bon scott plays up a VOLCANO IN GUATEMALA



you see i start a partying in the night today

we are rocking and a rolling, yeah party, yeah

ya see we bring that volcano down to gualamala

yeah it’s about as cool as eating a banana

rock, ****** rock this volcano made ‘em rock

bring this party to the other end and rock

guatemala, is rocking tonight with malt and lava

is a rocking all night long

you see the house is a rocking, don’t bother knocking

yeah we will party, party we shall

rock this volcano, wreck the old life, WOW

i am going to get my spirit, and shake it down there

make all the people guatemala grin and ****** bare

and now i welcome slim dusty, i would love to have a beer with him

we drink in moderation dude, but our future, looks quite dim

yeah, we’ll drink in the town and country dudes

the people of guatemala feel distraught

cause we sent a big volcano, dude, from jupiter moon, that’s right

you see now we bring robert palmer in

how can it be permissible, oh yeah

this volcano in guatemala is unstoppable, ha

i wish there were ways to end it yeah

i would grab a methane and top it on ya, yeaH

It’s a strange occurrence first, it’s ****** hot, oh yer

it really destroys guatemala, dude the volcano is simply unstoppable

the walls are are shaking, the floor is melting

ya see, yeah we are covered in lava, and feel like ya melting

then i get up and look around, and i look up and see a volcano thrashing guatemala

ya see the volcano shook this town all night long

we’ll party on all night long

and then i get down and look around, to see if nobody has tipped methane on slim

you are hayley from bratayley

you are cool, the coolest dude around

i get up, and we’ll party down, we’ll drink ‘em down

then the old old man let’s out a big big frown

and i see barry allan as he walks past, i said come in bas boy, party on

and i tip a methane smoothie on barry, which shook the town of guatemala all night long

the methane shook it all night long

then slim dusty said, i will get a baked potato baked potato toast and jam

jupiter shook the guatemala volcano all night long, my dear

slim then said, watch bratayley, for me with new families, peter sergeant from canberra and ivy gimbert

and ivy and peter walked in and said, would you stop singing it up here

cause we need some COOL, for earth

baked potato baked potato, uhhhh baked potato

and then bon scott came up and said, PARTY PARTY,

and rock guatemala, while your at it, OK

AND we’ll keep this party rolling guatemala volcano malt and lava

I am Guatemala
I am its mountains and its shore
I am its black sand beaches. I am its artists and its poor

I am the mist from its volcanoes
I am its limestone richly carved
I am the Mayan, and the Latin. I am the hungry and the starved

I am its folklore and its future
I am its markets and its clothes
I am the abandoned and forgotten. I am its children no one knows

I am its colorful conventions
I am its jungles and its fare
I am its colonial traditions. I am the pilas in the square

I am Guatemala
I am its living and its dead
One is always Guatemala, no matter how far we are spread

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Is there a difference,
give us a reference,
between a stalker,
and a pokemon.

The monger hits news,
game spots and toss,
time lost and chaos,
with a pokemon.

In Canada......
The rule breakers,
cross the borders,
an inadvertently walk,
for a pokemon.

In Guatemala city .......
The teenage boy,
under the wizard,
die in the cause,
for a pokemon.

In London.......
The go players,
ambushed in public,
and robbed by trees,
all for pokemon.

In Africa.....
The rumble,
then scrambles,
to get the last,
the dusts of pokeman.

In Asia...........
No signs too,
they tire and wait,
for the nostalgia,
all for pokeman.

In New York.....
It's a no, no,
for *** offenders,
or become criminals,
All for pokeman.

Poke me man,
NO *******!
It's all crazy,
the apocalypse,
of freaks and creatures!

Poke me man!
I DARE YOU NOT!
Go find old cards,
a bank of more funds,
all for pokemon.

Poke me man!
I POCKET YOU!
As phones hide,
their lunch hunt,
the herd of pokemon.

