i see the marchers of the trees,
i see the marchers of the seas,
they fall in line with weaponries,
knowing someday they will be missed.

as i stand in line i'm paralyzed,
i ask myself is it worth the price?
have i got nothing to lose?
will i make myself a bit of truce?

i will make myself a noose
don't worry, it will be loose,
the marchers are entering the doors,
of the ships and the planes,
it starts to rain.

i hide under a tree,
the rain found a way to pour on me.
i camouflage myself in the sea,
it's colder and harder to breathe.

high on the mountain,
i see the marchers look at me with concern.
from the bottom of the water,
a message in the bottle from the marchers.

"choose your line, is it up or down? is it high or low, or hanging at the equator just about unsure. is it forward or backward, or stay and build a fort?"

take me up, seal the door.
i don't want to march here anymore.
thought i knew what i'm marching for,
i'm not a marcher anymore.

Dolefully trudge to my chamber this night.
Carrying burden of this inimical plight.
Scrawling as a means to drop this weight light.
But alas, who will read these words that I write?

.........................................................­...........

Heaven in a dark place.
Jokers with no face.
Not a moment free yet not a thing to do.
The theif paints his cell wall.
With crushed plants and they fall.
Ivory clouds speckle the sky of blue.
Deep in the brain stem.
A bulb burning light dim.
Wallows the roots of everything once feared.
Blind marchers guiding.
Hunters found hiding.
Messy brigade leaves the ruins cleared.
Time will move on and on and on and on and on you too soon.
By the time eyes adjust to the sun you'll be seeing the moon.

The marchers make their way today
through town to Cardiff Bay
with whistles, shouts and banners up
for sweet old Mary Jane
they're marching for her freedom
all ages, colours, creeds
have come in joyful spirits
to help us free the **** 

The rich, the poor, the movers and shakers
the blowback kings and part-time partakers
the rollers, the tokers, the bongers and such
the teenage goth stoners who've had way too much
skin up as they march while making their point
and meet up with new friends while sharing a joint.

Then down at the bay side
when the bands start to play
they'll **** in the sunshine
till the end of the day.

For what occurred on March 7,
There was truly no excuse.
Although the day started out calmly,
Before long all hell broke loose.

The year: 1965.
Selma, Alabama: the place.
Six hundred marchers for freedom
And state troopers stood face to face.

The goal of the marchers was a demand
For equal rights in the voting booth,
For the tight grip of Jim Crow laws
In America was an ugly truth.

The plan: a peaceful march from Selma
To the Alabama capital, where
They would take their grievances
To the governor. What's fair is fair.

Reaching the Edmund Pettus Bridge--
Named, by the way, after a man
Who'd been a Confederate general
And member of the Ku Klux ****--

The marchers stopped. The state troopers
Told them all to turn around.
However, the marchers, one of whom
Was John Lewis°, stood their ground.

Soon the state troopers advanced,
Wearing gas masks and waving their sticks.
They threw some whips and tubing wrapped
In barbed wire into the mix.

Men, women, and children were beaten.
Blood was flowing; marchers were screaming.
Some of white spectators were
Holding Confederate flags and beaming.

That evening, while millions were watching
"Judgment at Nuremberg" on TV,
The movie was interrupted by scenes
Of the brutal assault for all to see.

The day is known as ****** Sunday--
A day that we should never forget.
And yet today the voting rights
Of people of color are still under threat.

When we restrict the right to vote,
Democracy's up against the wall.
No one is free until ALL are free.
Equal rights means justice for all.

-by Bob B (3-6-21)

°American politician, statesman, and civil rights activist who served in the U.S. House of Representatives from 1987 until his death in 2020

.................................................................­­...
Dolefully trudge to my chamber this night.
Carrying burden of this inimical plight.
Scrawling as a means to drop this weight light.
But alas, who will read these words that I write?

.........................................................­­...........

Heaven in a dark place.
Jokers with no face.
Not a moment free yet not a thing to do.
The theif paints his cell walls.
With crushed plants and it falls.
Ivory clouds speckle the sky of blue.
Deep in the brain stem.
A bulb burning light dim.
Wallows the roots of everything once feared.
Blind marchers guiding.
Hunters found hiding.
Messy brigade leaves the ruins cleared.
Time will move on and on and on and on and on you too soon.
By the time your eyes adjust to the sun you'll be seeing the moon.
...........................................................­­.........

