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Francie Lynch Jan 30
That's me in the picture,
A collage of brothers and sisters;
I'm held high in my Mammy's arms,
Days before leaving Ireland.

Six months later, in our new home,
On a couch in our front room,
We pose again.
(See the console in our romper room?
It's testament to our boom and boons)

There's thousands of miles between those shoots,
And four million loved ones left behind
In a life and land we won't have again.
(That's the way life was back then)
No Face Time, #MeTime,
Sometimes a landline,
But always a letter in a card at the right time.

Brothers and sisters are missing.
In neglected churchyards,
And yet my mother smiles,
All the while.

Sixty years on, we pose again,
Sharing four hundred years here,
With seven hundred left behind:
Years of Famine and Hedge Schools,
Foreign invasions and Imperial Rule.

We stand *****, shoulders touching,
Between them loved ones missing;
Gone before the shutter opened,
A partial story as pictures go.

We're Irish proud,
Some of Canada's best;
An Irish-Canadian
When laid to rest.
Brothers and sisters died before we left Ireland, and brothers and sisters died after we arrived in Canada. But the six sibs that left Ireland are still alive and well.
Edit and re-post.
Ivy Collins Jan 9
suffering Clots in my gut
humanity gurgles In my throat
holes drilled into the Veins of the earth
as i taste a country drenched in colonIzed blood on my Lips
a melting arctIc leaks from my eyes
weStern destinies fester in my chest
as the fissures in its surface smoke my lungs out like burning gAsoline
i can Touch each pole with the pads of my fingers
and shake the glassy world
one day i will lay flat and press my tongue agaInst the world
and feel it dissOlve in my mouth
like the fizzy tablet of Nothing it is
Leonhard Jan 2018
The foundation of
our library is
a section we
refuse to see.

Historys largest
collection of stories
just endless tales
of suffering

All of them
both blindly written
and left unread
by all of us.

Too much shame in
our work for
our work to
ever improve.

Everyone an author
even if we only want
to see ourselves
as books.
Akemi Oct 2017
holy ****
these concrete walls
are held by invisible strings
and collapsing
tear down those ******* towers!
ivory unto silicon unto
no ******* change!
The fonterrorists will go elsewhere
The big boy powers always find a small dot far away from their large splodge
To check and wreck havoc to
It’s got to be far far enough away that if you can smell the smoke,
It’s faint enough that you could mistake it for incense
Or your might twitch your nose
Turn your head and say
Is someone smoking?
It smells like someone is smoking?

When the water is more **** than water
When it is only dry, desitutte,
eroded wasted uselessness,
The fonterrorists will go elsewhere
Somewhere with more utility.
I spoke to this man I met on the street and he told me that while he was on holiday he met a very guilt ridden man who was working for fonterra (read: fonterror) and he told me that they were already laying the plans to move on from colonised Aotearoa once it is all wasted.
Traveler Aug 2017
Don't aim those bombs at Michigan
O Canada ant gonna Stand Idly by
Just saying, if that's your mission
I guess the nukes are gonna fly

Good to remember Red October
Forget Custard's Wounded Knee
Surely a stepping stone
In line with broken statues
Like The Fallen General Lee

Never mind the little man
Behind the neocons
Who just said everything
We know is wrong
Don't believe we come in peace
You know we're not that strong
Traveler Tim
Akemi Jul 2017
white snakes the gallow
perdurance // a mottled core
three hundred galloped
tocsin! klaxon!
adorned with horns of yesteryear
tar and lynching rope.
the sordid history of imperialist *****

(you know, they never left)
Alex Gomez Jun 2017
Today is a day of terror,
uprooted is a word.
I don't feel soil
Is it even there? Or?

Fear is special, it's one of a kind.
Sweet, heavy charm like bourbon cream settling on my mind, and held at all sides by brother's smile and sister's cries.

Here, where a conscience is a privilege for those who deny it time.

     in cliffside prisons we wait and hope
     for winds to change the tide
     and outside we stare at the sky, high
     in pose, waiting for those
     to enlight the zeitgeist

helpless in repose
while blazing air rips me alive
to die as twin-halves of space and time.
Whole, I know, a face that guides,
Indigo, movements that grow
to set the sky alight.

Release, the impatience to set the sky alight
and love the breakage, the placement, the compromise of light,
the burn of bodies broken,
and hard words spoken
the movement of spectral sight.

Through Genghis to Harvard and a million dead whales,
**** pails and plastic sails;
love for teeming, sick, jails.
For height and breadth and hypocrisy's jest;
our special place in time.

Uphold! Prevail, break bones and stones
to set the sky alight;
make homes of forest bones,
charms of demagogues in Rome,
and fight!
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