Afghanistan needs hellopoetry
Albania needs hellopoetry
Algeria needs hellopoetry
Andorra needs hellopoetry
Angola needs hellopoetry
Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry
Argentina needs hellopoetry
Armenia needs hellopoetry
Australia needs hellopoetry
Austria needs hellopoetry
Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry

The Bahamas needs hellopoetry
Bahrain needs hellopoetry
Bangladesh needs hellopoetry
Barbados needs hellopoetry
Belarus needs hellopoetry
Belgium needs hellopoetry
Belize needs hellopoetry
Benin needs hellopoetry
Bhutan needs hellopoetry
Bolivia needs hellopoetry
Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry
Botswana needs hellopoetry
Brazil needs hellopoetry
Brunei needs hellopoetry
Bulgaria needs hellopoetry
Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry
Burundi needs hellopoetry

Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry
Cambodia needs hellopoetry
Cameroon needs hellopoetry
Canada needs hellopoetry
Central African Republic needs hellopoetry
Chad needs hellopoetry
Chile needs hellopoetry
China needs hellopoetry
Colombia needs hellopoetry
Comoros needs hellopoetry
Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry
Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry  
Costa Rica needs hellopoetry
Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry
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Cuba needs hellopoetry
Cyprus needs hellopoetry
Czech Republic needs hellopoetry

Denmark needs hellopoetry  
Djibouti needs hellopoetry
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Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry

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Ecuador needs hellopoetry
Egypt needs hellopoetry  
El Salvador needs hellopoetry
Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry
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Fiji needs hellopoetry
Finland needs hellopoetry
France needs hellopoetry

Gabon needs hellopoetry
The Gambia needs hellopoetry
Georgia needs hellopoetry
Germany needs hellopoetry
Ghana needs hellopoetry
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Guatemala needs hellopoetry
Guinea needs hellopoetry
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Haiti needs hellopoetry
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Iceland needs hellopoetry
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Italy needs hellopoetry

Jamaica needs hellopoetry
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Jordan needs hellopoetry

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Korea, South needs hellopoetry
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Oman needs hellopoetry

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Palau needs hellopoetry
Panama needs hellopoetry
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Qatar needs hellopoetry

Romania needs hellopoetry
Russia needs hellopoetry
Rwanda needs hellopoetry

Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry
Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry
Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry
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Senegal needs hellopoetry
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Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry
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Spain needs hellopoetry
Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry
Sudan needs hellopoetry
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Taiwan needs hellopoetry
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United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry
United Kingdom needs hellopoetry
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Yemen needs hellopoetry

Zambia needs hellopoetry
Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry

Their eyes tell stories that no words could do justice.

Just pick up any child on the side of the road
and you can read a novel in one glance.

So enthralled are you by the tales of loss and hopelessness
that you're surprised to see smiles on their faces,
leaving you to wonder
                           how people with so little
                                    can have so much joy.

I wandered
along the mountain path,
high above the lake,
watching the morning star
slowly rise
through the mist,
embarking
on another fine day,
it was glorious.

A warm vapor
synchronized my breathing,
it was surreal, me
hiking light years away,
on another planet
when brother & sister
strolled along,
two working-ghosts,
their huge-baskets
brimming full of beans.

Barefoot,
they passed quickly by
with only a grin & a nod,
disappearing behind me,
back into the clouds
floating above Atitlan.
It warmed my soul.

Swirling colors
paint the market square,
shrimp lie heaped
next to the
bananas & chilis,
there's lemonade,
tires with rubber patches,
a sense of community
hangs in the air.
Deals are made
in hard currency
or in trade.
A natural flow exists,
as if everyone
is on autopilot.
And behind the scenes,
just under the surface,
one feels the depression,
pain is palpable.
You can see it in
the eyes of the dogs,
rib-poking-skinny,
hairless, manged & skittish.
They hang with the limbless ones,
half-humans,
legless & starved,
dragging themselves
on cobbled streets
through ***** matter & *****,
wallowing in the mire,
begging for peanuts & money.
It ain't funny.

