#marvin - Hello Poetry

Light the torches. Burn it to the ground. Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind. This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims. The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them. We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips. Clothing streaked red. Clearly we all had a part to play. Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter. Fathers swung blades. Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again. Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of. Yet no one wept. Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation. No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources. Roads are crumbling. Water is poisoned. Politics are a circus. The police have become a military force. And lives have been destroyed. Fathers are still wielding the blade While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain. When does it end? Does it end when we run out of weapons? When we run out of people? When we run out of love? Weapons are only an extention of the wielder. The bomb unbuilt cannot explode. Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears. Be good. Treat people right. Love. Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static. The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights. This isn't just a story of the inner city blues. The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage. It's time to stay the blade. Allow mothers to mourn. And children to play. Peace is a choice. Choose wisely.

0

May 23, 2016

May 23, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC

patrick-conroy

Father's House

Light the torches. Burn it to the ground. Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind. This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims. The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them. We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips. Clothing streaked red. Clearly we all had a part to play. Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter. Fathers swung blades. Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again. Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of. Yet no one wept. Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation. No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources. Roads are crumbling. Water is poisoned. Politics are a circus. The police have become a military force. And lives have been destroyed. Fathers are still wielding the blade While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain. When does it end? Does it end when we run out of weapons? When we run out of people? When we run out of love? Weapons are only an extention of the wielder. The bomb unbuilt cannot explode. Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears. Be good. Treat people right. Love. Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static. The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights. This isn't just a story of the inner city blues. The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage. It's time to stay the blade. Allow mothers to mourn. And children to play. Peace is a choice. Choose wisely.

41

Bumping Marvin Gaye at the light Mind like an engine constantly on the run Confused stares through an open window “What age is this ***** headed young man from?"

0

Nov 19, 2016

Nov 19, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC

gaius-normanyo

What's Going On

Bumping Marvin Gaye at the light Mind like an engine constantly on the run Confused stares through an open window “What age is this ***** headed young man from?"

4

He's there every morn at four thirty doing his daily routine pushing the carts in a circle only he understands what that means Watching him do his cart dance they roll so fluid and clean it's his true love and romance no wonky wheels, to be seen He'll do it again after closing rounding up all of the strays his chaps and hat fairly flying doing it all his own way His humor and candor refreshing you get close you might hear him exclaim "somebodies got to do it someone may remember my name"

0

May 4, 2018

May 4, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC

TemporalFugue

The Legend of Marvin the Cart Wrangler

He's there every morn at four thirty doing his daily routine pushing the carts in a circle only he understands what that means Watching him do his cart dance they roll so fluid and clean it's his true love and romance no wonky wheels, to be seen He'll do it again after closing rounding up all of the strays his chaps and hat fairly flying doing it all his own way His humor and candor refreshing you get close you might hear him exclaim "somebodies got to do it someone may remember my name"

17