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 ****-smashing protest sign
and her matching *******

and in that moment
i could’ve died
smiling

Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years and never
     let out a whisper.
Processions came by, marchers, asking questions you
     answered with grey eyes never blinking, shut lips
     never talking.
Not one croak of anything you know has come from your
     cat crouch of ages.
I am one of those who know all you know and I keep my
     questions: I know the answers you hold.

Ebony.
Skin smooth as silk.
A yellow tint or cocoa hue.
You do not experience what we do.
Being viewed as the enemy is imminent.
And it's evident, that the color ebony's negative connotation is remnant.
Of a past connection to Nubian kings & queens--
Stripped of their crowns.
A piece seen, in my name.
No...it is not fabricated, but actually holds meaning.
It's the closest thing I got to my slave ancestors.
Stop trying to degrade me...
And chain me, with your everyday preconceptions.
The concept that I'm beneath you, when the foundation of this nation and slave bones lie beneath you.
Looking out your peripheral, unspoken prejudice fabricated.
Wondering how I'm dressed respectably, like "That's an expensive fabric, ain't it?"
Cause the last time it caught your eye, my ancestors were picking it.
When you see me hold my head high, you feel the right to question it.
But I already told you, it's a new day
Don't saturate this generation with racism
Like you did civil rights marchers with hoses.
We've come a long way, but I still have a question for you... 
If God holds all humans in the same regard,
Then why is accepting the color ebony so hard?

The following is what you make of a stranger’s ramblings
Now the cop
who ignores the lights is out the next day giving tickets
the sky does not turn black with an honest **** in a hit and run
the sky starts to melt when you and I refuse to think cause survival!
We are so busy trying to survive that we let everyone else die!
Are we given enough problems to only be able to carry for so many of others?

The doctor earning boat loads of money needs to make sure
that he can survive on his retirement funds!
Why are our problems blown up so much,
I get it they are close so the look big but the sky is falling and we
are busy looking for the remote!
Was the world designed in a way where learning of others problems
is always the straw that snaps the camels back?
Where we always have enough problems to only be able to
carry so many of others?
I’m no Titan.
I have seen myself flattened against the sky and ground
hearing stories of cruel smiles and I have minimal problems
that I can honestly claim as my own or as problems.
The world is going to explode and we will be bickering about who
should have been guarding the gate as a trigger is pressed against our face!
It’s not too late or I would have killed myself or made love then killed myself.
Our problems are not even the center of an atom.
They are often the same one, so instead of looking at them individually why not
attack the chain?
It is hard to believe in non-violence.
Honestly is humanity slowly turning the earth from something
that could have been the back-drop of heaven into the welcome gate for hell?
Strangers are what you make them to be!
Stop hating each other! You don’t need like each other
just know that they are humans so they have encountered magic
a magic that would have lit up your world the way fireworks explode
against the city-scape.
Also know that you and I and the stranger down the street
have all embodied a devil at it’s worst and a saint all
without being fully aware.
An angel never knew it was an angel only others did
a devil can see themself.
This is a call to arms just not guns
this a call to boycott, to call others to march with you
a lone marcher is a crazy a thousand lone marchers together we are
something.
The time to hit the gas was years ago.
Your own problems might get worse but they die and defeating
others problems is immortal.
This was what you make a stranger’s ramblings.

I witness
the marching armies,
some trudging through the sludge of slaughter,
some gliding as if on polished glass  
others flying on sympathetic currents  
few faithfully, but ALL fatefully, moving
onward, to the deep sleep      

like a mute director in life’s one act play
I watch many in their final moments
some in stillness so sweet
my camera gently weeps ( though not I)  
others I record being ripped apart
in metal madness, yet
I don’t blink an eye
even while wiping the
blood from my hands        

you, Robert, music maker at heart,
meat cutter by trade, scored my lens  
leaving it forever altered
I knew you, a year younger than I,
I saw you, beaten down  
by the grave gravity
we cherish yet dread,
you, trudging through
the slaughter, one  
of the harshly humbled,
you, found the right rope  
and your wife found you
on a Sunday morning,
hanging
in the garage,
your letter to the world the clang
of the alarm that woke her  
and hastened her slow march
to the church, where other directors
took over the filming, and  
closed the curtain, after
the final choking act  

I cannot miss you  
I,
(who only wistfully recall
the millions of marchers near and far)  
felt your Sunday sojourn  
**** the air from my lungs
I can only be grateful  
your living and dying  
made me feel
the palled pain
and undying dread

You're daring enough to have ventured into the night,
he sounded delirious in the wispy light.