I remember Sunday dinner
that granny used to make
enough to feed an army
piled on each and every plate

three kinds of potatoes
boiled, mashed and roast
Chicken, pork & roast beef
and a glass of wine to toast

and veggies from her garden
that grew right there herself
no canned corn from Guatemala
would you find upon her shelf

there'd be carrots, peas and parnips
brocolli & cabbage too
and anything that wasn't ate
ended up in her famous stew

but desserts, they were the best bit
there was custard, pies and tarts
an the only bad thing 'bout it all
was knowing where to start

A middle-northern March, now as always—
gusts from the South broken against cold winds—
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves—not into April—into a second March,

the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping
upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree
upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.

So we will put on our pink felt hat—new last year!
—newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back
the seasons—and let us walk to the orchid-house,
see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow
at the Palace.
                    Stop here, these are our oleanders.
When they are in bloom—
                                       You would waste words
It is clearer to me than if the pink
were on the branch.  It would be a searching in
a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,
shows the very reason for their being.

And these the orange-trees, in blossom—no need
to tell with this weight of perfume in the air.
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better
see the white.
                      It is that very perfume
has drawn the darkness down among the leaves.
Do I speak clearly enough?
It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone
loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings—
not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion
of a sigh.  A too heavy sweetness proves
its own caretaker.
And here are the orchids!
                                        Never having seen
such gaiety I will read these flowers for you:
This is an odd January, died—in Villon’s time.
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet
grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom.

And this, a certain July from Iceland:
a young woman of that place
breathed it toward the South.  It took root there.
The color ran true but the plant is small.

This falling spray of snow-flakes is
a handful of dead Februaries
prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez
of Guatemala.
                      Here’s that old friend who
went by my side so many years:  this full, fragile
head of veined lavender.  Oh that April
that we first went with our stiff lusts
leaving the city behind, out to the green hill—
May, they said she was.  A hand for all of us:
this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.

June is a yellow cup I’ll not name; August
the over-heavy one.  And here are—
russet and shiny, all but March.  And March?
Ah, March—
                   Flowers are a tiresome pastime.
One has a wish to shake them from their pots
root and stem, for the sun to gnaw.

Walk out again into the cold and saunter home
to the fire.  This day has blossomed long enough.
I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze
instead which will at least warm our hands
and stir up the talk.
                             I think we have kept fair time.
Time is a green orchard.

(Where I worked, they set up TV’s in the cafeteria to watch the continuing coverage of the events of 9/11. I had become known as a sort of poet and many asked me to write something, a poem about 9/11. In the printed version which I handed out to people, they translated into their language the word ‘******’ and into the poem. The company did not like it cause they wanted to whip up the patriotic jingoism and calls for revenge. Thankfully this poem helped to stop this at this factory.)  

911 Thoughts

“Our grief is not a cry for war”
--Artists Network, Refuse & Resist

“..and the poets down here
don’t write nothing at all,
they just stand back
and let it all be”
–‘Jungle Land’, by B. Springsteen


