michael castro-

  149. geraldine vaurigaud says:

    I’m not trying to reply.. I’m trying to post … when I go to post archives there is a 300 page document …. how do you post something? … so much material to go through.. will it be cateloged by social issue?

    Words are powerful!
    A picture is worth a thousand words!
    Actions speak louder than either!
    So, put your “Poetry in Motion!”
    this is my mantra, prayer, affirmation … other wise, words are cheap –
    a dime a dozen! blah, blah, blah… and like masturbating, if no action set in motion… when it is, then we have love in action! ..

    • Terri says:

      Geraldine, you just posted where you should be posting!…the “post archive” above is just that, a pdf. archive of an older page that no longer exists online. It is not active. The page you have posted on is the place to post. Everything in the end, the old and the new, will be part of the complete archive. So post away!

  150. Michael says:


    Cultivo una rosa blanca,
    En julio como enero
    Para el amigo sincero
    Que me da su mano franca.

    Y para el cruel que me arranca
    El corazón con que vivio,
    Cardo ni orgula cultivo,
    Cultivo la rosa blanca.

    I cultivate a white rose
    In July as in January
    For the sincere friend
    Who gives me his hand frankly

    And for the cruel person who tears
    out the heart with which I live,
    I cultivate neither nettles nor thorns:
    I cultivate a white rose

    -José Julián Martí Pérez (28 January 1853 – 19 May 1895)

  151. Leah Lubin says:

    It’s hard out there. We don’t party all the time as poets, writers, and artists, but we keep going and growing closer together.

    I Want My Voice To Be Identifiable

    Making each word count.
    Showing off.
    Letting literary confidence shine.
    Declaring my thinking.
    I want my voice to be identifiable.

    Well, who do you write for,
    you may ask?
    For the general public that
    includes you and me.
    Not the intellectual scholars.
    They’re already on board.

    So, onwards, you and I.
    I’ll write, you listen.
    We connect.
    It doesn’t get any better.

  152. Stella Johnson says:

    …………………………….A Haiku by John Vissers

    Look at me now!

    Ha, look at me now…..
    Thrashing my arms in the sea…
    I’m turning the tide!

  153. Michael says:

    Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends

    By Phil Ochs

    C D C D
    Look outside the window, there’s a woman being grabbed
    C Em F G
    They’ve dragged her to the bushes and now she’s being stabbed
    E Am
    Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain
    F Am Dm G
    But Monopoly is so much fun, I’d hate to blow the game
    C Am Eb
    And I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody
    Cm F
    Outside of a small circle of friends.

    Riding down the highway, yes, my back is getting stiff
    Thirteen cars are piled up, they’re hanging on a cliff.
    Maybe we should pull them back with our towing chain
    But we gotta move and we might get sued and it looks like it’s gonna rain
    And I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody
    Outside of a small circle of friends.

    Sweating in the ghetto with the (colored/Panthers) and the poor
    The rats have joined the babies who are sleeping on the floor
    Now wouldn’t it be a riot if they really blew their tops?
    But they got too much already and besides we got the cops
    And I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody
    Outside of a small circle of friends.

    Oh there’s a dirty paper using sex to make a sale
    The Supreme Court was so upset, they sent him off to jail.
    Maybe we should help the fiend and take away his fine. (*)
    But we’re busy reading Playboy and the Sunday New York Times
    And I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody
    Outside of a small circle of friends

    Smoking marihuana is more fun than drinking beer,
    But a friend of ours was captured and they gave him thirty years
    Maybe we should raise our voices, ask somebody why
    But demonstrations are a drag, besides we’re much too high
    And I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody
    Outside of a small circle of friends

    Oh look outside the window, there’s a woman being grabbed
    They’ve dragged her to the bushes and now she’s being stabbed
    Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain
    But Monopoly is so much fun, I’d hate to blow the game
    And I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody
    Outside of a small circle of friends

    [ Additional verse, 1974 ]
    Down in Santiago where they took away our mines
    We cut off all their money so they robbed the storehouse blind
    Now maybe we should ask some questions, maybe shed a tear
    But I bet you a copper penny, it cannot happen here
    And I’m sure it wouldn’t interest anybody
    Outside of a small circle of friends

    • Kozeta Zavalani W.P.S. Chair of "Family and Media-the Power for Change" Associations says:

      August 1-5-th anniversary of death – the departure from this life, to my dear mother Anika, who still missing very much, and I have to many heart pain …I send my poetry:”To my mother Anika”

      That night – ember of stars
      Delayed “Anek” the trip from Pireaus
      And I couldn’t reach…
      Impeded, though
      Back I didn’t go…!
      Hurry, please – I told them –
      Hurry up…!
      With the eyes hinged on the opening door
      She waits for me
      Migrated and yearning with longing
      In the ancient island named Crete,
      Where embracing sun and sea
      Kazanzatkis forever sleeps
      Oh, mother!
      Through August’s heat
      Loaded with pain
      And my longing that was burning the sun
      I made my way through Pindus,
      As once the patriots passed through deer’s…
      I came… I did come that day
      With the eternal farewell’s cent
      To moisten your lips
      To kiss your eyes…
      The dawn of each month
      Perturbed I am
      A knot of sorrow in the throat…
      Always pining for you my blessed, dear mother
      When I am troubled and lost
      Like in between waves of a storm
      I always seek an advise from you, mother
      To reach the shore or some other land.
      Turn my head and look for you
      And mutter to myself:
      Wait to ask my mother!…
      “Anek” ferry will delay from Pireaus
      But will always find me in the harbors
      Like my blessed mother’s will
      On the shore of Mediterranean,
      Far away in Crete…
      Pole Star falls from the sky,
      To bring you here in our midst
      The love for each other
      And the homeland
      Our vow for you…

