The Hillside

I paused on the hillside
long enough to see the Indian family
passing beside the tall oak,
long enough for me to catch
a glimpse of them
against the sky.
A solace of Indians

I saw them turn to me
They looked me in the eye
I turned away
I said
Go away there
why
are you following me?

I saw the slave then
in chains
gazing at me beside his mule.
I saw him turn to me
He looked me in the eye.
I turned away.

I said
Go away there
why
are you following me?

When I looked again
I saw the
woman.

 

 

 

……………….david michael jackson

Bee

There are great poets,
no minor poets,
and me,
no real rain of perfect words.
These words of today will always
have to do.
We make do with what we have
and I have only the flowers
I failed to pick today.
I let them live.
They have so little time to attract the
bee
and I am as worthless with the pollen
as I am here among the
great poets,

but the flower doesn’t ask
“Is it a great bee?”
And neither should you.

Poems for Peace

Poems for peace
start somewhere.
They start too often after the war
after the bodies are counted
and we have given up on counting them.
Poems for peace come from the cries
of mothers over children.
Poems for peace come from
soldiers who cry,
why
why
why.
Poems for peace don’t come as easily as
this poem from
this poet for
this poet is not worthy.
this poet is not worthy.
he has not killed nor seen the blood
on his own hands
enough to cry
for the soldier,
enough to cry for the
innocent.
To say I am not worthy so
I will not speak of the peace,
I cannot.
Who didn’t see that war or this war take
take a piece of their lives,
you?
Who didn’t see the lack of peaceful words
harm someone,
you?
Who didn’t lose a friend to war,
you?

Rose Poem

So A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose you say.

“I could smell the roses from ten feet away.”

A rose is a smell of a rose and the feel of the

rose petals on your finger.

A rose is a rose bush with thorns

and bees.

 

A rose is love,

friendship,

and death.

 

A rose is a dried flat memory

pressed

in the pages of a book.

 

It is a young lady’s eyes

peering over a

bouquet

at a young man

smiling.

 

 

david michael jackson   April 20, 2012

El Dia de la Batalla de Puebla

You don’t know

about the fifth of May

do you?

I didn’t.

You think your freedom was

earned only by

you,

your freedom

yes.

El Dia de la Batalla de Puebla.

Next time you want to talk about

“them Mexicans”,

well sir

don’t.

Without them Mexicans at Puebla

King is a slave

Michael Jordan never plays basketball,

and we fat Americans are more racist than we already are.

Without them Mexicans at Puebla

we’re not here talking about

freedom.

On Cinco De Mayo

you

call your Mexican friends

you

find one.

Viva Mexico!

 

&nbsp

david michael jackson April 20, 2012 dave@artvilla.com
________________________________________________

This is my El Dia de la Batalla de Puebla poem this year. It is harsh on a day which is to be celebrated. In some ways the poet is sorry but it needed saying. Without this battle the south might have won the civil war. Those words alone should make all Americans from Alaska to Argentina rejoice on this day.
Happy Cinco De Mayo everybody!

Dancer Poem by Liza M Zaran

The Dancer“Dancer me!”  She shouts
and we are all forced to watch.
Her two left feet flip flopping
before carelessly tripping her up.

Most people say she’s mentally
challenged, a select cruel few
call her retarded, their voices venomous,
though unmistakably ignorant.

Her name is Becca.  She was born
58 days premature to a woman whose
own life was in such a state of disrepair
we can hardly point fingers, place blame.

I am one of her caretakers and so
there are days when it’s all I can do
to stay level headed, to remain patient.

Today we are especially tired, us caretakers.
Just having returned from taking our charges,
these adult-sized children, to see the Nutcracker.

Becca has landed, backside to the floor.
She sits mildly shaken, unsure whether
or not to cry.

I bring my palms together, clapping,
as do the others, as we all give her
a standing ovation, until she smiles,
hideously happy now, I shout,
“Dancer you Becca!  Dancer you!”