“Beto nki tutasala” (‘What are we doing’)
--Old African saying


New York City 9/11/01:
She walks down the street
numb
peering side to side
pausing,
showing his picture to everyone who looks.
Tears streak her brown skin
as the reality of his loss
sinks deeper in,
yet searching, as if just looking
will make him appear by her side
an ease the vacuum of why that
echoes mockingly in her heart.
~~~
Friends have asked me,
write a poem about these events, Red.
Write about 911,
and the horror from the sky.
Tell us what you think.
Can you give us some hope
that when the dust
and tears
settle from our eyes,
we will still be able to see the sun.
How?
What words can I use to describe
or even surmise all the reasons why.
How do you explain to your grand kids
the war has come home.
They have put us in harms way.

New York City, 9/11/01
Yes the ‘war’ has come home
so many innocents have paid
a blood price for a
globalized monster
grown, nurtured, raised
in the dark soils of the USA.

Southern Iraq, 9/8/01
U.S. and British ghosts
swoop down on a ‘radar installation’
that turns mysteriously into a village.
8 civilians known dead,
many others injured.

Baghdad Iraq. 2/91
Clutching her injured child to her breast,
she flees collapsing buildings
while thunder surrounds her,
she is looking frantically for shelter
from ‘smart rain’
pouring down from the night sky.
Explosions that almost drown out her
screams.
Screams for a lost generation;
how do you rebuild a generation?

West Bank / Gaza, Any day
Young comrades pick thru
blood soaked rubble of once homes
looking for survivors of
‘made in the USA’ helicopter terror.
Or picking up stones to fight off
‘made in the USA’ tanks
spewing out ‘collective punishment’
needed for new Israeli settlements.

Beirut Lebanon, 1980
Safely, miles out to sea,
the USS New Jersey
spits out salvo after salvo
painting the city with fire storms.
Thousands die, thousands more
made refugees in their own country
punished for harboring
Palestinian refugees who refuse to
recognize ‘stolen land’
now claiming to be Israel.

New York City, 9/11/01
The view of passenger jets
lingers in our vision.
Over and over they seem to play with,
dance,
then mingle with those towers
until only twisted steel,
burnt flesh,
and crumbled cement remains
creating a mass grave.


Vietnam, 1970
The village explodes.
Children running
naked
flesh singed, burnt
burning
as liquid fire drops
from high flying 52's.
******; an English word
which in Vietnamese, Chinese or Khmer
Means DEATH!
(Imagine here the words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese and Khmer.)


Hiroshima / Nagasaki, 1945
150,000 human beings now only shadows
seared into the concrete,
human outlines
that still scream their agony
heard even today by anyone
who doesn’t have selective amnesia.

New York City, 9/11/01
What words can explain the loss
of loved ones, friends?
What words can capture
the vacant look of the black woman
seeking her young daughter
who had her very first job interview
on the 104th floor?
What emotions are left
after the search for loved ones
finds only gray dust and charred stench
whether in New York or:
Baghdad, Beirut, Belgrade, Gaza,
Chile, Guatemala, El Salvador, My Lai,
Sudan, or Mogadishu?
What can prepare you for the
sickening sweet scent of
burnt flesh carried on lazy breezes;
of dust coating everything with
the stink of human blood?

~~~~~

And now there is talk of
And preparation for:
Retribution
Justice
Retaliation.
More words that the people of
the world understand all too well:
DEATH! (The words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese, Hindi, Urdu, Ctujarati, and Khmer are not formating when I cut and paste. Imagine them here.)
MUERTE! DEATH!

~~~~~

Every day now the powers that be
prepare us for even more untold horrors;
hype us with red, white and blue views.
Pass on to us today’s NEWS:
“Congress passed new war legislation today”;
“unnamed sources report that”
“a high government official who wishes to remain anonymous”;
“the word at the White House”;
SPECULATIONS: there are 50 governments that harbor or support terrorism.
Several undocumented Arabs have been arrested trying to buy illegal chemicals
INNUENDO: known terrorist are said to have links to Afghanistan.
RUMOR: the next attacks could come as early as 9/22;
Air Force One was threatened today;
terror may come in the form of chemical or biological;
All the conjectures ‘fit to be news’;
Bin Laden is the one, Iraq, Iran,
somebody in the Sudan,
someone, somewhere has to be made to pay.
Conjecture pumped out continuously
24/7
why, we got it straight from heaven
so it must be true!

~~~~~

New York City, Aftermath
For many the future is hard to imagine,
uncertainty weighs heavy
like an echo that bounces endlessly
off tenement walls.
Like the way the “WHY’S”
multiply with each official explanation
and grows from whispers to amplified
crescendos of NOOOOOOOO! NO!
Not in our name.
You cannot exploit our grief,
our sorrow for so many lost lives
into your “holy war of retribution”;
into your vision of “Homeland Security”
and more repressive police powers;
into your call for Justice envisioned as an
Americanized world.
The people of our planet
do not need another
unjust war. And yet,
as long as this system continues,
as long as organized greed,
backed up by Washington bullets reign,
these horrors will continue to
rain from the skies.