  154. POETS

    Poets are a gang,
    pretending nomads,
    indecisive interpreters
    of banalities and eternity.
    They are useless seekers,
    intemperate lovers,
    hunters of lost words,
    the spies of roads and seas.

    Poets are vain gardeners
    of overgrown royal gardens,
    vanguards of star derailments,
    messengers of sunken ships,
    desecrators of secret paths,
    crafty repairers of the Ursa Major
    and the Ursa Minor,
    collectors оf astral dust.

    Poets are thieves of illusions,
    troubadours of rejected utopias,
    seducers of any kind,
    tasters of poisoned food,
    prodigal sons and professional seducers,
    heroes which spontaneously
    put their heads at the guillotine
    at which they are also executioners.

    Poets are the crowned guardians
    of language’s proper being,
    lovers of unsolvable mysteries,
    charlatans and pimps.
    They are the favourites of gods,
    tasters of magic drinks,
    and crazy squanderers
    of their own lives.

    Poets are the last offshoots
    of the most delicate sort of cosmic beings,
    cultivators of the soul’s white flowers,
    unreliable creators of untenable worlds.
    Poets are interpreters of lost signs,
    carriers of important messages,
    a warning that Life is endless
    and Universe an unfinished project.

    Poets are fireflies on the junkyard of the Cosmos,
    conquerors of the colourful rainbow belt
    and performers of the holy music
    of the cosmic birth.
    Poets are invisible companions
    in the silence of sense and absurdity
    of all the visible and the invisible.
    Poets are my only, true brothers.

    © Duska Vrhovac

  155. Terri says:

    By Ken Bena

    Forgive me if these words don’t put on the garment of my culture
    For i was born into a time
    When poverty,murders,arson and corruption
    Fell like rain drops of torture
    And our code of conduct?
    A mere reflection of western horrors
    Pardon me if i choose not to borrow
    From What i despise
    For like a fish brought ashore
    I would die if i dare imitate the evil ways of today

    I was born a Nigerian expected to live as an african
    But there no Africans in Nigeria
    They all fled in streams
    Cleanse from the skin by some lotion
    That causes cancer in slow motion
    And prostitution?
    I don’t recall to have met that shameless woman
    In the good old days
    When we all walked proud and naked all day
    Yet here she is,walking around with a proud smile
    Of wantonness
    While dignity covers his head in shame
    At such un holy business
    Wait!dont flee if these words snap at the heels
    Of your conscience
    For if you think HIV a concept full of nonsense
    Than wait till your bones become thin
    And your flesh shrinks
    While the lawyers are busy asking for your next of kin

    This is not Africa but Nigeria
    Here we are awaken
    Not by the crow of the cock
    But the alarming cry of a bomb
    The bark of a gun
    And the harsh glare of the sun
    Maybe now you understand the reason
    Why i don’t speak of corruption,hunger and unemployment
    Who would listen?
    Maybe the innocent laying sick in indifferent prisons
    Or the homeless shivering under the baleful gaze
    Of haggard bridges
    Could be the pregnant mothers
    Staring into the cold eyes of an empty kitchen
    Parhaps the unnamed baby’s left to rot in rubish dumps
    For no reason
    Would they forgive and maybe some day listen?
    I think not
    For life in this country just aint easy.

  156. S. M. HUTTON says:

    (A Haiku)

    Flock of chickadees
    calls and feeds in soft sifting
    snowy woods. Alone.

    – S. M. Hutton

  157. Teresa says:


    for my son –

    How can I convince you
    that you do have chlorophyll,
    that you can take the sun’s
    energy and turn it into sugar?
    Produce something sweet inside of you.
    Take the waste people breathe out
    and make it into something that
    will keep you alive, that will keep
    those around you alive, create oxygen.

    Why do you say that this metaphor
    doesn’t work, that you don’t have
    the powers of a plant, that nature
    didn’t intend you that way?

    Look, how you twist and turn
    towards the light.

    by Teresa Chuc Dowell

    (first published in EarthSpeak Magazine)

  158. Marty Smith says:

    Toronto’s poems for change

    from onecloud
    onechange fore me
    that poetry inform
    our culture’s goal
    for children’s glee

    an untitled poem for change

    by: Cheryl Trudeau

    Can’t even lead the old, Appaloosa ponies to water,
    on account of my own dehydration.
    They remain stagnant unaware of their self-imposed duress.
    Suspecting a storm to come, but not enough to break the dam.

    Change by Mary Fish
    A Poem
    . .
    . .
    . !
    . …?