Half a mile across the lagoon
moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows
would be digging holes in the sands
to lay their lives for posterity
away from the phosphoric melody
leaving the orphaned to find their way
once the shells cracked under silica.

They look like a procession of mourners,
the man whispered between strokes of oars
sloshing the rising tides of the channel
his deft hands rowing the fastest
cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay.

The night ripened enough by that time
unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea
slowing time in frameshot motions
of rows of celebrating marchers.

Dead of night the stars were burning out
and I called out to the boatman.

To this day I don't believe what I heard.

None was ever ferried back by the boatman.

Last night I had a dream about a poem..
I woke up and forgot it...
But it was only meant to inspire me to write about it...
You know deep thoughts and dreams....
The ones we never share....
The world would be a better place if ya'll think like I do...
But it seems like ya'll don't even care....
Ya'll just want to complain about how this life isn't fair...
While all I want to do is write all my thoughts on a page and share...
Hoping I make you see what I see...
If life has a set path...
I'm just trying to figure out my destiny...
Trying to turn my pains into pleasure...
My tears into treasure...
So I dreamed about a poem...
I think that poem was about Peace...
Serenity...
& Tranquility...
But that dream was out of reach....
It's seems it was right up there with Luther's...
When they killed him the marchers became looters...
Which tells me it's dangerous to dream...
But if I didn't dream....
I'd be stuck in this world...
Where not God but the devil is king...

Rain and all its forms
Blurred Mountains seeping into the borders
surrounding
A little village
Grey on the horizen
Ocean way way below the village
Down the mule trails
Scraping in coils
Pebble linings
Down to the mediteranean sea
In this village
Cobble streets
Coloured roof tops
Crumbling houses
Empty clotheslines
Except a few wet clothes hanging
Forgotten faded red shirt
Hanging from one season
To the next
Water drips and dances bouncing from stone to stone
Wooden shoes clack quickly
As they rush over the street
A lady
Wearing hand woven clothes
warm fresh flat bread
Wrapped in cloth
And in a basket.
A young boy follows her
His sweater held over his head
Eyes obscurred
He walks as though in a maze
Then they are gone
Empty streets
A round woman, hair ******* with a faded white rag cloth
Empties out steaming hot water
From a copper ***
Soapy steam
In the rain
Alley way
Side door
Not much activity
A girl sits looking out observing
Watching the rain
Smelling the warmth
Rising from the bakery down below
She remebers the hustling market, the colors when in the sun
The shuffling people
In sunglasses
New people
Sun season
Different apearences than the ones she knows
The ones shes used to
The skin foreign to her.

She likes her room
With the elephants in the rug
Little marchers
Within the mandela sequince
She likes the bakers down below
Aunts and uncles
Unsure of who's family
By blood
And who's family
In spirit.
She likes the old man
Who sits with his cane
In the little sitting chair
In front of the bakery
He who treats her to a cookie every now and then
Or slips her a piece of sweet bread
He, who wears an old black cap
And puts on his coat
And hobbles down the little street
She waits for him sometimes
She sits perched outside and looks down the street
From right to left
Until she hears the familiar clatter
The sound of his wooden cane on cobblestones
Each who carry their own divine essence
Or sound to which they bring
A memory of her father comes to mind
How differently he sounds when he walks
Gentle and slow
Heavy and kind
Compared to her mother
soft and light
Swift like a feather
in the wind
Sweet like a berry.
The girl sometimes likes rainy season more
Although she misses the hustle and bustle of market day
In the sun
When the lively noises fill her ears
The wild smells
When the bakery arises before the crack of dawn
And the smell of fresh bread awakes her
Smells of new special treats
Made larger and larger
Just to apeal and to please
The large crowds.
The sounds of bakers
Yelling orders back and forth
Clanging pots
A madness of creation.
Grand cakes
Thousands of tarts
Each one delicatly made with care.

When the people make extravagant delicacies
When goats are roasted
And fresh tomatoes
Made into scrumptious sauces
With fresh basil.
Olives pickled and handed out on toothpicks
By yelling merchants
The best olives in the region shouts one
Across the street, the bestsest shouts another.
Most
spectacular
Imaginative
Freshest
Most this
Or that
Yummiest
Tastiest
Wildest
Amzingest
Greatest.
In her mind the images play
Like moving dolls

In full vibrancy.

