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how do I write about the beauty of the world
when barefoot people pass before my window
in search of shelter

how do I share my pleasure of the birds' sweet song at dawn
when I see faces etched with panic
from deafening blasts of bombs

how to rejoice in love and friendship
when meeting people who could barely save their lives
after burying their loved ones

how can I write with passion of the kindness of the human heart
when I see thousands fleeing from the ruins of their homes
only to face police   walls   barbed wire

true words are hard to find
as said a poet of an older war

    when it is a lie to speak
    a lie to keep silent

not easy
The poet from which my last two lines come: John Balaban, Vietnam veteran:
“A poet had better keep his mouth shut,” he writes in “Saying Good-by to Mr. and Mrs. My, Saigon, 1972”:
unless he’s found words to comfort and teach.
Today, comfort and teaching themselves deceive
and it takes cruelty to make any friends
when it is a lie to speak, a lie to keep silent.
Jeff S Nov 2017
There is war across the stream, I’ve read.
And corruption over the wall.

There is a dire need I’ve seen to feed
the hungry over there—

Perhaps we’ll find it, we Nation, within our purses
to bargain with such backwardness.

To push the inside-out-ness across the pond
and over the bridge to other places

where such sin belongs.

I voted for the men and women who
raked the evils to tomorrow and over there;

to the places that—beer in hand and
TV crackling—I cannot say I know very well (at all).

To the places so foreign even our shared humanity is
no more real than Landlord Mercy.

Still—something moans inside my conscience
like the grazing hum of locusts.

Even I know there are so many walls, so many streams,
so many lands to skip and souls to sour before

the round world brings the desperate
back to me.
Peter Balkus Oct 2017
There's a country where live
people who don't have their own place.
They travelled the world and never reached
their destination.

They were exiled, misplaced, not admitted
anywhere, drowned in their tiny boats,
shot by steel hearted guards.

There's a country, no one knows about,
like an island somewhere
in the middle of ocean,
yet never found.

Nothing is strange about this country,
except that it exists.

We all one day will arrive there,
it's the matter of time.
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
Giulani ...

looking much like

a radiated & mutant tortoise

from the walking dead,

& the always golden-hearted

Judge Jeanine Pirro

casually chat

on Fox News

all chuckles & smiles

about Muslim bans

& refugees,

while youngsters

languish in camps,

die in cities,

get cold

in mountains.

Chuckle on
you two
chuckle on.
Pearson Bolt Feb 2017
MCO
an interminable illness
strands us in this terminal.
outcries echo throughout
MCO, a call-and-response chorus
encouraging us, “no hate, no fear!
refugees are welcome here!”

iron bars drop down
caging the tax-free stores
and those left inside.
swine in blue stand guard,
serving the specter of capital,
protecting private property,
leaving us to fend
for ourselves.

we march, a thousand strong,
in solidarity with those across
this divided State,
climb on their tables
and roar into our megaphones
a twenty-first century update
to Pastor Niemöller’s poem:

first they came
for the Muslims
and we said,
“not today,
*******!”
In the wake of the orange fascist's Muslim Ban, which restricted immigrants and refugees from entering this country, local activists took to MCO to protest. Our show of solidarity ultimately helped free three human beings returning from overseas who'd been detained under *******-up executive orders.
Pearson Bolt Jan 2017
ark
we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.

as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.

caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.

demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.

caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.

as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?

collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.

there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.

a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.

there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.

we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.

all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.

overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.
ark:

noun
1.
(sometimes initial capital letter). Also called Noah's Ark. the large boat built by Noah in which he saved himself, his family, and a pair of every kind of creature during the Flood. Gen. 6–9.
2.
Also called ark of the covenant. a chest or box containing the two stone tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments, carried by the Israelites in their wanderings in the desert after the Exodus: the most sacred object of the tabernacle and the Temple in Jerusalem, where it was kept in the holy of holies.
3.
a place of protection or security; refuge; asylum.
4.
(initial capital letter) Judaism. Holy Ark.
5.
a flatboat formerly used on the Mississippi River and its tributaries.
6.
Nautical. life car.
7.
Archaic. a chest or box.
Aaron LaLux Dec 2016
American Refugee


Head feels like a ton of bricks,
trying to retrace my misstepped steps…

Where have I awoken?

What country am I in?

Who was that girl last night?

Why did I choose to go through it again?

When will I finally say enough is enough?

Enough is enough.

Why does the poison feel so good?