Afghanistan, 10/07/01
Today the bombing began.
More horror fell from the sky
as talk of even more countries, people
are added to the “suspected list”.
One thing is sure, those hundreds,
thousand who have already died
had nothing to do with 9/11.
How long?
How many more will die
before we put it to an end?

~~redzone 10.04.01~~ (edited 10/07/01)
(written while using the pen name 'redzone'
reposted by Aztec Warrior 11.18.15)

Motion makes me homesick, home makes me motion-sick.

I've seen some **** you wouldn't believe in the past month of my young life
I'm happy.
Makes me want more.
I want Guatemala
I want Nepal
I want the States by trains and motorcycles.
I want to make something tall enough to shake hands with god and strong enough to last to the ends of the earth
Or longer.
I want to give the world back all I've taken from it and all the damage I've done.
And then I want to do more.
I want to start a revolution,
live on a farm,
paint a mural,
play a symphony,
shake hands with the Dalai Lama,
write a book,
and be home in time for dinner.
I want to fold a thousand and one oragami cranes and set them free from space and while they float down to Mauritania and Portugal, to Argentina and Cambodia
I want to wish for a reset button.
Not to use right away, but just in case **** gets out of hand.
So we've got a backup plan.
I want to sit in my old age looking down that darkened tunnel and see my own birth pass before my eyes.
I want to embrace infinity without soreness or shortcomings,
without excuses or refusals
I want to watch the universe collapse back in on itself and be part of everything at once.
I want more than I can handle.

I guess that means I'm young.

Without legitimate occupancy,
Adverse possession is the legal right
Of anyone who moves in and maintains
A property, so here's the deal. We must
Move in to 1600 Penn,
The current tenant having broke the lease.
The caravan from Guatemala first, Hondurans trudging slowly from the depth.
Then the Yemen children not yet murdered,
Those with preexisting conditions next,
And women whose assaults were ridiculed,
Those roughed up by cops and politicians.
Losers in the war on drugs, the big house
Having far exceeded capacity.
The mentally ill, discarded by the
Great communicator after he tore
The Solar panels off the roof.  This is
Anger, not poetic license.  When a
Long train of abuses and usurpations
Evinces a design to reduce them
Under absolute Despotism, it
Is their right, it is their duty to throw
Off such Government, and to provide new
Guards for their future security. Such
Has been the patient sufferance of these
And such is now the necessity which
Constrains them to alter their systems of
Government.  And journalists under  fire,
If there's room still left in the briefing room,
Let facts be submitted to a candid
                          World.

Dad said I'd be good at marketing
since I like making lists. Classifying
the woods and herbs, jazz tunes, poets' poems and poems for people
and I've also considered sorting humans into novelistic categories:

compassionate, responsible
logical, radical
scientific, silent
garrulous, querulous
masterful, mindful

leader, liar
persnickety, prejudiced
appealing, apoplectic
decisive, persistent
natural, enervating
effective, fastidious
passive, embarrassed
aimless, familiar

sociable, impregnable
amorous, demanding
delirious, disciplined
silly, assimilated
holy, hungry

Next there would be settings.
Deserts, moon colonies, submarines, George Herbert and his God.

Motives for acting
driven by personality, DNA (******* DNA!), sinning,
necessity and whatever happens in the afterlife. Spinning
with the planet but sitting still and thinking deeply.