    Copyright Mary Fish July 2011

    from Max Layton

    I just want to thank the other 99,999 poets for helping to make this happen! See you in September… Meanwhile, here’s a poem appropriate to the tenth anniversary of 9/11…


    To sing another villanelle
    We climb or, drowning, die of thirst
    At the bottom of this well

    No fitter rhyme could this tale tell
    For we, though last, are not the first
    To sing another villanelle

    When towers burned in sky-high hell
    We found ourselves, our world, reversed
    At the bottom of this well

    When lovers jumped and others fell
    Our parched hearts yearned, before they burst
    To sing another villanelle

    That sidewalk thump will sound our knell
    Unless, in art, that sound is nursed
    At the bottom of this well

    Though words can never death dispel
    Our spirits rise in verse unhearsed
    To sing another villanelle
    At the bottom of this well

  159. Lisa Vihos says:

    Here are a couple poems I wanted to share:


    These days
    there are all kinds of whisperers.
    Horse, dog, cat. You name it,
    someone is whispering to it.
    American idols, who are they?
    There are politicians whispering
    behind closed doors, on cell phones,
    to large piles of money. Who
    are these faces and what lips
    can whisper such secrets
    designed to hurt so many?

    As for me, I am whispering
    to the trees. For so long,
    they have whispered to me
    and now I beg them, please,
    teach us to be more like you,
    steadfast, but flexible.
    Don’t just hug a tree.
    Be a tree: root, stretch
    shade, blossom. Then,
    when the wind blows,
    whisper “thank you.”

    Lisa Vihos

    and one more…


    You can hear the slight whoosh
    of blood through veins
    and wind through fallen leaves.

    Listen. You must stop talking
    and even stop thinking
    to hear the sound

    of spider diatribes,
    bird soliloquies
    and the wonderments of worms.

    Did you know if you are quiet enough,
    you can hear dirt? You can hear
    what the rain is planning.

    These vibrations,
    beyond all measurable
    and immeasurable frequencies

    are the same sounds that emanate
    from a father’s hand,
    or a mother’s thigh, or the sun.

    These are the sounds of connection
    and creation, the murmur of crescent moons,
    the songs of stars that children hear

    because they haven’t forgotten yet
    how to be like fish or flower;
    an aerial tuned to everything.

    Lisa Vihos

    • red slider says:

      been there, done that. dipped my cupped hands in that pond, splashed water on my face. It was cool and delicious. The trees shimmered and fish swam through their branches.

  160. Terri says:

    I found this very interesting and informative and am posting it here with permission.
    (Transcript of lecture) I have put in bold some lines I find important.

    by Kristaq F. Shabani

    Albanian Literature has progressed so far to become highly appreciated and a worthy competitor in Europe’s literary tradition. It is due to its nature of being expressive and authentic. This has its consequences as the original voice which speaks stylistically, figuratively, philosophically, laconically, satirically and convincingly. It reflects artistically of events, real phenomena and improvised imaginations, labeled “Illyrian-Albanian”. In the plan of the analytical literary study and literary research, it is frequently mentioned the phenomenon that the Albanian Literature is a literature which has a new breath and composition. It is based on the fact that in the last centuries it has been enriched and has created its grand corps. This Literature has endured because its authors have been dynamic activists in all components and literary genres. The artistic bent of Albanian people has always been well known. They have a great many literary voices inside Albania and around the world. They have been distinguished for the variety of themes, the great messages they have delivered for a proud country and its rich ancestry and traditions.

    Our literature has a dynamism that moves and motivates the masses towards social and moral progress. This vast body of literature represents the intelligence, the spiritual and artistic personality of the people.

    These characteristics can be observed in Albanian folktales, a rich resource of intelligent genre. The messages delivered by ethnic musical tradition including ballads and dance speak for an expressive folk choreography.

    This variety of movements is characteristic of a nation that possesses a distinctive way of singing and discourse in its polyphonic song. We value it for its richness and creative expression. For examples we turn to ballads such as “Konstandin and Dhoqina”, “Gjergj Elez Alia” “The song of Ymer Aga”etc. These pieces astonish even the greatest scholars of Albanian arts. These compositions occupy a distinguished place in the history of world arts.

    Those scholars who disagree are nevertheless enthusiastic. In this context we do not intend to rewrite history. We stress that the Albanian nation has always been separated from others by facts of history. They created a new style of literature from the places of their exile. It was based on Albanian tradition and further enriched by the literary traditions of their adopted cultures. Worthy of mention are the literary developments of the ‘arberesh’ of Italy, ‘arvanitas’ of Greece, the typical representative of literature in countries such as Bulgaria, Romania, Russia, Egypt, USA and Canada. But let’s not forget the contributions of the minorities of Albania such as Greeks. Those in Kosovo have contributed many values especially in the last decade. It is beneficial to mention the Albanian literature in regions of Kosovo, Macedonia, Montenegro and the Balkans. Such literature is characterized by advanced fantasy and creative mind as a result of the finding of self and the advantage of being supported by a positive environment. As a result of this finding of self and support by this culture, the quality of these creative works is varied and memorable. We must stress that in Kosovo and other countries where Albanians live, there have been threats to the Albanian creative. But is has persevered in delivering the message of literary freedom to the masses.