I love everything that hates me,
alcohol and cigarettes,
promiscuous girls date me,
but only for a night…

A night was had,
dancing music,
flirting new friends,
we were all in it together,
a glorious moment,
with people from all over the world,
we were on top of the world,
surfing on a rocket,
on Cloud Nine with some fine felines,
bumping beats with a pocket full of sunshine,
flashy lights and flashy ladies,
drinks on me,
literally,
drinks on me,

I felt like we all felt,
so together,
so how’d I end up,
so all alone,
nursing a hangover,
with poached eggs and mochaccinos,
served by a surprisingly cute waitress,
at a cafe somewhere in New Zealand…

Head feels like a ton of bricks,
trying to retrace my steps…

I came here,
to this country,
to escape Hollywood,
where I was trapped in it’s trapping trappings,

trapped in it’s clubs,
trapped in it’s women,
trapped in it’s drugs,
trapped in it’s cliches,
so why is it,
I found myself,
on the other side of the world,
at club with some women on drugs trapped in this same cliche?

Same ****t,
different country,
I guess you can take the boy outta Hollywood,
but you can’t take the Hollywood outta the boy…

I am the world’s first American Refugee,
except I didn’t come on a boat,
in ragged clothes clinging to my body,
and ragged hopes clinging to my psyche,

I came,
on an airplane,
in a first class seat,
dining on the offerings of a corporate worldwide empire,

but it is not the means of movement,
it is the intention behind the actions that matters,

and I came,
with the intention to create a healthier life,
a cleaner life,
a better future for myself and all those I love.

I am an American Refugee,

I am an American Refugee,
fleeing the subconscious oppressions of my country,
fleeing the persecution of all things I held holy and sacred,
I am tired of witnessing the spiritual ****** of my falling comrades,

I am a American Refugee,
more specifically,
a Hollywood Refugee,
fleeing the bright lights and large egos,
searching for solace and refuge,
amongst the towering rainforest trees of New Zealand,

I fled the toxic water the toxic air and the toxic people,
to drink fresh water breathe clean are and befriend friendly people,

so why,
why,
why would I subject myself,
to the same oppressions that I’ve attempted to flee from?

Justin Bieber echoed across the dance floor,

“Is it to late to say I’m sorry now?
Yeah I know that I let you down,
is it too late to say I’m sorry now?”

“I’m sorry.”,

“Sorry.”,

“Sorry.”,

“Yeah I know that I let you down,
is it too late to say I’m sorry now?”,

and as cheesy and cliche as it sounds,
I get the chills because I knew exactly what he was saying,
and I wondered if anyone else in that club was an American Refugee,
I wondered if anyone else in that club knew what Justin Bieber was saying,
or if they were just dancing because of the beat,
and they were just singing along because that’s what they think they’re supposed to do,
because most people have to be told what’s cool,
then force fed that coolness until they have too many pairs of shoes,

no amount of shoes will ever bring you real happiness,
and I honestly apologize,
we Hollywoodians were put in a position to lead the free world,
and everyone listened to us,
you all listened to us,
you gave us your ears and your hearts,
your souls and your minds,
and all we gave you were improbable dreams,
and glorious visions,
of an unsustainable lifestyle that you go broke trying to duplicate,

when will you realize you can chase,
but you can never catch something that doesn’t really exist?

And I’m sorry,
but I give up,
I’m done,
because,

“Yeah I know once more I’ve let you down,
is it too late to say I’m sorry now?”.

I’m sick and tired so I’m retiring,
I’m retreating to build a retreat,
somewhere in New Zealand,
where I can be free again,

and I’ve finally made it here,
but it seems mentally I’m not prepared,
because I’m still going to clubs with a bunch of girls,
then getting used up foolishly because I foolishly thought they cared,

who cares?

I don’t want the weight of the world on my shoulders anymore,
I don’t need all eyes on me,
I just want to get rid of all my wants,
so that I can finally be freed and have all that I need,

you must get rid of your wants,
so you can do what you like,

and I do feel a little bit relieved to finally be in New Zealand,
but honestly the weight of the world is still on my shoulders,

I still can’t shake this feeling,
that I’m just going through the routine,
as I write these words on this laptop,
and fuel my words with free range eggs and caffeine,

up on this mountain all alone,
even though I’m at a crowded cafe,
and it feels like sunrise,
even though it’s already mid-day,

my head feels like a ton of bricks,
trying to retrace my misstepped steps…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

author of

The Poetry Trilogy
The Holy Trilogy
The HH Trilogy
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