                               --------------------------------------

School bus, snow plow
train whistle, cello
alarm clock, traffic report
Beijing, Cincinnati
former adversaries, adolescent lovers
any day could be your last day, Hombre
mango, avocado
superstition, cancer treatment
enhanced interrogation, blurry vision
jacket and tie, why am I waiting
quiet remembering, day by day goes by without poetry without grace
seedless watermelon, rabbit in my garden
too much to do, not much to do
hip hop rhythms, how white people like to shake hands
who can't do anything about his skin color, Nelson Mandela
pluck the gold key, touch me personally
breakfast salad, stay in school
Afghanistan, strangulation
banana, Guatemala
mountains and rivers forever, never will I allow myself to live long
      enough to end like that
that's for sure, sure in your computer
the brain contains the universe, the universe has a brain
stream cutting gorge, last snow patch
photosynthesis, missing dad (or mom) in poem
whatever you want, the freedom of summer gone and only one ****
paper sleeping bag, ear souvenir
peace, twice
lemonade, amulet
how to make history interesting for Johnnie, washing your pajamas
chain saw, no strip joints or strip malls in the Gaza Strip
frantic century, ****** tissue
Jerusalem, reducing fractions
polytechnic institute, grandma's sauce

Maybe if I were a
hummingbird. Wine-throated
in Guatemala, would that be
far enough away, or is it such
a romantic notion to want to
to be fast enough to escape but
beautiful enough to be noticed

El Mirador

The Sikh man on the the rooftop balcony,
tells me if I have any problems in this city,
to come and see him,
and he will deal with it,

he’s serious,
and he’s loving,
and his black eyes reflect,
against the black streeted city,
in a way that leaves no doubt,
upon my incensed mind,

we are in,
a Belizean town,
on the Guatemala border,
it’s late the moon is there,
as She always is such a trusted companion,

the balcony smells,
of humid resentment,
there is a sleepy nostalgia,
blowing through the air,

everything looks misty,

tomorrow I depart for Flores,
then to El Mirador,
the largest pyramid in the world,
waiting for me to explore,

I have a few days,
found some extra time,
between flying to NYC,
then flying to Milan,
to find my way to El Mirador,
it’s a six day hike from Flores,
this is something that’s calling me,
told you before I’m a traveler not a tourist,

I’m packing my bags,
getting ready for another trip,
my business is straight,
and my 5th book is almost finished,

which gives me a few days to breathe,
to hike into the jungles in respect of the pyramids,
and I was packing my bags and getting everything ready,
when I decided to take a break and step out onto the balcony,

where to my surprise I found a man,
sitting in the dark,
resting in the infinite,
space of time and thought,

and when I discovered him,
he began to speak,
he told me he’d come from Amritsar,
and that he was a Sikh,

Seek and Ye shall find,
so I go with God,
and get back to getting ready,
for my trek to El Mirador.

— ∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆ —

The H Trilogy
Volume 1
7/7/16
∆

N.B.C. News, updated 10/1/2010 ~ 7:19:05 P.M. E.T. By Robert Bazell, chief science & health correspondent – U.S. apologizes for Guatemala S.T.D. experiments -- Government researchers infected patients with syphilis & gonorrhea without their consent in the 1940s. – U.S. government medical researchers intentionally infected hundreds of people in Guatemala, including institutionalized mental patients, with gonorrhea and syphilis without their knowledge or permission 60 years ago.  Many of those infected were encouraged to pass the infection onto others as part of the study. One third of those who were infected never got adequate treatment. On Friday, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius offered extensive apologies for actions taken by the U.S. Public Health Service.

In the western highlands of Guatemala
Living conditions are turning sour
As people face adversity,
Day by day, hour by hour.

Climate change is taking a toll
On the lives of many, especially the poor.
When asked why they're fleeing, they say,
"Food doesn't grow here anymore."

The growth of many of their children is stunted;
Children are dying of malnutrition.
The parents want what all people want
Who find themselves in their position:

They want to leave, to find a place
Where their children can survive--
Where life is not an overwhelming
Challenge of trying to stay alive.

They know the journey north is hard;
Some have died along the way.
What are their options? To take a chance?
One thing's certain: they die if they stay.