For a second she forgets
Her placement
She has returnes back to the heat
And the memories
Of men in white undershirts
Smoking outside
Playing cards and waiting for the sun to dry
the rest of their clothes
The bantering ladies
From window to window.
She gets lost,
until the sound of a door loudly shutting in the streets awakes her
Jumping up
Looking out the window
Still silence
Nothing in sight.

Drizzles of rain
The sound it makes
When it slides down the roofs
She misses the heat
Of the bustling summer day
But in secret
she likes the rain
The silence and comfort it brings.
She likes the rain and the lonliness.
The solitude.
the sounds of her parents sleeping
Yawning.
a distant kettle whistling,
A neighbors.
The desolatation.
Patters of rain.
She likes to have both seasons
One season to live
And the
other to dream.

Either as the same here or the mirror shone anew
She blew through the air clenching her loving fare
Bus stop there hung in time none awaiting to be taken away
Now she's gone and I cooly stand still standing here

Of the as if's break apart while hanging from window sills
And the priest marchers ****** their own by mistake
Of stages which burn majestic rifle loud the golden tickets
And managers of magic maneuver themselves just to stay sane

Here we lay stranded doubting dutifully what we will and see
Cause the land is too bareen now to live or have any fun
Crowded corners of railway stations lay fragmented for you
I stand alone on the far side of the bended and black road

See how light the light breaks through this starry night
Hear how hard the sounds of the hounds howl and whine
Touch the tearing face of every other mother's son
Smell the smear of the feeling rear of a box car going & gone

Near to me was the only thing you said you knew how to do
Now with you gone I hear nothing but he skies crashing blue
Near to the end of the tree marked mark to dark were your eyes
Now your hair falls in another place far away oh so far

Suspend tie your wives who look off not so proud
Cause of the worry of the word shines on these familiar lies
I take what must be took for that must be that
Grip the Earth for Her skin never has bore any trap

Slow motion type of reeling metamorphisis and wall
Two to the too late sisters who wore her hair in tails
Ordinary at night but in the light of the breaking day
She wears the warmth of the world all through her black curls

But trapped away from the majestic tyrannical royalty
Of fear ******* pickers who scream of their lowly teen like woes
She bears no hate but seems to carry it everywhere she goes
And when you talk to her of love all she can say is so...

Sinister corruption in the corn meal concoction sense
Relying on the pencil shavings pieces spend to protrude
Neither I fell flat on myself or I never even knew you
Spending an hour to send another love note and then

But thought thinks fast for the feasible starry night
Yes' there was a ****** in the mercurial sense
Right to the end streets were made all lined in by the fence
Scissor of the sorry cuts through us all for far too long

Kindle the heat underneath that chest which softly beats
You were away but then by my search I found you again
Alone so secluded so as you asked for another in confusion
What has happened to you my lost angel my one reason?

But trickle no wet noon upon the block which we walked
These are the terrors of the town which make no sound
Your man with his hands has broken your name once again
We I me and you would never choose to live in time the same in tune

"Not my president!"
The protesters incant
As they take to the streets.
We hear them loudly chant,

"Not my president!"
In cities nationwide
Their voices all in unison
Become amplified.

"Not my president!"
The marchers hold in disdain
Recent election results.
The ongoing refrain

"Not my president!"
Echoes across the nation,
As demonstrators express
Their cries of protestation.

"Not my president!"
What makes democracy great
Is we have the right to vote
And the right to demonstrate.

(11-10-16)

The bullet grazed my leg
Just a flesh wound
Was it my fault
Did I instigate inflammatory vitriol
Should I apologize for my free associations
The way my pen glides across the page
To the core of dissension
Perhaps it was my skirt
Was it too tight, too short
Hugging the curves of my body
Making you hot and thirsty
The freedom of Alvin Alley dancers
With their legs spread
Opening the flow of free expression
Dancing to the voice of Maya Angelou
The seekers, the marchers, the painters,
The writers
All refugees like me

Alternative facts, fallacious assumptions,
And false equivalency are stunning
As Donald Trump, Kellyanne Conjob,
And Sean Spicer hit the ground running.

Regarding the Bowling Green Massacre, Conjob
Said she'd misspoken. Not a crime.
However, the last time she said it, she'd
Misspoken her "fact" for the third time.

