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"journalist" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.   Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.   They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.   They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.   They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.   They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.   They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.   They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.   And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.   I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!   I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.
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Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Pineapple Pizza
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.   Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.   They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.   They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.   They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.   They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.   They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.   They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.   And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.   I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!   I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.
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26
*Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times."*                     - Matthew the Apostle I Seventy-seven bottles of gin lie in the guts of sensuous men; seventy-seven I forgive you's dissolve in a fanatical mind's resolve. II What offence occurred under Saint Constantine's priggish eye? Was it specious as a Samian's thigh? Or Sumerians receiving alien diplomats? Maybe somewhere far under Moscow Putin's massing cloning vats... III Whatever discursive and belligerent milieu church authority finds most tried and true seems to be the most important decider in the future of things like the Large Hadron Collider. Perhaps, unfoundedly, they find it funny that Higgs (though it seems much like calling the Liberal Party "Whigs") is a name shared by a man and a theoretical particle (though it be libelous in any journalist's article), and thus label similar advancements as "blasphemous". I guess that this is what it is: believing just because. IV Who can know blasphemy from piousness? Maybe all Luther did was obfuscate a prior mess. V Seventy-seven palm-branch-adorned, donkey-riding kings: an automatic-ring-making-machine beleaguering proselyte rings.
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Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
Palm Sunday Penance
Breaking News A Robinson’s affair It has been called party goers in beware The Pelican Club know fore shoot outs There are also fights to talk about The Chef’s have been making guest sick The Pelican Club is not a good pick The ratings of the club had been very low Business is certainly somewhat slow As a poet journalist, I will tell you, “Let the Pelican Club go” The Flamingo Club is the place to be When you walk inside this is what you will see Flamingo bird statues decked out in black and white with an offset of red bowties Music that will make you serene in an automatic dance The whole atmosphere will put you in a trance Yet each dancing step you will seem to advance All kinds of drinks for you to sup However don’t forget to leave a tip The Flamingo Club will make you feel special like the bird itself The Flamingo Club is not like everybody else This journalist being the poet in reporting in what you needed to know It goes too show Take in the Flamingo Club and just let senses go.
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Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 5:34 AM UTC
FLAMINGO’S SIGHTINGS
Master, have mercy. I am Master. I Have no Master. The planet is atrocious. I am It. Planet Earth is atrocious. I am It. Why is it so hard to see be yond peace? Why is it so hard to be who you want? The mind, secluded in a prison rift of copy paste makes waste. Where is my paper? Where is my pen? I write for me! I repeat as if I will soon believe. I write for me! (logging on again) The planet is horrid. I am part of It. Oh, Peace & War, do we know it. Yet with an audience, my imagination grows stagnant. The once in abstract gathers into form. I did this misdeed. A disservice. Once a dreamer. Now a journalist.
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Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 12:36 AM UTC
Match & Pitch: One Dead Eye
Breaking News A Robinson’s affair It has been called party goers in beware The Pelican Club know about shoot outs There are also fights to talk about The Chef’s have been making guest sick The Pelican Club is not a good pick The ratings of the club had been very low Business is certainly somewhat slow As a poet journalist, I will tell you, “Let the Pelican Club go” The Flamingo Club is the place to be When you walk inside this is what you will see Flamingo bird statues decked out in black and white with an offset of red bowties Music that will make you serene in an automatic dance The whole atmosphere will put you in a trance Yet each dancing step you will seem to advance All kinds of drinks for you to sup However don’t forget to leave a tip The Flamingo Club will make you feel special like the bird itself The Flamingo Club is not like everybody else This journalist being the poet in reporting in what you needed to know It goes too show Take in the Flamingo Club and just let your senses go.