Our government threatens to cut off aid
Which would only make matters worse.
That will not stop desperate people
From fleeing; it will do the reverse.

Hear the cries from Guatemala.
Don't close your eyes or cover your ears.
A ghostly lament will echo along
The banks of a dried up river of tears.

-by Bob B (6-7-19)

°Based on a report by Nicholas Kristof

Forget the school children
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Or the 1,000,000 dead in Vietnam;
60,000 dead in Iraq;
30,000 and rising in Afghanistan.

How many by our proxies
in El Salvador, Nicaragua,
Guatemala, Chile?

Forget the millions dead
in nameless civil wars
or of preventable
poverty and disease
in various hell-holes
around the globe.

The rest of the world
may be sorry,
but not shocked:
they have come to know
the smiling murderers
we have become.

20 dead of madness
in Connecticut
and the US wallows
in drivel, kitsch,
hollow words,
self-pity, and
media frenzy.

A little arrogance here?

Oh, we love our kids,
(just no one else's),
so let's put black ribbons
on our cars
and call that enough.

Again, the culture
of selfishness, greed,
shallowness
and patriotic stupidity
rears its
predictable head.

No country that murders
the world's children
with a shrug
should be surprised
when that violence
turns inward.

"I am Vishnu
Destroyer of worlds
My name is Death"

You can't have it
both ways.

"We must love one another
or die."

   mce

This is the tale of a girl
Only seven years old
Who came here from Guatemala.
Let her story be told.

Jakelin Caal Maquin
Came here with her dad
With hopes of seeking asylum,
Before everything went bad.

People seeking refuge
Are dangerously exposed
To inhumane conditions
When ports of entry are closed.

Through the desert they wandered
With others of the same mind
Seeking a place of safety
And leaving danger behind.

At least that's what they hoped for.
They hadn't had a clue
That cruelty existed
Here in America, too.

When they turned themselves in,
It's said that father and daughter
For several wearisome days
Hadn't had food or water.

The child started having
Seizures, the records show--
A nightmare for the father
Who suffered this tale of woe.

Possible dehydration,--
Doctors later expressed--
Shock and exhaustion led
To cardiac arrest.

A hospital in El Paso
Was where she took her last breath.
A new life was their goal;
What they encountered was death.

The head of the DHS--
Nielsen--places the blame
All on Jakelin's father.
The woman has no shame.

The callous disrespect
Of international law
Regarding asylum seekers
Reveals her major flaw.

Must we blame the victims?
We must ask ourselves why
There aren't better solutions
So more children won't die.

Sorry, Jakelin.
We must apologize
For our officials who thrive
On heartlessness and lies.

-by Bob B (12-15-18)

It’s an annual tradition that London Fashion Week opens every February with the newest of the new—the bang-fizz of The Central Saint Martins’s M.A. graduation show. These are the people who are destined to shape the fashion world—not least because they are talents gathered from everywhere. The class of 2017 has students from China, Taiwan, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Gibraltar, and the United States as well as Britain. This is just normal in London, a city that has built its reputation as a creative capital on the strength of talents from all over: all backgrounds, all nationalities. In the face of Brexit, and its possible future curb on immigration, London has its Muslim mayor Sadiq Khan, the city’s elected representative, who stands up for the vitality of diversity and interfaith harmony every day with his social media campaign from City Hall, #Londonisopen. In his words: “We don’t simply tolerate each other’s differences, we celebrate them. Many people from all over the globe live and work here, contributing to every aspect of life in our city.”

Nowhere will that be better demonstrated than in what’s to come in London Fashion Week. In defiance of dark times, its youth and multicultural camaraderie is about to roll out the welcome mat. Expect to see it coming from all directions, in kaleidoscopic variety. On the Central Saint Martins’s runway, there’s Gabriella Sardena’s wildly decorative glam-femme collection to look forward to, for example (she’s the one from Gibraltar). Day one, there’s also the opening of The International Fashion Showcase at Somerset House, where emerging designers from 26 countries, including Ukraine, Russia, Khazakhstan, India, Romania, Czech Republic, Egypt, and Guatemala, will put forward their viewpoints on the theme “Local and Global.”