What about Spicer's outlandish statement
That recent marchers were paid? What's FUNNY is
No one paid me a cent to march.
I want to know where my MONEY is.

Trump said the "dishonest" press
Once again has been refusing
To publish reports of recent attacks
By terrorists here. Very amusing!

Imagine our press NOT covering
Most attacks here and abroad!
Another of Trump's alternative facts
Like the one on voter fraud.

This disconnection from the truth--
This constant need to fictionalize--
Doesn't bode well for this country.
When are they going to dispense with these lies?

- by Bob B (2-7-17)

In heaven’s swag, with blazing stars,
A land swept swell with human blood,
An Asian land bode stripes and bars,
With pledges so misunderstood.

Cast fare to those we honor most,
Sad travesty of total price,
Yet watch as politician’s boast
Of sanctity, and sacrifice.

Beyond a bank of river gray,
A whisper vessel makes its way
Down to a tributary slow,
To where the precious paddies grow.

So sweet the fragrance of the flowers,
And tempted just to pass the hours
To dream of days, with want to roam
Upon a landscape they called home.

So swiftly blast the cannon’s breath.
Our gallant sailors feared for naught,
Still, in a heartbeat, they found death,
Where freedom was but what they sought.

And scarcely had the loyal spent
The wisdom of their innocence,
Came protest marchers, so hell bent
To demonstrate their arrogance.

And yet a soldier’s wife looks on
To where her precious love has gone
To fight, where he may justly win,
But never see her face again.

I watch the demons’ wrath come spew
Upon the many, and the few,
Still, in the end, they’ll lose the fight,
God’s mighty hand preserves the right.

Let’s place their honor in our hearts,
Those gallant souls who lead the way,
That even cowards know to say,
They died so we may live to pray.

Can you have decent political opinions and still be a bad person?
I'm asking for a friend
How much theory does it take to build up the courage to stand in a protest?
Does a bandana covering your face make you a coward or does it make you careful?
See my friend knows which side he stands on
But when he looks in the mirror there seems to be a different person on each side
The most direct action he takes is sitting alone reading Marx
He's never left the sidelines long enough to understand the front lines
Dignity and freedom are nothing more than dictionary definitions
Liberation is too hard to grasp
He wants to know if it's ok to be timid when the marchers pass him by
If it's ok to doubt his own strength  

My friend spends too much time driving around singing folk punk anarchist hymns
And not enough time living the lyrics
Deep down inside he is still afraid of what people will say about him
He hates that he can be so self centered
He usually doesn't wash his dishes
My friend talks about shedding chains when he never really had that many to start with
He asks if anarchists are allowed to watch shows about cops
He wants to know if anyone will ever truly see him as an ally

Every night I take a moment to tell him not to be so afraid of taking the stand
That what he thinks will only go so far as what he does
My friend wants everyone to live in a better world and he wants to be a better person
I tell him that no one will hear you until you yell loud enough
I tell him that the there's no better place to stand than where he is
He knows better than to give up
He knows he is enough

Blow backs left right,
flowing from the up-side
sphere of my down-facing
brain.

Cluttered pages of a book-mind,
the junk of thought-pages,
with doodles on the lined edges.
and the corners dog-eared.

Peering through the eyeglass
of the head, one finds a circus
of impulses, a parade of thought-beams
bouncing and pinging off the skull-wall.

Mindless and formless shapes,
of squares and circles, and
more strange formations begin
to come to a discombobulated life.

Shaped by stray desires,
and flaming envy-fires,
and raging dream-embers,
the circus is coming to town.

The clowns paint their faces,
the elephants don their dresses,
the trapezists prepare their rope,
the ringmasters ring their voice
the typewriters begin their dance.

The Parade of Impulses has commenced,
the ringing-pinging-tinging of the bells,
the clanging-banging-jangling of the drums,
the crashing-bashing-thrashing of the cymbals.

The Kingdom of Noise, of discordant sound,
and disjointed spasms proceeds, the
cats and rats and bats stepping out of tune,
the chairs, stairs, and the mares march
to the beat of a spastic, spastic thought-drum.

Gingerbread snaps skip the sweet fandango,
while tangerines and woodwinds play
their **** tunes and the dinosaurs of dixie
tap and sway from side to side.

Paperclips and staples sing Blue Velvet,
while the idol warbles with a Golden Flute,
and the bulldog grins widely and wildly,
playing his 8-bit accordion-tambourine.