    The Albanians who have settled abroad have distinguished themselves with talent and dignity.
    We mention many examples such as Jeronim De Rada, Gavril Dara (I riu), Zef Skiroi, Jul Variboba, Zef Serembe. These fine intellectuals carried the philosophical thought of their culture and cultivated literature in their new homeland. A representative literature conveys its values and spirituality of one who has left his motherland to live in another environment, in another mentality, in a second world.

    We should stress that our people during his whole existence has always been characterized by amazing creative skills, which would be envied by others: mastering of talent to create and contributing to the places where they settled, where they earned a good name. This is better expressed in the whole creative heritage of the Albanian people, a heritage which is like a giant corps of literary creation, which cannot be denied its creative value, skill and traditional reflection.

    This generation has its representatives the most typical of which is Hasan Zyko Kamberi, who wrote the beautiful verses for the money and other later representatives such as Ali Asllani, Lushi i Nakaj etc. Without underestimating other names, we reach a logical conclusion: “Albanian Literature since its beginning in its lands, has been produced with original style, thus it has been a literature of the golden dynamic mentality, which has its undeniable role in the universal exchange of values. In later periods Albanian Literature is heading toward progress represented by great names with a great reputation worldwide.

    They were activists and dynamic in the countries they settled in, consequently they penetrated deeply in the literature of other countries. Thus the Albanian authors infiltrated in the Literature of the places where they emigrated. We would like to mention here the famous Albanian historian Marin Barleti . But Albanian literature was fully developed in the framework of the great movement, the NATIONAL RENESSAINCE, where great authors of the international level were distinguished, who deservingly gained great titles. I would like to mention some of their names in front of this honorable audience: Naim Frashëri, National Poet, with his great poem “TI, SHQIPËRI, MË JEP NDER MË JEP EMRIN SHQIPTAR” (you, Albania, you make me proud, and honor me with the name Albanian), Andon Zako Çajupi another great poet with his great poem “MËMËDHE QUHET TOKA, ATJE KU KA RËNUR KOKA”(MOTHERLAND IS LAND WHERE YOU PROSTRATE), Pashko Vasa, Ndre Mjeda, Milosh Gjergj Nikolla, Gjergj Fishta, Fan Stilian Noli, Faik Konica and many others, who made use of allegory laconism and satire to illuminate people’s minds and were persecuted by the Ottoman regime as well other dark regimes. This illuminated literature in all its genres served for the acknowledgement of the Albanian literature’s progress in other countries as well as for the acknowledgement of the literature of other countries due to the translation of the great works of art from Homer to continue with other writers such as Servantes, Gollsuorth, Man, Balzak, Frans, Uitman, Drajzer, Heminguej, Pushkin, Gorki, Tolstoi, Stendal, Turgeniev, Dostojevski, Shollohov, Seferis, Kazanzakis, Seferis, Hygo, Gete, Hajne etc. It was associated with a more clear vision and an introduction to the Albanian authors and readers of the great classics. It led to coming face to face of the values and to a total dedication to more respectful and more prominent works.

    Worthy to be mentioned is Ismail Kadare. A great poet and writer, known for his dynamics of the literary thought, his creative arsenal in all literary genres, for his works distinguished for the treatment of great subjects with great delicacy. Ismail Kadare is from the town of Gjirokastra, where we have delivered the signals of a great international Ismail Kadare, due to his special literary values has become a writer of international level, a claimer of the NOBEL Price.

    I do not think that anyone of you who are present in this honorable auditory does not know this talented writer, who represents the Albanian intellectual literature in modern times. There are many other writers and poets who possess such great values and skills and are capable of representing themselves in other countries by unfolding their literary values. This has been shown in the international competitions held in different countries of the world, where the writers and poets of all countries praise our literature.

    I would like to mention some other writers and poets such as Dritëro Agolli, a great author typical for the Albanian mentality, Lasgush Poradeci, powerful lyric poet, Milllosh Gjergj Nikolla, poet of the sorrow, Petro Marko, Gjergj Zheji, Dhimitër Xhuvani, Sterjo Spasse, Ali Podrinja, Professor Rexhep Qosja , or wiiters of this generation such as Andon Papleka, Fatos Kongoli, Mimoza Ahmeti, Kristaq F. Shabani, Petro Dudi, Izet Çulli, Dino Çiço, Dhimitër Miti, Lumo Kolleshi, Jorgo Telo, Brunilda Zllami, Agron Shele and poets Luljeta lleshanaka and Visar Zhiti, etj.

    During the period of 1944-1990 Albanian literature experienced a drama in a typical system, which, in addition to counter values produced a few values which are now administered. Albanian poets, writers and artists created and many times were persecuted for their advanced ideas and their being influenced by currents foreign for the Albanian literature such as surrealism, futurism, and hermetism. The punishment was great and many genuine writers could not put their thoughts in letter and express themselves in literature “otherwise”.

    In this framework we should say that the expressive individual creative ability flourished. The so called literature of socialist realism sacrificed many great talents of the Albanian Literature, yet many of them have already bloomed in the new environment showing their talents even in the international scale.