Stand back for a blast from New York, too. Michael Halpern, one of the latest Central Saint Martins M.A. graduates (class of 2016) will unleash his first multi-sequined disco-fabulous collection in a presentation that is being aided and abetted with volunteer help from Patti Wilson and Sam McKnight, held at a posh venue laid on for free in the heart of St James on Saturday.

Fighting gloom with glitter is a London thing. Ashish Gupta, born in India, longtime London trailblazer for LGBTQ rights, is the king of that. Given last September, when he took his bow in a T-shirt emblazoned IMMIGRANT, admirers will surely be packing his Ashish show to the rafters. These times demand a standing up for pride in identity. Osman Yousefzada, more quietly creative, with his strong art-world following, will be coming out with a statement about his British-Asian roots: “Before, we were rarities, trophies and exotics from distant lands…some of us fleeing famine, war, or persecution,” he writes. “We were thought of as good labourers, businessmen and women—hungry, reliable and eager to succeed…and then some wanted to close the doors. Today, I bring you colour, opulence, texture, tailoring, a modern woman in different hues who isn’t scared to stand out and have fun, and embrace the beauty and difference around her.”

London is open to more newcomers. The Ports 1961 women’s show has relocated here from Milan this season. It’s actually a homecoming of a sort: This collection, placed on a woman-friendly lifestyle-centric wavelength somewhere on the continuum between The Row and Céline, has in fact been designed by the Slovenian-born Natasa Cagalj (also a CSM M.A. alumna) from a studio in London’s Farringdon all along. Two more “returners” to the schedule are Hussein Chalayan and Roland Mouret, long rooted in London since the ’90s, who are repatriating their shows from Paris.

It’s a whole London creative community picture, in fact—one that makes a complete commercial nonsense on every level of the “Little Britain” xenophobia of the send-them-home faction in U.K. politics. Cohesion and creativity, the welcome and support given to the newest, from everywhere—that’s the flag that flies over London Fashion Week. Scotland, Ireland, Greece, Austria, America, Serbia, Canada, Syria, India, Germany, Pakistan, Nigeria, Turkey, Ghana, New Zealand, Portugal—come one, come all, says fashion. There’ll be protest and prettiness, resistance and humor—that’s a given this week. Here’s glitter in your eye!Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Grade-schooler Tito loved going to school
To learn division and multiplication.
He tried to ignore the violence around him
But lived each day with trepidation.
He cut through an El Salvadorian town
To get to his school—a daily trek.
He constantly encountered violent street gangs—
Each frightful day a reality check.
One day Tito failed to come home.
The next morning grimly revealed
The poor school child’s dismembered body
Lying in an abandoned field.
 
Lucas and Marco feared for their lives,
In their small town in El Salvador,
Where violence governed their daily existence
As ruthless street gangs carried out their war.
When the boys’ mother was gunned down before them,
Fearing they’d be next, the brothers thenceforth
Left their home and their few belongings
And started on a long journey north.
Traveling hundreds of miles with no money
To leave a place of chaos and disorder
Would be a daunting task, along with
The added uncertainty at our country’s border.
 
The gangs in Honduras recruit young children.
In Guatemala they do so as well.
Some kids as young as eight or nine
Serve as drug runners from what we hear tell.
Two of the Central American gangs
That helped to create this horrible mess
Were not homegrown entities at all
But got their start HERE in the U.S.
How sad it is to see children suffer!
How helpless one feels in solving the matter!
But merely doing lip service with no action
Means nothing; it’s worthless. It’s just idle chatter.
 
Who are these children, fleeing their homes—
Fleeing the lands where violence reigns?
Who are these kids whom the world has let down—
Whose hope for escape is all that remains?

- by Bob B