 


ON THE WINGS OF PRAYER POEM by Krys Javis

ON THE WINGS OF PRAYER

I look out the window
Enjoying the peace and quiet
The day has brought
The beauty of my surroundings
And the peace of mind it brings
Then reality is shattered
I turn on the television
Victims everywhere
Innocent children
Some have lost their lives
Some their parents
Some lose a limb
I sit and wonder
What is it like
To never play outside
To never color with crayons
Dance in the rain
Hang upside down in a tree
Wrestle with your sibling
Thoughts like these
Seem so simple to us
Something we take for granted
These things which seem small to us
Are not to these children
The ones who sit in fear
Hide in the corner
Fall asleep to sound
Instead of silence
Sounds of gunfire, soldiers, fear
The children who sit away
In distant lands
Dreaming of hope
Longing for peace
And living
On the wings of prayer

 

More poems by Krys Javis

Peace Poem by Yehuda Yehuda Amichai

Wildpeace
  Not the peace of a cease-fire
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness.
I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows
how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peace
without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,
without words, without
the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be
light, floating, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds – who speaks of healing?
(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation
to the next, as in a relay race:
the baton never falls.)

Let it come
like wildflowers,
suddenly, because the field
must have it: wildpeace.

  Amichai read this poem at the 1994 awards ceremony in Oslo when Yitzhak     Rabin and Shimon Peres received the Nobel Peace Prize with Yasir Arafat.
In Memoriam

Spring Wind Poem by Ken Peters

spring wind 

wind arrived
with the equinox
subservient to basic physics
as the land became
warmer
more quickly than the sea
but subservient to nothing else
thief rattling my windows
persistent vendor
at my door
insistent prodigy
refrain to every conversation
presage of change
sweeping the land clean
carrying salt sea tang inland for miles
restless harbinger
of green

– Ken Peters

Ken’s menu   /   Moongate

Lost in America Poem by Ken Peters

 Lost In America
   wanted to be in this country

   can’t pay the dues

   the ground fees are too much

   one neighbor’s a racist

   the other’s a sexist

   couple across the way

   are homophobes

   politicians are for sale

   doctors are entrepreneurs

   ministers spew hate and fear

   a used car salesmen told me a lie

   so did a president

   people talk at me

   want me to be

   just like them

   my heart is a cage

   blood rats

   spinning the wheels

   but I’m too tired

   to feel rage

   had enough
       – Ken Peters

Moongate

Whale Poem A LAMP IN THE WHALE Michael Eliseuson

A LAMP IN THE WHALE

A small feast in the blood-red gills,

A small drop of blood in the ponds of the ocean,

A black whale swims deeper,

And then up again.

It is a well-brined sea,

and the whale reaches deeper,

Into greener waters,

Yellowing beneath the rays.

In these polar seas a dark ship comes,

To wed the hunted whale,

Whalers searching sky and sea,

For certain birds and spouts.

Ancient chanteys begin again,

To turn a whale into blubber, oil, and song.

A roped spear whining,

Whistling with death.

The Great Fish dives with a maddening lurch,

And there is a thrumming within the belly of the sea,

A song half-spent in blood,

And the pounding of sharks upon a sun-lit sea.

For this the whalers had come,

To pour its oil into the hissing lamps of the world,

For this the whale had died,

In a little red lake of death.

The whale is hauled and flensed,

Creeks of blood pouring out in tumults,

Around the black boulders of whale flesh.

Yet, the great whale-heart still pounds,

Hung up within a sack dripping on the deck,

The murdered whale gone from its home,

Its great bones heaped.

Let the vigil fires be lit all across the great prairies,

Light them along the banks of every river,

Throughout all the Temples of Time,

Let these lights be lit and made to burn forever.

For within that bloody ocean,

There are stairways carved from stone,

And leading us downwards,

They lead only to where all life is locked in vaults.

The life of a whale hangs in chains there,

Dead with all that is dead,

But the smell carries on the wind,

And a great storm erupts into the air.

The chambers in another heart opens,

A poet awakens from out of a dark slumber,

And leaning over in the night he lights a lamp,

And lays awake thinking.

Into the black room a tiny flame leaps,

Hissing on its bed of whale oil,

And by this light the poet writes:

“I am a whaling ship,

Searching through all the seas,

And the pen I hold is my harpoon,

And it is tied to me.”

There is a fire in the bowl of light,

It lights his page, his pipe, his dreams,

Dear Jehovah, let him put sunlight upon the bloodied oceans:

“The last whale died tonight,

My lamp is out,

And I am drenched, dark, and ugly.”

Darkness spilled like black water into his room.

The poet goes to sleep again,

Dreaming of whales,

Whales unhunted,

And alone.

“Watch the flame in the leaping lamp,

A very small feast indeed,

Where only whales and poets swim,

In a single drop of blood.”

– Michael Warren Eliseuson