    After the years 90 of the last century, when the great transformations occurred, a galloping step is made in literature. In these 17 years of creation, Albanian authors feel themselves free in this democratic brittleness, which sometimes maintains the inheritance of striking with hidden methods.

    Albanian literature and authors took another shape and, despite the economic difficulties, they freed their enchained soul, wrote their thoughts in letter with a strangely great fantasy and dedication touching different subjects, styles and methods that before were forbidden. Thus a typical literature, return to the origin, a literature without influences, without control or censured, that flows naturally and is deeply appreciated. This is the real literature of the dynamic Albania and its talented men of letters. Albanian Literature has become a literature with new findings, a return to figuration and freedom of the creation and translation, to the bloom of the creation of the many great literary associations such as the Albanian Authors Association “PEGASI” that I represent in this International Symposium. In this framework it is also worthy to mention the paradoxal, experimental and illustrative literature, which is represented by great artists of painting and sculpture, who have never been absent in Albania. I would like to mention some of their names: Odise Paskali (sculptor), Abdurrahman Buza, Guri Madhi, Avdulla Cangopnji, Zef Shoshi, Foto Stamo (painter) apo të mëvonshmit, që jetojnë edhe sot si Stavri Çatipiktor, tekstilist, Stefan Papamihali (skulptor), Bashkim Ahmeti (painter), Ksenofon Kostaqi, piktor, or Mantho Bozhori, Jani Guxo, Koço Beruka and other artists who have given their contribution in this great movement in Albanian literature, where the contour has already been wholly created and is in its way of perfection.

  161. Michael says:

    Now I’ve been happy lately
    Thinking about the good things to come
    And I believe it could be
    Something good has begun
    I’ve been smiling lately
    Dreaming about the world as one
    And I believe it could be
    Something good’s bound to come
    For out on the edge of darkness
    There runs the peace train
    Peace train take this country
    Come take me home again
    Peace train sounding louder
    Ride on the peace train
    Come on the peace train
    Peace train’s a holy roller
    Everyone jump upon the peace train
    This is the peace train
    Get your bags together
    Come bring your good friends too
    Because it’s getting nearer
    Soon it will be with you
    Come and join the living
    It’s not so far from you
    And it’s getting nearer
    Soon it will all be true
    Peace train sounding louder
    Ride on the peace train
    Come on the peace train
    I’ve been crying lately
    Thinking about the world as it is
    Why must we go on hating?
    Why can’t we live in bliss?
    For out on the edge of darkness
    There rides the peace train
    Peace train take this country
    Come take me home again
    Peace train sounding louder
    Ride on the peace train
    Come on the peace train
    Come on, come on, come on the peace train…

    –Cat Stevens

  162. red slider says:

    The Voice Not Heard
    (does it even make a sound?)

    I know a world that pulls itself apart,
    and from the start did not know when to stop,
    that hooked itself to evolution’s wake
    and tailless told stories ’till it dropped.

    Above it was that mightiest of trees
    whose branches bore it all it ever knew;
    and, though the leaves still glittered golden
    far above the fallen fruit, they’d take an axe
    and chop it down in hopes their tales
    might show through its rotting root.

    Who’s left to hear of that now fallen branch
    that would not be content to leave it so;
    if storied end was what they wished to be,
    why did they take the rest of that great work
    and bring it, soundless down, to lay with thee?

  163. Michael says:

    Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792–1822

    Ode to the West Wind


    O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being
    Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
    Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
    Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou 5
    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

    The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
    Each like a corpse within its grave, until
    Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

    Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill 10
    (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
    With living hues and odours plain and hill;

    Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
    Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!


    Thou on whose stream, ‘mid the steep sky’s commotion, 15
    Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
    Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

    Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
    On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
    Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20

    Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
    Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
    The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

    Of the dying year, to which this closing night
    Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25
    Vaulted with all thy congregated might

    Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
    Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!


    Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
    The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30
    Lull’d by the coil of his crystàlline streams,

    Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,
    And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
    Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,

    All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35
    So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
    For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers

    Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
    The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
    The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40

    Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
    And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!


    If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
    If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
    A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45

    The impulse of thy strength, only less free
    Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
    I were as in my boyhood, and could be

    The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
    As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50
    Scarce seem’d a vision—I would ne’er have striven

    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
    O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
    I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

    A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d 55
    One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.


    Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
    What if my leaves are falling like its own?
    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

    Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60
    Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
    My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
    Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth;
    And, by the incantation of this verse, 65

    Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth
    Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
    Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth

    The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

  164. The StanzAviv poetry collective are pleased to announce that ‘The Last Stanza: An Anthology of Poems from Tel Aviv’ is now available to buy online.

    All proceeds from the book go to the ARDC (African Refugee Development Center), a charity hich serves some of the thousands of African refugees who are in Israel escaping persecution, rape and other atrocities in their home countries. (For more, visit: http://www.ardc-israel.org/en/).

    Topics of poems range from seeking refuge, travel in Africa, war, love, meditations on existence, being Jewish at Christmas, internet banking, waking up drunk on a riverside and more.

    The book costs $18.44 or £11.40 and can be mailed to anywhere in the EU and USA. To buy a copy, or two, please click here:

    Thank you.