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Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
FLAMINGO’S SIGHTINGS
Softly, gently, I  sipped your red cherry-lip petals patiently, silently, I grabbed your brown nip-let buds deeply, knowingly, I drowned into your blue eye-oceans The feminine body turns to be  a dates garden amidst my own barren desert ! Williamsji Maveli Email: [email protected] * KGA (UAE Chapter) Literary award for Poetry declared for Williamsji Maveli’s   “Arramviralthumbath…” The Kallettumakara Gblobal Association (KGA), UAE Chapter has announced their first poetry award for excellence to Williamsji Maveli's  third  poetry collection   titled as “Arramviralthumbath …”  (On the tip of the 6th finger,  published by H & C Books, Trichur) .The award has been declared  by Mathew David, Chairman of KGA at their Executive Committee meeting held recently in Sharjah Emirate of United Arab Emirates.  The award has  also been considered for his poetic works scattered in his recently published book named  as “Maa Salama."  ( means "With peace"  in Arabic). The poems have been gathered from different desert sketches,  focusing on his real-time life experiences ,while he was working in UAE for more than 30 years.  Williamsji, (Williams George),   former Ras Al Khaimah based Journalist and lyricist of tester-years has been nominated for a literary award for the first time for literature. The Award is being formulated by KGA  (Kallettumkara Global Association, UAE Chapter) for  outstanding contributions to literature  from the native writers  of Kallettumkara,  a village town in Trichur, Kerala in India.  The award will be presented by the KGA’s UAE Chapter on the grand occasion of their 10th anniversary, which is being scheduled to be held during September, this year, according to Mathew David, Chairman of Kallettumkara Global Association.
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Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
The Dates Garden
Softly, gently, I  sipped your red cherry-lip petals patiently, silently, I grabbed your brown nip-let buds deeply, knowingly, I drowned into your blue eye-oceans The feminine body turns to be  a dates garden amidst my own barren desert ! Williamsji Maveli Email: [email protected] * KGA (UAE Chapter) Literary award for Poetry declared for Williamsji Maveli’s   “Arramviralthumbath…” The Kallettumakara Gblobal Association (KGA), UAE Chapter has announced their first poetry award for excellence to Williamsji Maveli's  third  poetry collection   titled as “Arramviralthumbath …”  (On the tip of the 6th finger,  published by H & C Books, Trichur) .The award has been declared  by Mathew David, Chairman of KGA at their Executive Committee meeting held recently in Sharjah Emirate of United Arab Emirates.  The award has  also been considered for his poetic works scattered in his recently published book named  as “Maa Salama."  ( means "With peace"  in Arabic). The poems have been gathered from different desert sketches,  focusing on his real-time life experiences ,while he was working in UAE for more than 30 years.  Williamsji, (Williams George),   former Ras Al Khaimah based Journalist and lyricist of tester-years has been nominated for a literary award for the first time for literature. The Award is being formulated by KGA  (Kallettumkara Global Association, UAE Chapter) for  outstanding contributions to literature  from the native writers  of Kallettumkara,  a village town in Trichur, Kerala in India.  The award will be presented by the KGA’s UAE Chapter on the grand occasion of their 10th anniversary, which is being scheduled to be held during September, this year, according to Mathew David, Chairman of Kallettumkara Global Association.
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18
i’ve long dreamt of black flags in the streets tonight i marched beneath the shadow of their wings shoulder-to-shoulder in hope and solidarity an anarchist professor with a climate change activist an independent journalist and one of my students as mid-November winds tugged at her pink-and-brunette hair she lifted a hand-drawn sign of a gigantic sneaker smashing a **** and i felt for not the first time an enormous sense of pride how humbling to at once inspire and be inspired by an eighteen-year-old punk and artist who asked to borrow The Moral Imperative of Revolt two scant months ago then took to the streets to oppose and depose a twisted fascist virtuoso for two whole hours we hundreds owned the streets we marched down Rosalind Central and Orange Avenue as protest slogans rang angelic we raised hell and found heaven in liberty equality and solidarity but then the pigs closed in cordoned to Lake Eola to scream acquiescent rhetoric at the fish sleeping blissful in their innocence beneath the jet black surface a half-dozen cops in riot gear astride horses loomed ominous before us backlit by the headlights of the aggravated motorists our march had forestalled as the people abandoned the streets we’d won so easily i felt my chest wilt beneath the weight of forsaken opportunity my eyes scanned the remaining crowd four stood strong rooted to the concrete by the world's weight anchored by conviction an anarchist professor an independent journalist a climate change activist and a freshman college student i heard the professor whisper to his student i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way that they'd lost the day when the marchers turned their backs and walked away but she didn’t flinch or move an inch she stood silent and vigilant shoulder-to-shoulder chin held almost as high as her Nazi-smashing protest sign and her matching middle finger and in that moment i could’ve died smiling
