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  Sep 2016 Kurt Carman
arham
I can't seem to fall asleep most nights
Even when I've turned off all the lights
Twelve always turns to two
And I keep thinking about you
Should a primitive tribe be civilized?
Are we civilized or savage?


Leave them the aborigines to their home
in peace
their abode in the depth of forest.

But where's their abode?
we cut the jungle and made road
where would their babies be born?
in the smoke of engines blaring of horns
so hard for them to birth
on the dwindling patch of their earth
our Paleolithic ancestors' living fossils
who with iron will
fought bullets with bows and arrows
now falling by the bullies of progress
begging for last living space.

Leave them the way they lived so long
unspoiled with their own education and culture
let them retain their own way of life
and not make them civilized the way we are.
Jarawas, an indigenous tribe of the Andaman Islands, India.
Their population restricted to Middle Andaman is estimated to be around 400.
Encroachment in the name of progress in their core area has made them vulnerable and endangered.
This write is based on my experience while working in the Middle Andaman.
  Sep 2016 Kurt Carman
Cynthia Jean
Such a hunger
     holy hunger
         and thirst
              such joy
                   such peace

A Holy Place
      to be

Such a memory
     to return to

The Presence of God
      is in that place.

Cj 2016
a simpler time to return to....forgotten for a moment....the memory brought to life once again by another's poem....thank you!
  Sep 2016 Kurt Carman
Charles McCue
Wishing both Passion and Anonymity
The same side of two coins
After ever, Eternity
First defeat had won
A growing cold beneath the flame
The careful waters nurtured
A passing notion for a kiss
Death presents His virtues

Will and Strength both in jest
Along with Constitution
Stir the muddied waters
Governed by Inspiration
Now chastened Fear beneath the moon
The aweful sonnet wispered
Left drunken Sorrow quite confused
On how he could have missed her

The quiet chains of Solitude
Sorrow kept in tow
Drug over the corpse of Pain
Where flowers never grow
The Writer with hypothesies
Sleeps beneath the covers
Quietly while on His sholder
Torture kindly hovers
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