Behold the procession of business-men
and cat-women as they are swept into
the noise-sounds, and the thought-images.
What draws them in? the feeling or the fire,
the lust or the raging desire?

The beat goes on, as does the noise,
the pitch rises on, as does the fervor,
soon the soundless static stacks,
buzzing-fuzzing-wuzzing slowly louder.

The marchers march, and the players play,
the steppers step, and the band bandies,
the parade parades, and the mind
snaps.

Kindred transformation
correlates experience
to my canidae companion
life is a pit bull husky mix
loyal roamer fierce friend
running through thorn bushes
in the hushed hilly countryside
unaware of speeding cars
and demonic dog catchers
populating the arachnid cityscape.

I chase a rabbit to said city
keeping my dog head with me
so I can only see in black and white
a transformative color palette
allowing an allowance for my breed
to take the maximum instead of its needs.
A dastardly deal is done in daylight
for spiders to be dogs
and dogs, spiders
splitting spoils
of both species syndicating society
by painfully punishing unfamiliar families.

Four legged frenzy in my feet fortifies me
from eight legged monsters in the street
slinging webs of concrete—
a wanderer's kennel terrifying terrarium
trapping wasps and butterflies
masticating maliciously
reproducing rapidly
trap door spiders create black widows
and envelope stray dogs in white cloaks.

My vigilance guides serpentine movement
strafing from treacherous entanglement
of the tarantula treaty offering silk
cocoons claimed to be for safety
at the price of my mobility.

I must return to the warm
glow that helps me see
even if that means
crawling through the sewers
and eating from the trash
to emerge from the thorn bushes
that tear off my jackal costume
as the sun cleanses my wounds
uncovering cloud counting capability
accumulating cumulus compatriots
and oak marchers waving green flags
showing they can prosper with tranquility
but these flags draw insects that eat contentedly
until there's enough ingesting in sects to draw spiders.

Wednesday, 14th of February 2018, 7.00pm,
" breaking news, a mass-shooting happened today in Florida, American authorities are calling this the worst school shooting in U.S.A's history "
6 minutes and 20 seconds,
That's all it took,
17 confirmed dead,
15 injured,
Countless more lives ruined,
All in under 10 minutes,
No parent should ever have to hug their child,
So tight,
Just because it might be the last time they'll ever say goodbye,
No kid should ever have to be afraid of their school hallway,
Or be afraid of who's standing in the classroom doorway,
No kid should ever wonder if this day will be their last,
And no parent should ever have to bury their kid,
Six feet out of their reach,
So this is for Scott,
And for Alyssa,
For Martin,
And for Nicholas,
Not forgetting Aaron,
This goes to Chris,
And Luke,
For Cara,
And for Gina,
Joaquin and Alaina,
Meadow, Helena, and Alex,
Carmen and Peter,
You are all in our hearts,
Let's face it,
The Floridian community of Douglas,
Will never go back to " normal "
So, Washington? Trump?
Riddle us this?
When is this going to be added to your list of " proud American traditions "?
There are too many heavy hearts,
Too many dark days,
Too much chaos and confusion,
For this to be swept under the carpet again,
Just like the last time,
We aren't even a quarter of the way into 2018,
Yet there has been over 30 mass-shootings since the beginning of January,
So here's to the people who aren't accepting the truth,
Who are too " confused " to realize what's going on,
For the people who haven't woken up to the fact,
That there were unidentified bodies,
Sitting cold in that school for over 24-hours,
And do not tell me I am too young to know what I'm talking to you about,
I stand alongside Emma Gonzalez, and the hundreds of young people across the globe,
This isn't just for our lives,
This is for everyone's lives,
Since when did " don't shoot nice people " become such a controversial statement?
Since when did school safety become a debatable, two-sided matter?
So I will join my fellow marchers,
And yell loudly and unapologetically,
Until they hear our voices,
In the words of Emma Gonzalez,
Adults like it when we have strong test scores,
But not when we have strong opinions,
We are Marching For Our Lives,
And this is our legacy.

They marched together; they marched strong,
With flags, signs, and banners waving.
They marched in sun, snow, and rain
To speak out for rights and causes worth saving.

The Women's March on Washington
Became a world phenomenon
Occurring on seven continents.
May the powerful memory live on!

Women, men, and children with
Determination undeterred
Peacefully rallied together,
Letting their mighty voices be heard.

Echoing through the cities' canyons
And filling city parks and squares,
Their voices loudly demanded that leaders
Listen to democracy's heirs.