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Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
smiling
i’ve long dreamt of black flags in the streets tonight i marched beneath the shadow of their wings shoulder-to-shoulder in hope and solidarity an anarchist professor with a climate change activist an independent journalist and one of my students as mid-November winds tugged at her pink-and-brunette hair she lifted a hand-drawn sign of a gigantic sneaker smashing a **** and i felt for not the first time an enormous sense of pride how humbling to at once inspire and be inspired by an eighteen-year-old punk and artist who asked to borrow The Moral Imperative of Revolt two scant months ago then took to the streets to oppose and depose a twisted fascist virtuoso for two whole hours we hundreds owned the streets we marched down Rosalind Central and Orange Avenue as protest slogans rang angelic we raised hell and found heaven in liberty equality and solidarity but then the pigs closed in cordoned to Lake Eola to scream acquiescent rhetoric at the fish sleeping blissful in their innocence beneath the jet black surface a half-dozen cops in riot gear astride horses loomed ominous before us backlit by the headlights of the aggravated motorists our march had forestalled as the people abandoned the streets we’d won so easily i felt my chest wilt beneath the weight of forsaken opportunity my eyes scanned the remaining crowd four stood strong rooted to the concrete by the world's weight anchored by conviction an anarchist professor an independent journalist a climate change activist and a freshman college student i heard the professor whisper to his student i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way that they'd lost the day when the marchers turned their backs and walked away but she didn’t flinch or move an inch she stood silent and vigilant shoulder-to-shoulder chin held almost as high as her Nazi-smashing protest sign and her matching middle finger and in that moment i could’ve died smiling
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73
Words blow with the blast Ink drops as oil to the flame and burn the fire's light Waved in the leaden air   the majesty of accuracy scald the ears waxed with injustice Literacy and liberty are for all longing eyes A witness to the silences— to misfortunes ignored to blessings need to be heard to weak breath trying to make sense of its existence- the sonar in the deepest sea of truth hears silences louder than speeches Also, he believes in voices voices stronger than power
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Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
a sonar in the deepest sea of truth - for a journalist
Intimidated by political thugs Prone to insert in one's mouth The nose of a loaded gun Or suspend a plastic bottle full of water On males' reproductive ***** Devoid of freedom of expression Also denied  to his right and Deplorable condition drawing attention Shunning his God chosen land, What is more a bright and warm country Under the sun ,a journalist dreaming began Fighting all odds between The deep blue sea and the angry Satan To migrate to a better place, Where for democracy Avowedly there is a better space, Inhabited by civilized people, Averse to discrimination based on race! Burning his boat, Crossing desserts, Crammed with other refugees, Packed with him in a boat Some trying  to reverse Their economic lot, Surfing uncharted waters Seeking a paradise on earth He headed to the country he sought Though some their lives At the hand of brutal traffickers lost Beaten and thrown out of the boat, Also at a port Suspected of a terrorist bent Many migrants to prisons were sent. After a humiliating acid test Why for a dreamland his country he left As migrants' bane They placed him at the foot Of an ice-clad mountain. “I will never see My country again, You are trying my patience in vain!" He vowed Despite the razor-sharp cold untold. Then they took him up higher An epitome to a cold fire! Once more He put his foot down Putting on more clothes and Changing attire. They placed him At the mountain's helm As hell dark Where the angel of death Is seen stark. Then in his head Something began to bark “*You rather choose the better evil If both your assailants and hosts Are no two different devil! *" Seeing first hand Those with cold shoulder Assylem seekers adore to attack Though there are Few not off humanity's track At last he decided to return back And under his country's sun bask Mum for his rights to ask Killing his journalistic knack!
