(Where I worked, they set up TV’s in the cafeteria to watch the continuing coverage of the events of 9/11. I had become known as a sort of poet and many asked me to write something, a poem about 9/11. In the printed version which I handed out to people, they translated into their language the word ‘******’ and into the poem. The company did not like it cause they wanted to whip up the patriotic jingoism and calls for revenge. Thankfully this poem helped to stop this at this factory.)  

911 Thoughts

“Our grief is not a cry for war”
--Artists Network, Refuse & Resist

“..and the poets down here
don’t write nothing at all,
they just stand back
and let it all be”
–‘Jungle Land’, by B. Springsteen


“Beto nki tutasala” (‘What are we doing’)
--Old African saying


New York City 9/11/01:
She walks down the street
numb
peering side to side
pausing,
showing his picture to everyone who looks.
Tears streak her brown skin
as the reality of his loss
sinks deeper in,
yet searching, as if just looking
will make him appear by her side
an ease the vacuum of why that
echoes mockingly in her heart.
~~~
Friends have asked me,
write a poem about these events, Red.
Write about 911,
and the horror from the sky.
Tell us what you think.
Can you give us some hope
that when the dust
and tears
settle from our eyes,
we will still be able to see the sun.
How?
What words can I use to describe
or even surmise all the reasons why.
How do you explain to your grand kids
the war has come home.
They have put us in harms way.

New York City, 9/11/01
Yes the ‘war’ has come home
so many innocents have paid
a blood price for a
globalized monster
grown, nurtured, raised
in the dark soils of the USA.

Southern Iraq, 9/8/01
U.S. and British ghosts
swoop down on a ‘radar installation’
that turns mysteriously into a village.
8 civilians known dead,
many others injured.

Baghdad Iraq. 2/91
Clutching her injured child to her breast,
she flees collapsing buildings
while thunder surrounds her,
she is looking frantically for shelter
from ‘smart rain’
pouring down from the night sky.
Explosions that almost drown out her
screams.
Screams for a lost generation;
how do you rebuild a generation?

West Bank / Gaza, Any day
Young comrades pick thru
blood soaked rubble of once homes
looking for survivors of
‘made in the USA’ helicopter terror.
Or picking up stones to fight off
‘made in the USA’ tanks
spewing out ‘collective punishment’
needed for new Israeli settlements.

Beirut Lebanon, 1980
Safely, miles out to sea,
the USS New Jersey
spits out salvo after salvo
painting the city with fire storms.
Thousands die, thousands more
made refugees in their own country
punished for harboring
Palestinian refugees who refuse to
recognize ‘stolen land’
now claiming to be Israel.

New York City, 9/11/01
The view of passenger jets
lingers in our vision.
Over and over they seem to play with,
dance,
then mingle with those towers
until only twisted steel,
burnt flesh,
and crumbled cement remains
creating a mass grave.


Vietnam, 1970
The village explodes.
Children running
naked
flesh singed, burnt
burning
as liquid fire drops
from high flying 52's.
******; an English word
which in Vietnamese, Chinese or Khmer
Means DEATH!
(Imagine here the words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese and Khmer.)


Hiroshima / Nagasaki, 1945
150,000 human beings now only shadows
seared into the concrete,
human outlines
that still scream their agony
heard even today by anyone
who doesn’t have selective amnesia.

New York City, 9/11/01
What words can explain the loss
of loved ones, friends?
What words can capture
the vacant look of the black woman
seeking her young daughter
who had her very first job interview
on the 104th floor?
What emotions are left
after the search for loved ones
finds only gray dust and charred stench
whether in New York or:
Baghdad, Beirut, Belgrade, Gaza,
Chile, Guatemala, El Salvador, My Lai,
Sudan, or Mogadishu?
What can prepare you for the
sickening sweet scent of
burnt flesh carried on lazy breezes;
of dust coating everything with
the stink of human blood?

~~~~~

And now there is talk of
And preparation for:
Retribution
Justice
Retaliation.
More words that the people of
the world understand all too well:
DEATH! (The words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese, Hindi, Urdu, Ctujarati, and Khmer are not formating when I cut and paste. Imagine them here.)
MUERTE! DEATH!

~~~~~

Every day now the powers that be
prepare us for even more untold horrors;
hype us with red, white and blue views.
Pass on to us today’s NEWS:
“Congress passed new war legislation today”;
“unnamed sources report that”
“a high government official who wishes to remain anonymous”;
“the word at the White House”;
SPECULATIONS: there are 50 governments that harbor or support terrorism.
Several undocumented Arabs have been arrested trying to buy illegal chemicals
INNUENDO: known terrorist are said to have links to Afghanistan.
RUMOR: the next attacks could come as early as 9/22;
Air Force One was threatened today;
terror may come in the form of chemical or biological;
All the conjectures ‘fit to be news’;
Bin Laden is the one, Iraq, Iran,
somebody in the Sudan,
someone, somewhere has to be made to pay.
Conjecture pumped out continuously
24/7
why, we got it straight from heaven
so it must be true!

