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Chris Saitta Dec 2019
Nothing can be said from the lip of the sun,
To array with full redress the wind-flayed waters
Of the river-run and the naked broomrape of Spring,
Absolve naiads of their blued minstrelsy in venous scream,
Or pour a yellow songbird from the gold-rimmed cup of war.
Nothing is said in the liver-spotted ground of rain-ghosted gardens,
Where love’s monument is a blot of dried flowers and grayed thorns.
Mikey Kania Nov 2019
it took him two hours to
count the bills; would you
believe that?

hihihi

global network
brokers
state's attorneys
distributors
transnational trucking

not to mention the
containers

entrepreneurs like him
timeless my dear!

he descends from
a lineage of

cold-blooded
hawk-eyed
eager
men

quite brutish well but who
wouldn't fight for money?

you see?

moreover as far as
i'm concerned
we are talking about a well established
name here; engraved above monuments
nationwide

you mustn't worry
good people
clean reputations

don't look behind you
don't mind the reflection
don't try to feel the hole in
the back of your head

it's just your blood
it will be over

you have to die now
Outside Words Nov 2019
I am a monument
To your sins and despair
In the dark of the world
In dead leaves and cold air
I stand a gray statue
Caught in winter's snare

I am the eternal self
Bound to the Earth and dirt
My toes dig like roots
Green leaves form my skirt
Memories of far away times
Deliver winds of old hurt

I am an innocent child
A simple and tender age
Basking in warm sunlight
Awaiting the next stage
Blessed by green gardens
An untamed sage

Sasa Milivojev Oct 2019
I have been searching for you
in the centuries
In lost dreams
In icy seas
Tracks covered in snow
And you are no more
Everyone ‘s undone
Winds! Turn me to ice
A monument of ice
To be awakened
By soft rays of light
Once a heart is thawed
It will beat for you
Memories I lost
Turn my blood to frost
Tear droplet so young
On snow covered ground
I shine from afar
But no one awaits
To lessen my pain
That is neverending
Winds! Turn me to ice
A monument of ice
To be awakened
By soft rays of light
Once a heart defrosts
It will beat for you
Sun will disembogue
Like honey that’s thawed.



Saša Milivojev

Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
visit: www.sasamilivojev.com
Jonathan Moya Sep 2019
Rapid City wears its patriotism like a shroud.
Corner streets are populated with less than
life-size statues of past presidents
squinting at the distant Black Hills
where the grandeur of Mt. Rushmore
casually crumbles their bronze dreams.

Wax settlers, loggers and gold miners
stake claims with souvenir hunters
touring a mine, panning for fool’s gold.

In nearby Custer, 75 breaths  from Wounded Knee,
shops hawk Chief Joseph, Sitting Bull, Geronimo t-shirts
proclaiming them “ The Original Founding Fathers.”
Mixed in are those in star-spangled letters and fireworks
proudly streaming “Welcome to America. Now Speak English.”

Rushmore was dynamited from a cliff
by a creator who spent the rest of his life
erecting grand Confederate gestures
out of ****** Georgia quartz monzonite—
finished and opened 100 years to the day
after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.  

Thirty minutes from Rushmore, existing in its shadow
on private land filled with dusty trails,
unfinished after seventy years,
probably still unfinished after twenty  more,
facing away from these great stone faces,
emerging from the side of great Thunderhead Mountain,

on an ivory stead with a mane of flowing river and wind,
exists the Oglala Lakota warrior Tasunke Witko
the worm of Crazy Horse the Old and Rattling Blanket Woman,
sibling of Little Hawk and Laughing One, memory of the spirit of
Black Buffalo and White Cow who walked with an Iron Cane,
all enclosed with him in this massive breath of white stone.

The history of this great Indian space stretches the land,
four times higher than the Statue of Liberty,
extending beyond the warrior frown, the pointing left arm.
The horse’s ear alone is the size of a rusty  reservation bus.
When finished it will be the largest sculpture in history,
bigger than the land, breath and all of Indian memory.

It was the Vision Quest of Chief Henry Standing Bear to show the whites that the red man had great heroes, too.
In a man named Korczak he found a kindred spirit,
a storyteller in stone, a survivor of Omaha Beach,
who when the first wife faltered, found a second
who gave him enough children to carry, sculpt the Bear Dream.  