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Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
The better evil
Intimidated by political thugs Prone to insert in one's mouth The nose of a loaded gun Or suspend a plastic bottle full of water On males' reproductive ***** Devoid of freedom of expression Also denied  to his right and Deplorable condition drawing attention Shunning his God chosen land, What is more a bright and warm country Under the sun ,a journalist dreaming began Fighting all odds between The deep blue sea and the angry Satan To migrate to a better place, Where for democracy Avowedly there is a better space, Inhabited by civilized people, Averse to discrimination based on race! Burning his boat, Crossing desserts, Crammed with other refugees, Packed with him in a boat Some trying  to reverse Their economic lot, Surfing uncharted waters Seeking a paradise on earth He headed to the country he sought Though some their lives At the hand of brutal traffickers lost Beaten and thrown out of the boat, Also at a port Suspected of a terrorist bent Many migrants to prisons were sent. After a humiliating acid test Why for a dreamland his country he left As migrants' bane They placed him at the foot Of an ice-clad mountain. “I will never see My country again, You are trying my patience in vain!" He vowed Despite the razor-sharp cold untold. Then they took him up higher An epitome to a cold fire! Once more He put his foot down Putting on more clothes and Changing attire. They placed him At the mountain's helm As hell dark Where the angel of death Is seen stark. Then in his head Something began to bark “*You rather choose the better evil If both your assailants and hosts Are no two different devil! *" Seeing first hand Those with cold shoulder Assylem seekers adore to attack Though there are Few not off humanity's track At last he decided to return back And under his country's sun bask Mum for his rights to ask Killing his journalistic knack!
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69
Your smile is like the scent of a wildflower; you give it generously and graciously to all; like a flower you wear beauty Marvelously; that is why designers made you their abode; the bees (journalist) and beetles (fans) of the concrete jungle love your sweet nature, which is like that of a flower; that is why your name is on their lips and they chase you wherever you go. You are the most gorgeous flower with the most captivating blush and beautiful stalk; you make the world blissful by allowing our eyes to drink your beauty till we stagger drunk with it. By Jove! Everything about you is wild, charming, and down to earth, like a wildflower in the spring.
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May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 10:35 PM UTC
Flower
I heard we ran out of papers so you ran up around the walls of this house- thoughts scribbling on them like the paint we could not decide upon; like a troubled mentalist looking for solace the sound of your pen against the walls- how they went from flowing to screeching- hands now bleeding blue heart; you reached the porch where you underlined your first steps and her last; the bedroom a serenade between the sheets some- times a lie tucked away underneath; there are fractured stories in the woodwork finally seeping out. You are making the ceiling cry in the eulogic living room; the kitchen is a mess of lonely dinners. You left the library for the last. This was where you began a passion never ending fantasy; open up the curtains. The world will one day listen to the way a little scribble went to a house and came back a masterpiece.
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Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
The journalist's house
At the Saudi Arabian Consulate, In Istanbul, Turkey, I hear Something dreadful happened, although Details are as yet unclear. Saudi born Jamal Khashoggi, Journalist for the Washington Post, Entered the consulate knowing that It might not be a welcoming host. An Apple Watch might seem useless. Khashoggi's Watch, nevertheless, Recorded his brutal beating and ****** According to the Turkish press. But was it an Apple Watch, or had Turkish authorities bugged the room? Whatever the case, people are certain That that’s where Khashoggi met his doom. We know he entered the building whole. We're waiting to hear more news releases, For many fear that the journalist, Exited the building in pieces. When asked if he'd condemn the Saudis If they had committed the ghastly deed, Trump at first appeared reluctant To criticize them or intercede. The Saudis pay billions of dollars For weapons, he said, to the USA. And what's-his-name wasn't even An American citizen anyway. Later, Trump admitted that We need a thorough investigation. But sanctions involving money? No, That would severely hurt our nation. Meanwhile, the Saudis **** innocent Yemenis with the weapons they buy, And rectitude falls by the wayside As bank accounts multiply. -by Bob B (10-13-18)
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Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
****** at the Consulate
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams. We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom. We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a  man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of  a lot to say. We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt. We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John  Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
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Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
We Are Manchester
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams. We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom. We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a  man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of  a lot to say. We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt. We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John  Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
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5
Journeyman Pictures Will take you on a  journey The DVB journalists Jailed and tortured They showed the military Shooting at protesters They hid on the balcony and filmed They got footage Of the Japanese journalist Who was shot by the military Another journalist Helped make An award winning Documentary About the devistating Cyclone that hit Cambodia In 2009 He was captured and jailed For years He had promised to write The girl he met From his documentary But could not because He was jailed He made his own guitar While he was Wrongfully jailed He is a good man He just wanted to show What the people were going through Now he has been released An executive from DVB media Came to talk With the Burmese officials In 2009 About having their own Official office Some of the journalists Have spoken out About how they Were tortured Things are improving Although it is a process I hope DVB succeeds And is not pestered Or persecuted by the government Any longer This poem is dedicated To the journalists Who went through Great hardships To show the injustices Of their government Who wanted to document What the people Went through After the cyclone
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Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
Thank You Brave Journalists Of The Democratic Voice Of Burma (DVB)
WHY should not old men be mad? Some have known a likely lad That had a sound fly-fisher's wrist Turn to a drunken journalist; A girl that knew all Dante once Live to bear children to a dunce; A Helen of social welfare dream, Climb on a wagonette to scream. Some think it a matter of course that chance Should starve good men and bad advance, That if their neighbours figured plain, As though upon a lighted screen, No single story would they find Of an unbroken happy mind, A finish worthy of the start. Young men know nothing of this sort, Observant old men know it well; And when they know what old books tell And that no better can be had, Know why an old man should be mad.