~~~~~

New York City, Aftermath
For many the future is hard to imagine,
uncertainty weighs heavy
like an echo that bounces endlessly
off tenement walls.
Like the way the “WHY’S”
multiply with each official explanation
and grows from whispers to amplified
crescendos of NOOOOOOOO! NO!
Not in our name.
You cannot exploit our grief,
our sorrow for so many lost lives
into your “holy war of retribution”;
into your vision of “Homeland Security”
and more repressive police powers;
into your call for Justice envisioned as an
Americanized world.
The people of our planet
do not need another
unjust war. And yet,
as long as this system continues,
as long as organized greed,
backed up by Washington bullets reign,
these horrors will continue to
rain from the skies.


Afghanistan, 10/07/01
Today the bombing began.
More horror fell from the sky
as talk of even more countries, people
are added to the “suspected list”.
One thing is sure, those hundreds,
thousand who have already died
had nothing to do with 9/11.
How long?
How many more will die
before we put it to an end?

~~redzone 10.04.01~~ (edited 10/07/01)
(written while using the pen name 'redzone'
reposted by Aztec Warrior 11.18.15)

While Waiting For The Train #4


Sitting here, thinking about work
and the inherent contradictions
of housekeeping.
Or, should I say:
Sanitary Engineer,
Building Maintenance.
In reality, all it is
is an old fashioned janitor.
Or, as some of my friends say:
“Old **** janitor!”
Affectionately,
but also with an edge.

oo0oo

But this isn’t what I am thinking about.
No, it’s more the routine
and its mindless activity.
As we often say:
“It’s the same old, same old”;
or, “SSDD”;
same ****, different day.”
Today for example,
it was a Thursday Monday.
It’s always a Monday of some kind.
And Monday kind of describes the job too.

oo0oo

This too, is not what I am thinking.
It’s more the executive decisions
a janitor must make.
Decisions that determine
the ‘smooth’ functioning of a factory,
office, or where ever.
You laugh!
But really, it’s true.
Ever go to the bathroom
and there is no toilet paper?
See, I exaggerate not.
Or what if there were no
forks, knives, or spoons
in the lunch room.
Then what?
Are you really going to eat that
crispy green salad
with mushrooms and feta cheese,
smothered in ranch
with your fingers? Please!

oo0oo

But, even these earth shaking decisions
are not what I am thinking.
It’s those ever present,
critical questions:
sweep, mop, then pull trash?
Or should I pull trash, sweep
and then mop?
This monotonous rotation
determines the rotation
of the earth around the sun;
the phases of the moon
and when will I clean the bathrooms,
causing the most inconvenience
to everyone.
This by the way, is most satisfying
and one of the few perks of the job.
Sweep,
mop,
pull trash;
sweep, mop, pull trash.
Or, pull trash,
sweep,
mop!
It can give you grey hairs,
all this responsibility
and decision making.

oo0oo

Sitting here, now on the train home,
a brilliant,
not to mention uplifting,
idea rampages through my tired mind.
Tomorrow
I am going to be rebellious-
an open radical!
A free thinker!
Tomorrow, I have decided
will be “Liberation Day”.
“Janitors of the world unite!”
Tomorrow there will be a revolution,
as I,
the **** Old Janitor will:
mop,
pull trash,
then sweep!!!

(written as~~redzone 5.14.09 - Aztec Warrior)

