If you met a flag that represents a country,
Would it tell you of its people? Would
It speak of their courage strength and
Determination? Would it sing the songs of the children's souls as they run through bricks stacked high as clouds?
Without the wind, flags do not fly.
When they fall,
they need the people's
Hands to rise again.
The voices of the people singing,
A flag is nothing
until "we" believe we are free
The streets are staind with the the blood
Of our AMERICAN children...
How dare you
How dare you
My fellow Americans
Trading your children
The very future of our America
Trading their love for flags
Ignoring their screaming blood,
To listen...blindly to the silence of cloth
How dare you speak of disrespecting
I've watched you walk past
Lost soldiers, begging
With nothing but ancient
Military fatigues and the stench
That was never washed away
How could any soldier be lost
How dare you America
How dare you use our veterans
And sacrifice to ignore
The rising rumble of defiance
Deep within the belly of America
Where there is hunger
For reason, hunger
Like you have never known
WE are america,
Our nation would be lost
In infinite silence
If we all died today....
Taking a knee is not a disrespect
To the flag!
The American flag is a canvas
Painted by the people who live and die
Believing that because they are
American, they are free.
We Americans however,
Have been painting our flag in the blood of our
Own beloved, the youth, the elderly,
The less fortunate and impoverished,
The mentally challenged, and most of all with the blood of all of those who chose to die
So that you me and themselves could be free,
Americans are taking a knee,
Because we are ashamed to stare proudly at
A flag dripping with the blood of its people!
We will not rise
Until the blood shed dies!
Words like knives
Words like balm on burn fingers
Words that cut
Wrapped around my heart
Words never spoken on my lips
Words tumble from mouths too fast to stop
They could heal this wound
Or tear at it all the more
Words drunk like water
Words hurled at loved ones
Or whispered to those too far away to touch
To those whose words have healed me; my thanks
To those whose words could heal us all; keep writing
Wrap this world in what could be
Words could save me, if I let them
For now my words will fall on deaf ears
But wrap this soul in prose long past
An astir this dimm
she dig train then abscond
that dawn set her part
just round nine o'clock
and she sped into town
but rode back at dusk
met me on this serial port
and funny interlude discretion
with a keystroke to browse
this cockamamie diatribe
while all through a route tonight
yet this flagrant twist ensue
with her laptop a comrade fair
to find her again
upon this moment of bliss
she rightfully kissed
with a monument there
that touted strikingly tall
like an obelisk affront
an oft-heard prayer.
Like diamonds, we sleep in a soft repose,
Where we dream of slipping past the wandering souls;
Numbing our swollen hearts in glass and stone,
No more clothes, no more clothes
Making love with the stillness of the night
As the stars overhead flicker so, so bright;
Tracing the pattern of my spine,
Running out of time, running out of time
The sun pops from the sky,
Scanning the field of dreams where our love lies;
Written in the imprinted lines,
Saying goodbye, saying goodbye
the Mississippi starts small,
at the headwaters.
A child can cross
stone to stone, almost slipping
into cold water.
Sometimes they do fall,
but stumbling and soaking wet,
they finish crossing.
Now, these blue-gray stones
and clear rippling currents still
sound like their laughter.
A DEDICATORY ODE in NINE STANZAS
Ye NaPoWriMoids, hear my prayer
let's mix our metaphors and dare
as fragrant smoke ascends the sky,
offend some readers by and by.
Apollo—grant me rocket fuel
to launch into your stratosphere.
Athena—by your wisdom, rule
and whisper in my waiting ear.
Receive this bright poetic spark
And let the Nine, as one, inspire
transform this puddle, stagnant, dark,
from sludge to pure Promethean fire.
Thou Father of Olympus, bless
our paltry April offering:
a dubious cybernetic mess
composed of poets' suffering.
I'll sing of waters fair (and foul),
uncork my potions for your ears
while Dionysus' Maenads howl
banishing winter's remnant fears.
A radiant poetic flush
beams forth from every laureled face.
The springs of Babel: let them gush
and bathe our souls in lyric grace.
A product line in low demand,
the blogosphere: our public forum;
quorum one man short of damned
where verses vie with vague decorum.
Consult your muse—then let it flow;
a rain of primaveral dreams
whose rivulets descend below
and swell the tributary streams
to flooding verses, transcendental
irrigating, bringing life
(though some are merely excremental.
Foaming sewage... ask my wife).
sixty three billion"
says the duke of finance
"Woa, that's a lot of dough"
says the king
"We need to cut back
on our spending"
Funny some court jesters
Had gathered around
To inspire the king's laugh
Yet, he made not a sound
Though they did bear witness
to the majestic king
signing a new decree
"Only the bare necessities"
And some of the people
were well pleased,
And some of the people
Protested in the streets