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2.1k
Why Should Not Old Men Be Mad?
While many people all over the world Are busily running to and fro Engaging in cheerful holiday Festivities, one thing we know: Children are starving and dying in Yemen. While Saudi Arabia nonchalantly Covers up its heinous act Of butchering a journalist, We cannot ignore the fact That children are starving and dying in Yemen. While Congress fails to intercede And chooses instead to bicker and quarrel Over whether America should Keep supporting a war that's immoral, Children are starving and dying in Yemen. While the oppressive Houthi rebels Backed by Iran dig in their heels And Saudi Arabia bombs the cities, Intensifying a clash of ideals, Children are starving and dying in Yemen. When ports are blocked and money is scarce, And fishermen's boats can't leave the shore, And food and medical equipment Are cut off in a three-year war, Children are starving and dying in Yemen. A 12-year-old girl weighs 28 pounds; An 8-year-old boy weighs about 30. Chances are slim that they will survive. Who dares to say that war isn't ***** Children are starving and dying in Yemen. The people caught in the middle are certain What the fiendish fighting portends: A huge, unimaginable Catastrophe unless the war ends, For children are starving and dying in Yemen. -by Bob B (12-14-18)
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Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
Children in Yemen
Look in the camera with the colgate smile sound concerned even when you aren't. Tell them that someone famous just died. Don't fumble, you're LIVE. Get the story before anyone else or wave your career a goodbye. Two minute break Sip that water and put that make up on. Manipulate the public and your legacy shall live on. Humiliate the politicians till they can stand no more. Sound vaguely interested when you're bored. Display the public ranting, the promotion is yours. Get your sources lined up take down the unimportant notes. Write about the bodies which were blown up but your boss wants more. Shove the mic in their face. Demand reasons behind this failure we embrace. Exaggerate the words said by a famous mind. In place of truth fill it with lies. You dared to step in the public's misery. You were just another journalist desperate for a story.
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Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
The journalist
I watched you silently from my place amid the masses As you sat alone on stage Around you stood the empty chairs Still awaiting instruments and bodies But you didn’t seem to notice Slowly drawing the bow across the strings While fingers danced seemingly unaided I sketched you then in my mind so that I might always remember the way your brow was furrowed Hair astray in the fashion most expected by a being that has not slept in as many days as artists of unheard merit are apt to do I traced the joints of your fingers curled around the dark wooden handle almost, but never touching the off white fabric that stretched between one point and the other In my mind I found I could only liken you and your appearance to that of others I had only read of All fictional of course Here a wayward detective long since run down but never out sank his sorrows in a bottle while his mind fractured but still brilliant carried on But then there were so many others that also came to mind, each tugging at the corners of my imagination with passionate desperation Attempting in the only way they knew to be the sole capture of my attention In this corner I found a journalist well traveled as he was versed, with the quality beseeching that of a gentleman hidden under two days worth of growth But perhaps your likeness might be more suited to the air of a more scientific mind, secret genius cultivating cures for every kind of illness while still trapped in the depths of madness I sat and watched as you played unnoticed for what seemed to me just a moment but was far more then that as my mind turned over the possibility of all the people you could have been But when asked softly why didn’t I rise from my unnoticed place and put to rest my chaotic thoughts by moving close to speak to you if only for a moment I resisted What could I say to let them understand the path my mind had run How I was unwilling to leave my seat, held there by this slight fear That if I dared to find my voice, to rise and cross the space between the seats… to draw close enough that you might see me All that I had imagined you to be would be crushed or somehow dulled by the harsh light of reality You might not be a gentleman, suave and smooth with charm or reflect even a bit the madness of a scientist whose sanity has long since gone… You might be so far from the truth that I’d never write this poem So I sat silently in my place amid the masses Watching you draw your bow across the strings while your fingers danced unaided