  165. Leah Lubin says:

    You’ve Got To Be Fearless

    I was born in Israel when it was
    only three years old.
    First war, I went through at
    four years old.
    Three more wars to follow.
    My grandparents murdered
    for their religion.

    So, what was I taught?
    You’ve got to be fearless.
    Much more easily said than lived.

    England saved me when we moved
    there at the age of six.
    They embraced me with history,
    architecture, beautiful and natural
    Then the world’s most amazing city,
    London, took over my life,
    cared and taught me everything I know.

    But, when push came to shove,
    Great Britain said
    “You have to be fearless”.

    Now, here in California.
    America my home since 1979.
    My life still complicated,
    changing, and not quite there yet.
    I know I have to be fearless.

  166. Black Tongue Review is dedicating our 2nd issue to 100TPC. It is going to be a wonderful issue, featuring poetry by Matt Hart, Di Suess, Mary Ruefle, Chad Sweeney, Jennifer K. Sweeney, Gary McDowell, Greg Santos and many more! We make it our goal to send out all of our poems across to the world to international artists, who then create an image for each poem. We are forming a bridge between nations, using art to change the world. 100% of all proceeds to go a selected charity or foundation. Help us by liking is on Facebook and purchasing our special 100TPC issue. Our last issue donated over $200 to Save the Children Foundation and we plan to double that this issue. We have published artwork from Peru, Brazil, Paris, Sweden, Australia, Africa, UK and other areas around the globe. Help us help others! Sept. 24 is the official release date! https://www.facebook.com/pages/Black-Tongue-Review/213847208661314?ref=ts

  167. Nana says:

    Green door …by Nana Nestoros

    Lethal waves gulping us to the toxic bottom
    Where the corals have withered and thrown up on red murdered whales.
    Trying to hold on a sun ray to save us
    But we fall again, pull our hands ’cause they burn
    Trying to swim to the oily surface
    And our faces become black as we look at the sky
    Breathing fog filled with tumors lurking
    Trying to find emergency exit from the past
    And the wheel will turn this time
    Opening the green grand door
    And those who hid paradise
    Shall be closed outside forevermore
    We refuse world NUCLEAR
    We accept world NEW and CLEAR

    And we hope this is enough clear to all

    ~ 25 June 2011 by Nana Nestoros~

  168. Terri says:

    A Poem in English and Spanish by Elina Florez Pindeda, Bogota, Colombia

    WAKE UP WORLD -100 Thousand Poets for Change

    It´s time to wake up world,
    To fight with something more than arms
    To fill the planet with bombs made out of words.

    To unite nations with hearts full of solidarity
    It´s time, our planet is hurt,
    Let´s unite strengths to try to heal it.

    There are so many who don´t understand
    What others try to tell us
    For their dialect is not the same.

    Our planet is one only caló, love,
    Let´s be the breather it needs
    For its sad fissure,

    100. thousand poets for change
    We come to say hello,
    To give a stain of peace to our mother earth.

    Wake up people,
    The voice is here with only one goal
    To prove that out love for the world does not know social class.

    Wake up people, black, white, no matter the race,
    For our world we are going to march, the 24th of September
    Will be a date to remember.

    Brother, sister, let´s march for equality
    For a political and social change,
    With words made out of general wisdom.

    No more absurd wars
    That destroy with evil,
    The good intentions of those who fight for peace

    No more violence with our earth
    By wanting to snatch its natural resources
    Snatching its lungs for it to breathe

    Wake up world we are staining our children
    With environmental destruction,
    Taking, the future of humanity to its total destruction.

    Wake up world, our earth
    Is starting to wrinkle
    Victim of the suffering that we let happen
    Wake up world, lets unite more than gross forces to fight.
    Inspired poems that make us weep
    With only one universal language, love for our world before marching.

    By : Elina Florez Pindeda

    Despierta Pueblo, 100. Mil Poetas Por El Cambio

    Es Hora de despertar mundo,
    De luchar con algo mas que armas,
    De llenar el planeta con bombas hechas de palabras.

    De unir naciones con corazones llenos de solidaridad
    Es hora, nuestro planeta esta herido,
    Unamos fuerzas para tratar de sanarlo.

    Son tantos los que no comprendemos
    Lo que otros quieren decirnos,
    Pues su dialecto no es el mismo.

    Nuestro planeta es un solo caló, el amor,
    seamos el respirador que necesita
    Para su triste fisura,

    100. mil poetas por el cambio
    Venimos a saludar,
    A regalar una mancha de paz a nuestra madre tierra.

    Despierta pueblo,
    Que llego la voz, con un solo fin
    Demostrar que nuestro amor por el mundo no conoce clase social.

    Despierta pueblo, negros, blancos, sin importar la raza
    Por nuestro mundo vamos a marchar, el 24 de septiembre
    Será una fecha para recordar.

    Hermano, hermana, marchemos por la igualdad
    Por un cambio político y social,
    Con palabras hechas con sabiduría general.

