Forefathers shedding blood
In a spectacular
Bravery and unity
"A violated-not sovereignty
And self confidence"
What is more
An unpolluted culture
And intact identity!
Thus, maintaining integrity
And hard-preserved identity
Getting poverty and lack
Behind our back,
For the coming generation
We have to pave the track
With Mega projects Like
So that on a bright tomorrow
Our children embark!
Great Ethiopian Renaissance Dam(GERD)-- A self-financed examplary project that could feed electricity to the horn of Africa and beyond!
Great Ethiopian Renaissance Dam(GERD)!
My original spring was wound,
Tight as a Swiss watch.
The fore-finger and thumb
Of the nun turned the crown screw,
As only the Sisters could do.
Any subject could be converted
Into a lesson of the life of Jesus.
A plus sign becomes a cross.
Even Jesus knew the angles
To be a carpenter and Savior,
Grace and Faith kept time.
The Sacrements were frequent topics.
How many would we receive
Between Baptism and Extreme Unction?
After Confessions, I once asked,
Is it possible to sin between Penance and the curb?
All things are possible with God.
You didn't want to die with a blemished soul;
Being responsible for more thorns and nails
Pounded into the emaciated, pitiful flesh
Of the one to emulate,
With Grace and Faith.
I was fervent in prayer.
I wanted to carry the Holy Eucharist
To the housebound or hospitalized;
Through the throng of thugs
Ready to defile the wafer.
I was ready to die a martyr,
With a benevolent, sober Jesus,
Guarding from the clouds,
Right hand raised like a Judo chop,
Blessing me, preparing me,
Protecting me with a corporeal force field.
Grace and Faith kept time.
I pined to wear the Altar Boy's Cassock,
Soutane-like, long and black,
Topped with the surplice;
To ring the bell, light the incense,
Hold the Communion Plate
Under Mammy's chin
As she knelt in supplication,
Before the Madonna,
My blessed Mother.
Did she envision me as a Jesuit,
Tending to the lame lepers
In the jungles of Peru and Africa.
Me, who issued forth from her.
Faith kept time.
The dark hour was closing in.
The spring was loosening,
Unwinding as I relaxed.
Marian sat beside me,
Thinking of our orders
At the drive through.
The Nehru-collared clerk
Slid the glass window,
Listening to our wants.
I offered her a napkin
To keep the crumbs
Of her little black dress.
Slowly succumbing to the burning tranquility,
My mind dreads on these moments without you.
A dark and cold sensation strikes me with agility,
Turning my burning heart ashen, cold, as fast as you…
…ignite it again.
Is this Nirvana? A place avoid of everything but pain and you?
Or do I have monsters inside without which I cannot live?
Without which I cannot be human? What can I do?
Can I only wait and suffer through this calmness and give…
…my scars time to heal?
the way to banish fear of failure
to persevere beyond trial and error
to learn and grow and develop
to become the person you want most
the way is called "practice"
and by perceiving that everything
or attempt to do
you will never fail
and one day you will find
that you have surpassed practice
Bethany G. Blicq
City of hopes
City of dreams,
Where nothing is exactly
The way that it seems.
I don't usually refer to myself
As a "native",
To contrast myself
Who have recently arrived in Denver.
I refer to myself as an "Old Timer",
At 50 years old
As if I was a really a Silver Miner
Up in Leadville,
In the 1880's,
But that's really my way
Of critiquing the agism
In the United States.
The youth are meant to be exploited.
The elderly are meant to be
Denver is a city that is growing so rapidly
That it seems to be on steroids,
Even though a lot of this development
Is really fueled
By the decriminalization of Marijuana,
Which is supposed to
Slow people down.
I used to think of Denver
As a rude place,
But less impersonal
Than those older cities back east,
Denver is cold and harsh.
It's just that almost everything is new
Rather than being decrepit.
I make my peace with my own alienation
By writing and reciting poetry,
I was never really
Part of the establishment anyways.
The Nuclear Arms Race
And the Wars in Central America
In the 1980's.
About Death Squads,
Mowing people down in the Philippines...
Showing up at Native American Demonstrations
To protest a Pipeline
In North Dakota
Things change on the surface,
And the temperatures soar,
On a deeper level,
Humanity is simply
More malicious than ever.
Nothing has really changed.
We are a species
with the ability
We can decide
We can be educated
not anesthetized by media lies.
We can be better
if we choose to be,
when we choose to be.
We can be
a great collective,
a shining light
that spans the stars,
We can be
of humanistic priorities
all of humanity
From the earthy grass,
we're but a blady splice,
a field, a human mass,
forming layers of life.
Worms in Soul's soil caress;
nurtures our initial progress.
From our ancestral core roots,
the nuclear inner layer,
life sprung forth in shoots.
We sprout and grow,
separate but whole
Upon the land,
the dirt and sand,
our earthy layer,
form Soul's human.
Blooming petals take her in flight
on wings of butterfly dreams,
once upon a young moonless night
When her earthly plight
breaks her might,
Soul sets her sight
flying free from mother.
Rough is life's weather,
soaring above the heather,
Soul uplifts human like a feather.
She's in between heaven and earth.
A sage, a lover, a woman of worth.
She reaches the upper mantle,
the golden globe
of life's glorious outer layer.
The upper crust,
Soul's final earthly layer,
one of dying beauty,
decay, and flaky rust.
Before age returns her
in death to dust,
within the grassy
above her nuclear inner,
where her body
the first layer of life,
Thanks for reading! K:)
He stands in a makeshift kitchen,
by the roadside every morning,
Determined, unshaven and shirtless,
dagger in hand,
a tray of onions in front of him.
Paid by numbers by the hour,
hired by someone a wee bit less poor than him,
His knife hitting the chopping board
and adding a beat to the march of progress .
A rhythm to the stride of a herd of people,
dancing towards so-called newer heights,
Driven by the expertise of an elite handful
who make the rules, systematically deciding
who peels the onions and who cleans the loo.
Waiting to be peeled and chopped,
waiting to be counted and weighed,
Peel, peel, chop, chop!
Waiting to be popped into a tray
lost in the crowd of more chopped existences.
Not my real tears, he assures himself,
Thankful to be able to cry
behind the garb of onion-tears,
Having lost the freedom
to even own his pain.
But why does he need to weep at all?
we ask, puzzled,
Aren’t we climbing the grid of development?
Haven’t we honoured him enough?
By bestowing on him,
the coveted title of The Onion Chopper?