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Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Dear man playing the giant cello (double bass)
I watched you silently from my place amid the masses As you sat alone on stage Around you stood the empty chairs Still awaiting instruments and bodies But you didn’t seem to notice Slowly drawing the bow across the strings While fingers danced seemingly unaided I sketched you then in my mind so that I might always remember the way your brow was furrowed Hair astray in the fashion most expected by a being that has not slept in as many days as artists of unheard merit are apt to do I traced the joints of your fingers curled around the dark wooden handle almost, but never touching the off white fabric that stretched between one point and the other In my mind I found I could only liken you and your appearance to that of others I had only read of All fictional of course Here a wayward detective long since run down but never out sank his sorrows in a bottle while his mind fractured but still brilliant carried on But then there were so many others that also came to mind, each tugging at the corners of my imagination with passionate desperation Attempting in the only way they knew to be the sole capture of my attention In this corner I found a journalist well traveled as he was versed, with the quality beseeching that of a gentleman hidden under two days worth of growth But perhaps your likeness might be more suited to the air of a more scientific mind, secret genius cultivating cures for every kind of illness while still trapped in the depths of madness I sat and watched as you played unnoticed for what seemed to me just a moment but was far more then that as my mind turned over the possibility of all the people you could have been But when asked softly why didn’t I rise from my unnoticed place and put to rest my chaotic thoughts by moving close to speak to you if only for a moment I resisted What could I say to let them understand the path my mind had run How I was unwilling to leave my seat, held there by this slight fear That if I dared to find my voice, to rise and cross the space between the seats… to draw close enough that you might see me All that I had imagined you to be would be crushed or somehow dulled by the harsh light of reality You might not be a gentleman, suave and smooth with charm or reflect even a bit the madness of a scientist whose sanity has long since gone… You might be so far from the truth that I’d never write this poem So I sat silently in my place amid the masses Watching you draw your bow across the strings while your fingers danced unaided
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why make videos these days... they're easy target, for people who read, or largely (pretend to) read...    the bare minimum...    journalists with the equivalent of the bare minimum of journalism:   namely?                                   literacy. a journalist these days... wow!              they can read! they can write! read & write?! **** me! a double whammy!   you sure we shouldn't ascribe them policing stature &                                authority?! like...                                   simultaneously?! let's face it... they have investigate the double curriculum venture... we know how donkeys play the bet...        they gamble with a worth of a carrot, and always return with stick's worth of motivation to gamble stupid once more.
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Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
modern day criticism of journalism
By: Cedric McClester Muslims killing Muslims Is Scripturally banned So who wrote the fatwa That says that you can **** fellow Muslims In another’s land Across your border In the desert sand Bombing the Houthis With wild abandon With no regards, for What target they land on Like a school bus Full of small children Won’t bring your war To a quick end It’s time the Saudis Come clean and confess Their Crown Prince Has created a mess I’m talking about His highness MBS Their rising star Who’s clearly much less Killing a journalist For telling the truth Then attempting to manipulate The clear-cut proof Trying to play it off Like some sort of spoof He must not realize That he’s not bulletproof Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.