The big chief’s face is still the only finished part.
Korczak’s wife and children toil with the rest,
struggling to capture the essence of a warrior
who never allowed his shadow to be snared
in the false glow of the white man’s light,
trusting only the rain beams that fall

onto his people, mountains, plains and buffaloes,
onto Paha Sapa, “the heart of everything that is,”
where the Lakota huddled while the world was created,
now a land of broken treaties and dying dreams,
drenched in the dust of tears underneath,
while this white face torn from red gazes East.
Wounded Knee is not only the sight of an 1800’s Indian Massacre but the rumored burial spot of Sitting Bull.

The grand confederate gesture refers to Stone Mountain park, a Mt Rushmore etched with the faces of the Confederacy: Robert E. Lee,
md-writer Sep 2019
One day, in my travels, I found a monument to the forgotten.

I found footprints there, and though they fit my feet, I had no memory of being there before.

One side of the monument was blank, full of words that could not be read.

One side was burnt, and ashes twisted in the mourning breeze.

One side was covered with a sheet.

One side towered high, yet was gone before I fully looked away.

And all around, footprints.

All of them mine.
Aaron E Dec 2018
Searching for a monument to build,
to my stranger nature.
A display of living purpose,
but it's paper,
A failure to surface,
when the current spills
my hopes out to the maker.

I'm breathing toxic calamity like a vapor.
I'm receding, firing soliloquies over faders,
and waiting for it to taper.
The baser instinct to sink into
to a shape conforming destiny's favor, amazing
but it's death in a manger.
A gift of unrequested breath
to levy questions of our nature
impartial but starting to loose
the fruit for us to play with

Don't play with your food
the canopy vines can't seem to stay in the mood
when amity cries
just as we bite another layer
and hope our spirit affords an existential favor.

The corporeal farce of the mortal coil
Where I'm going, what I've done,
who I am, who I have to become

Who am I to give a ****
about what has to be done
will I be actualized
if I inhabit the gun
will I be dazzled to find
that I should never have won
that all my fevers of prayer
were only threads to be spun

I am the definition of survivor's bias
clamoring for comprehension to a writer's silence
buying into lines reverberating in my mind
and all the while I soak
in revelation of the killing kindness

an absence of a unique purpose
a lavish elusiveness revealing
time as worthless, when I dig for deeper meaning
but seemingly informed by enduring
anguish in a world to test which
axiom I'll push the furthest
my reluctance to lift the curtain
My redundancy in spilling refusal
sooner empty than truly certain
My abundance of energy
filling the room
I bask in knowledge
Honoring the right to never learn it

And so I paint
I drape the walls and fall into
the sordid echoes,
calling through the mist.
Simple soothing bruising lips
They whistle darkness
move your hips
I'll leave a mark

I'm through with this.
Everyone wants to find that connection between their spirit (soul, self, being) and the rest of reality. That's mostly what this is about, with some tangents. Getting things out and in stone. Exploring, building, creating our own purpose, or finding the value in the purpose others have created for themselves in an existence that can seem bleak or meaningless at times. There's more in there, but that's sort of the broad strokes. Enjoy, and thank you.
Blois Nov 2017
I'm a builder.
My poems are houses.
Crooked,
ghost houses.
Mad houses.
Burn victims hospitals.
Pet cemeteries.
Monuments
to unknown soldiers.

But also, sometimes,
they are what they are meant to be.
A beating heart with space enough
for them all to dwell.

Usually, not even that.
Only rubble.
Only silence.
Seema Sep 2017
The winds whistle my name
As I walk on this lonely path
Everything looks almost the same
Except the monuments ruined art

The heart was stained red
Tear marks on it's face I saw
The monument looked sad
On this bright day, it refused to glow

As I looked closer, I felt drips of water
Over my shoulder, as I stood near
A feeling of a mother, missing her daughter
In those still eyes, sipping out was its tear

I never thought stones could really cry
Crafted by men, a persona beautiful art
Even if I wipe out its tears to dry
I wouldn't feel the pain it bears in its heart...

©sim
An orange
sought crunch
as nightfall
waned in
northern tier
and would
annex more
than south
as it
lied encumbered
with KE
when Robert
E, Lee
incandescently drew
lion's share
of resistance
in Yorktown.
"A patriot with remark"
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