© 2014 redzone

DECEMBER DREAMS**

December dreams spiral
thru the whiffs of smoke,
emanating from forest hidden Cherokee homes.
They pirouette the way notes
imagine Lester Young’s
tenor music to be;
the way Blue Jays flap
while protecting their territory.
~~~
The Eastern mountains,
snow covered and brown,
rise gently as I walk
yet provide glimmers of ancient valleys
carved out by receding ice.
There is the feel of human destiny
washing me as a breeze
sings thru wild peach trees;
And a breeze lifting sharp talon hawks
with its hunting melodies
carrying the owl's secrets
thru even more exotic landscapes.
~~~
Over looking the Talamaque River,
I rest on the brown
frozen earth becoming
lost in ancestor dreams.
I can see the blood flowing west.
I feel the tears soaking the ground
where Dogwood now grows.
And Grandfather speaks to me
with a warm sun in the ‘long ago tongue’:
“Redzone, it is good to
have these memories.
To remember the trees
the bear and the chic-a-dee.
One day, May will arrive with the morning crows
and Turtle will once again discuss
constellations with the Moon.
Our people, will no longer be forgetful
of who we are and how far we have to go."
~~~
December dreams spiral
thru whiffs of smoke
and Lester Young plays
with the flapping Blue Jays.

~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 12.15.01~~
(written after finishing a collection of poems
by Ron Welburn called “Coming Through Smoke
and the Dreaming”)

The Notebook

A small leaf fell from the notebook. It was Autumn colored transparency, gentle to the touch, not dried and brittle, but still seemed alive with vibrancy. Its shape was unusual to me and I discovered the tree it came from died out thousands of years ago.

The notebook, old leather bound, seemed just as old. A bit larger than my hand, you could feel wear of millennia in the symbols etched and raised on the back and spine. On the cover, a leafless, ancient and gnarly tree. It’s trunk at least 10 men, arms stretched around, with fat, ugly limbs touching the sky. It felt alive, breathing as my fingers brushed across the tree and symbols below it. An exciting warmth flowed in my mind and without really thinking, I picked up my pen and wrote my name atop the first page.

It made me smile, cause as I wrote “REDZONE”, the letters turned into ancient, ornate symbols and the space around me shifted, almost a dimensional phase in astral synchronicity but a dream walk reality. The paper, handmade papayra, drank in the ink coloring it with the passion of Time, licorice and figments of imagination.

Under my name, more symbols appeared smelling of musk, jasmine and blue nile; the words: “POET, WRITER, SINGER OF IMAGES AND PAINTER OF WORDS.” In smaller word symbols: “Keeper of our Stories and Origins”.

As I began to understand the notebook’s meaning, a single leaf materialized on the ancient tree. And a second small leaf of Autumn’s design formed as I wrote:
                                 Small leaves unfolding
                            In Autumn’s hue, written in
                                Sun rise morning dew.
                                               ^^^
                                 Leaves painted by words
                            Will cover this ancient tree
                                 With life origins.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 9.26.16

On this Friday night a poem to share with all who wish someone would write them a love poem. Or in some other show of affection give them love and kindness.


Bright Star  
           by John Keats

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priest like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.

I think if I would write a poem of love for the one I love,
It would be to simply voice softly in her ear, this poem written
by John Keats and given to his love,  ***** Brawne….  redzone to_,
a softly voiced enchantment in the night’s sky.

MONSTER SLAYER: GEORGE

Summer clouds,
billowing white, amidst
a blue ocean,
speak in the language of
rabbits, turtles, whales,
of knights and warriors.
Moving slowly
with majestic determination,
calling all to look,
imagine
and create
those night time lullabies
to help small children
sleep
and not fear
those monsters
in the closet,
under the bed,
or in the room
down the hall.

All too quickly
they learn the monsters
are real, alive and well;
are the ones sitting
on the edge of the bed
singing of woodland creatures,
pretending their sharpened teeth
don’t leave scars that
never ever heal.

As a young boy
I would watch those billowing
white clouds
and imagine knights and warriors
carrying sharpened,
double edged swords,
advancing on this ocean blue
as they headed to my best friends bedroom
to cut off the heads
of these monsters
and stop those sweet lullabies.

Today, summer clouds
hung, draping their whiteness
in such a way
I saw your face.
A tear streaked your cheek,
but the there was also a smile.
I remember you pitching fast *****
that hurt my catchers hand,
as batter after batter
swung and missed.
You were that good.
I remember us mixing a
toxic concoction
with my chemistry set
and killing a colony of ants.
It was a masacre.
That night we both had nightmares
of ant armies seeking revenge
and swore we would forever
protect all life
as penitence.
For a while
we were best friends.

And then
the monsters came.
You were 11,
in fifth grade when
you finally fought back.
After the monster attacked
your mother and sister,
you found your sword.
As in the epic tale of George the Dragon Slayer,
the battle was fierce;
blood everywhere;
but George,
the boy with the lightning fast ball;
the boy who apologized for killing ants;
did the bravest thing of all -
he slew the monster!
*
George -
you were my best friend
they took you away
and I have never seen you again.
I never got to tell you
I was so happy you won!
George -
you were my best friend
you taught me to be brave;
to stand against all monsters.

(Written using the pen name:
~~redzone 4.12.14
Posted using the pen name Aztec Warrior)

Note: The other day when it was so warm and spring-like, a memory from long ago floated around in my mind. His name was George S., and for two years, he was my best friend.
    I wanted you to meet him, and tried in a more poetic form to tell you some about him. He came from another country. He, his mother and sister had fled from his father who abused them. But he found them and for a short time things were ok, until the horrors began again.
    This poem is for all who know what abuse and oppression is and have survived because of your courage in battling these monsters. It is also for all those who in one way or another have not been able to do this, in spite of their heroic efforts. Our hearts are yours forever!
     George, where ever you are, THANK YOU. Cause at a very early age, you showed me what it means to be brave and to stand up against injustice and abuse.