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Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
MUSLIMS KILLING MUSLIMS
*not everybody likes quotes, but I kinda need the inspiration* I. 'A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.' - Walter Winchell (1897-1972), US journalist and author II. 'In prosperity our friends know us; in adversity we know our friends.' - John Churton Collins (1848-1908), English literary critic III. 'A friend is one who sees through you and still enjoys the view.' - Wilma Askinas (1926- ), US author and columnist IV. 'You are a true friend We cry through the bad times, We laugh through the good ... with happiness and smiles, with pain and tears, I know you will be with me throughout the years.' - Anon V. 'Thank you for being a genuine friend ... one who is not afraid to say things, out of love, things that are hard to say and hard to hear but cares enough to speak up.' - Anon *thank you for all the wise advice you have given me I wouldn't be where I am today if not for your guidance* S T, 25 June 2013
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Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
on True Amity
We will start with every Jew of every sect. then every Muslim of every sect. then every Christian of every sect. then every Buddist of every sect. Then every Vedic Hindu of every sect. then every Animist of every sect. then every New Ager of every sect. then every person who lives  "religiously". then every person who "believes in and worships" any "god" or "goddess". then every person of either *** or any of the  five skin colours. then the redheads. then the disabled. then the  "gays" male or female. then the "Politicians" of any belief. then every member or supporter of any Oligarchy anywhere. then every Capitalist and supporters of every sect. then every Socialist and supporters of every sect. then every Liberal and supporters of every sect. then every Monarchist and supporters of every sect. then every "aristocrat" and their supporters. then every Militarist and supporters of every sect. then every Fascist and supporters of every sect. then every "Freedom" lover of whatever belief. then every Revolutionary and supporters of whatever cause. then every Criminal of whatever crime. every Hippy. every Ecofreak. every alcoholic user. every tobacco smoker. every Cannabis smoker. every priest of every "religion" every Khat chewer. every ***** of any junk. every celebrity especially public ones. every historian. every novelist. every poet. every lecturer. every expert. every "adviser". every spokesperson. every print or electronic journalist especially. every Television chat show host. every one else. Its the only way to get neither War nor Peace on this war ravaged planet, but simple existence without any corruption or criminality. and then who will be left?. NO ONE!! Except me  and my twin flame and oh boy will we have a great time of it. Alone but all one. just us and the Isness of the Universe. wandering this beautiful playground gifted to us by the Isness of the Universe. The Isness of the Universe to walk with and talk with. Fruit hanging from trees . Cold clear waters to drink. Nuts to crunch. oh and Amber our huge sheppie-- connosseur of Pork Crackling and doggy nonsense and wisdom. www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
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Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
Lets **** everybody--except the Isness of the Universe
We will start with every Jew of every sect. then every Muslim of every sect. then every Christian of every sect. then every Buddist of every sect. Then every Vedic Hindu of every sect. then every Animist of every sect. then every New Ager of every sect. then every person who lives  "religiously". then every person who "believes in and worships" any "god" or "goddess". then every person of either *** or any of the  five skin colours. then the redheads. then the disabled. then the  "gays" male or female. then the "Politicians" of any belief. then every member or supporter of any Oligarchy anywhere. then every Capitalist and supporters of every sect. then every Socialist and supporters of every sect. then every Liberal and supporters of every sect. then every Monarchist and supporters of every sect. then every "aristocrat" and their supporters. then every Militarist and supporters of every sect. then every Fascist and supporters of every sect. then every "Freedom" lover of whatever belief. then every Revolutionary and supporters of whatever cause. then every Criminal of whatever crime. every Hippy. every Ecofreak. every alcoholic user. every tobacco smoker. every Cannabis smoker. every priest of every "religion" every Khat chewer. every ***** of any junk. every celebrity especially public ones. every historian. every novelist. every poet. every lecturer. every expert. every "adviser". every spokesperson. every print or electronic journalist especially. every Television chat show host. every one else. Its the only way to get neither War nor Peace on this war ravaged planet, but simple existence without any corruption or criminality. and then who will be left?. NO ONE!! Except me  and my twin flame and oh boy will we have a great time of it. Alone but all one. just us and the Isness of the Universe. wandering this beautiful playground gifted to us by the Isness of the Universe. The Isness of the Universe to walk with and talk with. Fruit hanging from trees . Cold clear waters to drink. Nuts to crunch. oh and Amber our huge sheppie-- connosseur of Pork Crackling and doggy nonsense and wisdom. www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
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Barack Obama, first US President of African origin. Langston Hughes, earliest innovators of then-new literary jazz poetry. Angela Davis, African American political activist, and author Coretta Scott King, author, activist, and civil rights leader Katherine Johnson, African-American mathematician Anita Baker, African American singer-songwriter Muhammed Ali, African American professional boxer and activist Erykah Badu, African American singer-songwriter activist Rosa Parks, the mother of the freedom movement and civil rights Ida B Wells, African-American journalist and feminist Colin Powell, statesman and retired four-star general in US Army Al Sharpton, civil rights activist and Baptist minister Nelson Mandela, South African anti-apartheid revolutionary                                    political leader
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Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
Black American