They tell us

When things go wrong

Pray

If you want change

Protest

Then they **** more of us

And we cry more

How much blood is enough

Are the profit made from guns

Worth the holes

We dig for our sons

Am crying tears

Because in 2016

We are still not free

And it hurts

Am tired of crying

Enough is Enough

Being one to sit in judgement of the black, white, the gay or Arab,
To judge another upon history of failures, of isolated events.
Should one "remain a black man or black woman" when
"Everyone" is "sick of their antics," only focusing on the
Negative, a few compared to the whole in madhouse protest?
Should I see that gays are unfit for marriage, service, children,
Or other things just because of the background of the few?
Shall I wrap myself in this ignorance, and let us give into this?
Rather than except them in whole? Do blacks simply walk around
Town and all alone turn everything upside down? Does a ghetto
"Grow" in their wake? Do we not cradle this evil view, this sinister
Racist hate? Do we not point the finger of blame at the blacks for
Having to fly our confederate flags again and again, clearly not
In any manner displaying any white love for them? Shall we believe
One bad Apple spoils the bunch, even if there is one in every
Crowd, so it seems we must remove all who are in their presence,
Yet have nothing to do with their practice?

*PEOPLE DO...

Striking poses or putting noses out of joint, Jack Dash was never afraid to clash, to abash bosses, exposing injustice, making a splash to turn our eyes to the unjust slash to rights of men on the docks.
A boxer, a poet, a son of the ancient Borough, with heavy weight words and feather weight fists, he galvanise his brothers.
Firebrand or fire fighter he took to the fight with every fibre of his underdog frame, calling stevedores to flame to life their struggle for their rights to challenge closed doors, with a chirpy charm that was sure to disarm the hardest of hearts.

Sara L Russell  29th August 2016

Time to retire now, ladies,
the drawing room awaits
as the gentlemen go to smoke
and drink brandy
or tell ribald stories
unsuitable for a lady's delicate ears.
Time to work on our embroidery
or retire to bed.
The men shall retire whenever they wish,
and the stars are too many for us to count.
Now we must lie abed
dreaming of Mr. Darcy
or perhaps a future career,
If only one's gender
might permit such a thing.


Time to adjourn now, ladies,
Mrs. Pankhurst has said her piece
and the rozzers are coming
to break up our meeting of like minds.
I heard that she was in prison for a time,
and went on hunger strike!
oh yes, my dear,
I heard they beat her,
force-fed her
then left her to cry alone in her cell.
Only she didn't cry. She never cries.
They say one day we women
will be able to vote!
Yes, of course it could happen.
We deserve it, after all.


Time to adjourn now, people,
it's been a long session
and even ministers need a lunch break.
Mrs. Thatcher no doubt will carry on
making notes for yet another meeting,
I don't think that woman ever sleeps.
Even if she never does,
she has razor-sharp concentration
and a sharper mind.
You don't want to get
on the wrong side of that one.
Funny, years ago,
they never dreamed we'd have
a woman Prime Minister.
Not everyone agrees with her
yet few dare to disagree.


Time to retire now, ladies.
The men have important things
to discuss, too serious for our lowly ears.
Theirs is the sun and the daylight;
ours are the shadows that herald the dusk.
Gather your prayer beads
and lower your gaze.
Do not look into the eyes
of the Imam as you pass by
on the way to your rooms.
Do not let any breeze from the window
displace your veil.
Guard your modesty
at all times;
protect your respectability,
for it is all you have in the world.

They say we have the right to marry
So we should be happy,
They ignorantly ask
Isn’t that enough?

But they don’t understand
The strange fear
Of holding your partners hand in public,
The looks from mothers
As they rush their kids past
Shielding them from our love.

They don’t understand being afraid
Of telling your loved ones
About the one you love,
Hiding it away
As if it is wrong.

They don’t understand
The way the comfort of each others arms
When spending time alone
Vanishes as soon as we step outside.

They don’t understand
The awkward pause in conversation
When mentioning your partners gender
As we see their face change
Along with their mindset.

They don’t understand
The stereotypes we face
Being told we don’t look gay
So it couldn’t possibly be true,
But what does gay look like?

They don’t understand
The denial their family goes through
Saying hurtful things,
Like “it’s a phase”
Because they can’t accept the reality.

They don’t understand
Having to come out
Not just once
But almost daily
To each new person we meet
And the way that each time
It doesn’t get easier to say.

They don’t understand
How much it hurts,
Even the very toughest of us
Have at one point
Struggled greatly
And fought their own feelings.

They don’t understand
The society that they have created for us,
One where we have to celebrate
Our right to marry
When it’s been given freely
To others for years.

They don’t understand
Because they are not us.

Written in July 14, 2016

Spring the leaf is born
And summer the leaf has grown
Then when autumn has arrived

The golden leaves
Will whisper
Good bye
To the branches
That once form
Part of the tree

Silently the leaf will collapse
On the ground
With no sound

Kneeling down
It will lay down till
They become dust

Meanwhile the wild
Breeze
Blows
The sentimental memories
The shadows of the wind

Will make the leaves that lay down in the ground
Speak to the shadows
Of the remains
Of the presence

Till it slowly
And lonely fade away........

K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author,
While his son and I learned at school.
The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers-
Explosions, debris, and jet fuel.

We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips,
Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber.
Not one of us understood the weight or gravity-
Of one person killing another.

K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States,
Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious.
A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness-
That most readers found to be tasteless.

His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’
And every skin color was uniform and equal.
Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)-
And bullets were designed to be non-lethal.

In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns,
Automatics, ammunition and bombs.
The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot-
With sweat budding on his palms.

K.p and I fought over a girl at school,
I broke his nose and we each served detention.
At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught-
Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.

I know I'm just "stupid and crazy,"
But yea, I don't believe there's a god.
Also, I don't believe you want a "free country,"
That you are a cruel cult member who
Is not just here to get out the word, even as your
Bible says to, you're really just here to shove
What you call the truth in our faces,
Always making sure we've heard.