    No más guerras absurdas
    Que destruyen con maldad,
    Las buenas intenciones de los que luchamos por la paz

    No más violencia con nuestra tierra
    Al quererle arrebatar sus reservas naturales
    Arrancando sus pulmones para que pueda respirar.

    Despierta pueblo, que manchamos a nuestros críos
    Con la destrucción ambiental,
    Llevando, al futuro de la humanidad a su destrucción total.

    Despierta mundo, nuestra tierra
    Se empieza a arrugar
    Victima del sufrimiento que le hacemos pasar.

    Despierta pueblo, unamos más que fuerzas brutas para luchar.
    Poemas inspirados que nos hagan llorar
    Con un solo lenguaje universal, amor por nuestro mundo antes de marchar
    Por : Elina Florez Pineda.

  169. Teresa says:

    Eternity in Gaza by Teresa Chuc Dowell
    Khan Younis Refugee Camp, 2001

    When the canisters fell, they were ready,
    thinking, “More tear gas”, but a white cloud
    flowered above, then changed colors and emitted
    a sweet odor that made them want to breathe in
    the way one breathes in the smell of sweet tea.

    The color darkened until it looked like a burning
    and people ran to put out what they thought were
    fires on their neighbors’ rooftops. Muscles began to
    cramp up, constricting as if from the bite of a scorpion.
    A woman dropped her child as she scratched herself in a fit

    of convulsions. A father attempted to hold down
    his son who flailed and moaned until he fell into a coma.
    The teenagers who played with the canisters, who taunted
    their apparent harmlessness, shrieked and shook in pain for weeks.
    The doctors had never seen anything like this before. The villagers

    had never seen anything like this before. The convulsions came
    like waves for an entire month and family who sat and cried at bedside
    wailed in pain almost as much as the victims who looked like rabid dogs.
    Some visitors were stunned silent, their eyes inward, heads tilted to the side
    as if not looking would somehow make it not truly happening.

    In a laboratory far away, were beakers, scientists in white gowns and goggles,
    microscopes, and gloves. At the end of the day, they went home
    to their wives and wives to their husbands. The tables were set,
    the dinner was ready, warm and steaming,
    and the children swung their legs beneath the table.

    (first published in the anthology, L, by Silkworms Ink)

  170. Teresa says:

    Blue Lion

    We measure air’s history from a tube
    Stuck through the heart of a blue lion,

    Watching as it enters the silence of stones
    In metal spirals, awaiting what centuries of ice can tell us,

    We are transient yet leave much behind
    And rise in the clarity of glass,

    What is invisible, imperceptible is captured
    In an air bubble and preserved like a gesture through time,

    What two hands have fused is instantly universal
    And we watch the birds for answers or forebodings;

    We look for replies in the stomachs and on the slick black
    and white coats of emperors,

    We are agitated as chunks collapse into ocean.
    We have much in common; we are both of water

    And we both hang by a thread.

    by Teresa Chuc Dowell

    (first published in Jack Magazine)

  171. Rhythm Of Words for Social Awareness


    September 24, 2011

    6-10 PM
    Tate Street Coffee House Greensboro, NC
    A Free Public Event
    Choose an issue you feel strongly about and speak on it

    Play about it
    Sing about it
    Tell a story about it
    Use comedy to help heal


    Open Mic element intertwined throughout program

    • Gnome Alice says:

      Oh I see technical then Rhythm Of Words for Social Awareness
      There fore change requires words?
      Poetry requires words?
      What if I say……………………
      sigh space bar x 10 nothing
      Heartfelt embrace dot pause pause pau…….se heart felt pause
      Space bar Pause space bar x 10
      Does that mean something to you? If it is interpreted exactly as I input it it in more or less meaningful or suggestive meaning because I have implied meaning by signing in and saying I have something to say, or more importantly, not say??
      I want to say nothing! Blank. Spacebar
      . .
      See when this is posted it will be . spacebar . but that is not what I wrote!!!!!

  172. Náufrago.
    Sem remos de faia.
    Quisera calcular exatamente
    a dívida da fuga,
    como fazem sedutores comerciantes
    e raparigas de programas. Poeto tamancos,
    ferrolho de dizeres, penetrações,
    masturbação de mil tédios
    que suporto com alergia
    e mais estábulos,
    A fuga da dívida bubuia e é falsete,
    organismo sofismado em cacho.

  173. AJ Morelli says:

    les patriotes

    (for Pat Tillman)

    a stupendous handle manipulated
    by well coordinated crews
    juts from the side of the machine

    its thick torqued springs
    build a frightening tension
    and then exhale their soft release

    “slowly, very slowly”, yells the foreman
    from the mechanical arm of his perch

    workers in sleeveless shirts
    bear down, foreheads glazed
    drip black to steel tipped boots

    the passers-by pause
    start to gather
    huddle in groups, gaze fixed
    upon their own reflection
    off the mirrored sprockets

    a stout man in swallow-tailed coat
    smiles, rouses the band
    to play louder…
    much louder
    than the straining gears

    someone waves a small flag
    stapled to a wooden stick

    young girls paint the air in colors
    of leotard and undulating ribbons

    and even the knowing
    stand hollow-eyed monks
    shifting in sparse shadow
    of the bradford pears

    AJ Morelli

  174. red slider says:

    I Don’t Have Time To Write This Poem
    (and you don’t have time to read it)

    So look around and get up
    off the goddamn sofa of the earth
    and pick up a mop and bucket
    and clean up this place, because
    there’s no beer in the refrigerator,
    the t.v.’s on test pattern,
    and it doesn’t matter about screaming
    and yelling to “Throw the bums out!”
    because they can’t hear you,
    and your wife’s to-do list ain’t
    never gonna get done, and
    lady gaga has gone to the store
    for more makup
    (and won’t be back for half-a-century.)

    You already know those guys running
    back and forth, up the field and down the field
    and knocking each other over in-between,
    will never get further than those funny H’s
    at either end, so what’s the point of Superbowl
    anyway, when everything interesting is on the outside?
    and you don’t read Roman numerals anyway,
    and the plums were already delicious.

    You don’t need heart, you don’t need a strategy
    you don’t need to pick your nose and see
    if Sarah Palin or something worse comes out
    (could it if you did? what would you do then?)
    and there is no tomorrow like tomorrow
    which is going to be the same fucking same
    as it is today, and if you don’t know that
    by now, then there is no tomorrow
    and you don’t need one any more
    than I need a doctor to tell me
    to stop smoking because
    there is no remote control, either,
    and if there was, the batteries are dead
    and I won’t be living long enough to see
    how it all comes out, even if I stop
    dragging my ass and get up off this
    sofa of an off-my-meds brain that I’m living in
    (and, clean that up too, while you’re at it)
    and just go do the damn to-do list
    before she’s gone and the to-do list is gone
    and I’m gone, and your gone,
    and the earth is gone and there is no today,
    and the plums were delicious.

    – rs, 2011

  175. Nana says:

    “Simply because Me Loves You” … by Nana Nestoros

    You’re gonna touch my hand
    And the lights of Cosmos will spread out into my soul
    And a celestial deathly silence will give its place
    To divine chants
    You’re gonna look me in the eyes again
    And the Earth will seize your impulse
    It will quake and spurt the lava
    Again, you’re gonna say to me “I love you”
    The glow not going away from you, not even for a moment
    And Nature will conspire with us
    For a hunting to which no other has ever been alike
    Along together we will run to capture life
    Not ever letting it go away
    And let us trap Peace under the dome of the Universe
    And hook it tightly
    Upon the sun rays and the arms of the stars
    Thus like a veil, love will fall around humans
    Just Simply because Me Loves You

    ~ 2006, translated from Greek, Nana Nestoros~

  176. David Madgalene says:

    I’m Not Worried About Seeing Dick Cheney In Heaven
    by David Madgalene

    I’m worried about my health, and I’m worried about the economy,
    I’m worried for my wife, my family, friends, I don’t have children of my own
    but I worry about my nieces and nephews, the future generations.
    I’m worried about the Gulf of Mexico, the ice cap melting, and the North Pacific Gyre,
    I worry about the multinationals, the military-industrial complex and this endless war,
    but, y’know, I’m not worried about meeting Dick Cheney in Heaven.

    I hate to say this,
    but I don’t know if I’m so worried about Osama Bin Laden anymore,
    and we certainly showed Saddam Hussein who’s boss.
    I might be a teensy bit worried about the Underpants Bomber,
    but not half-as-much as I worry about the Republicans
    and those spineless jellyfish they call Democrats.
    I’m not worried about the end of the American Dream (it’s high time we woke up),
    and I never was a big fan of the American Empire
    (as for me, I’d rather stick to the Monroe Doctrine).
    I do worry about the possible demise of our great noble American Experiment,
    but I don’t worry about bumping into Dick Cheney up in Heaven.

    Now I keep up with the news, I pride myself on that.
    I watch TV, read the paper, magazines, follow how many blogs on the Internet.
    I can’t tell you how important I think it is that we stay informed on current events.
    So I do, and, frankly, it gives me a lot to worry about.
    I worry about Angelina, and I worry about Britney.
    I worry about Lindsay, and Paris, and Jamie Lynn.
    I worry about—why, I even worry about
    Mandy, and Hayley, Heidi, Jessica, and Ashlee.
    Now I admit I may be the only one left who still worries
    himself over Christina Aguilera and the Olsen Twins…
    sometimes I lay awake at night and can’t get to sleep
    wondering whatever happened to J Lo or what’s to become of Haile Berry,
    but I never worry about running into old Dick Cheney in Heaven.

    Now I don’t like to come off as if I’m being self-righteous.
    Just like you, and everybody else, by my own lights
    I do the best I can to live a life that’s of service to my fellow men and women
    (especially the women. I’d like to be of service to the ladies whenever I can.
    Ladies, all you have to do is ask)
    and I believe a person should do right for the sake of doing right,
    let me say that again, do the right thing because it is the right thing to do,
    not looking to cop a reward in some hypothetical afterlife.
    Yet, if I should find that I’m wrong after I have died,
    and I’m going to go and burn in Hell for having not led a life pleasing to Jesus Christ,
    friends, I’m here to tell you, it’d be worth it to me to go to Hell
    just to see good old Dick Cheney getting fried!

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