When people's rights are under attack,
When greed-driven politicians
Bow to Wall Street and corporations,
Ignoring the struggling people's petitions,

The people then must raise their voices
And hope that their peaceful protest starts
A major shift in understanding--
A positive change in lawmakers' hearts.

The protesters clearly spoke:
We must protect democracy
From the threatening ravages
Of plutoc-, corpoc-, or kakistocracy.

They'll march again in 2018.
They'll march to show that it has never
Been more urgent, for now there are
More reasons to march than ever.

Onward, marchers. Don't give up.
You have a voice; let it ring
From east to west, from north to south.
Sing out, people! Sing! Sing!

(1-22-17, 1-13-18) By Bob B

*This is an update and reposting of my Jan 2017 poem

They marched together; they marched strong,
With flags, signs, and banners waving.
They marched in sun, snow, and rain
To speak out for rights and causes worth saving.

The Women's March on Washington
Became a world phenomenon
Occurring in seven continents.
May the powerful memory live on!

Women, men, and children with
Determination undeterred
Peacefully rallied together,
Letting their mighty voices be heard.

Echoing through the cities' canyons
And filling city parks and squares,
Their voices loudly demanded that leaders
Listen to democracy's heirs.

When people's rights are under attack,
When greed-driven politicians
Bow to Wall Street and corporations,
Ignoring the struggling people's petitions,

The people then must raise their voices
And hope that their peaceful protest starts
A major shift in understanding--
A positive change in lawmakers' hearts.

The protesters clearly spoke:
We must protect democracy
From the threatening ravages
Of plutoc-, corpoc-, or kakistocracy.

Onward, marchers. Don't give up.
You have a voice; let it ring
From east to west, from north to south.
Sing out, people! Sing! Sing!

- by Bob B (1-22-17)

what do you see in tunisia's future? we always get asked that in a denial of our present.
i don't like that concept for me not to fill up my mind with more stressful thoughts.
is the present not satisfying enough for us to travel further to the future?
i see myself as a dancer, a guitarist, a pianist, a scenarist, a writer and an active thinking and responsible intellectual.
however these are no good concerning these unsatisfying conditions.
how do i see myself in the future? more precisely in tunisia's future.
i'm certain i'd be exactly one of those mindless spinless creatures guided by money and lust, having those peaceful moments at night when i think twice about what i used to do.
i wouldn't relate to anyone of my future enviroment and no one will look or sound the same in a denial that we are all suffering inside.
unsatisfied we lay down and believe the lies we tell ourselves.
i see those herds of zombies heading to their office, to their jobs, thinking about the tasks they were ordered to do.
creating another generation of dead walkers.
same way we were raised, we'll also raise our kids.
i see trees falling down in the future, animals being deprived of the freedom we had when we were young impeccable and cleanheaded.
with every fallen leaf, we made a decision we regret.
one more reason to grief.
the future is relative, my thoughts are negative.
in the near sorrowful future i already feel neglected, we'll all feel rejected.
from a deadly society, we're headed to a deadlier one.
to the ironic anti-social society.
in the future, inside an estuary of waste, i fix my eyesight up to the industrial foggy sky seeking a tiny glimpse of the stars, praying to escape this monstrocity.
my childish imagination creates this spaceship that lands right infront of my thoughts.
i prepare my answers knowing that these extraterrestrials are gonna quention our existence.
the image blurrs and the aliens fade away, "run" i'd say "leave, don't be a victim of this cruel globe"
i pity whoever joins us humans,
us humans, us tunisians, we'll be known by overlooking the valuable bonds.
friendship love and affection, wouldn't be holy and true anymore. would be just another ficiton written on pages, forgotten through the ages.
at a similar time, in a similar situation, hypocrisy would be contagious, trust would only be a part of our imagination,
thrown away by inhuman archers, i would rather die than to join those emotionaless marchers.
to all my future surrounders, admire, forgive, love, give, for the damaged souls.
enjoy, live, hurt, heal, close the slits cut open by the ruthless life knife, but try not to to relive.

Fat Confederates in Camouflage Knee-Pants

General Robert E. Lee in in a slogan tee -
One cannot imagine such, nor yet
**** Dowling defending old Galveston
Armed with made-in-China tiki torches

Doctor Martin Luther King adorned in bling -
One cannot imagine such, nor yet
The Little Rock Nine disfigured with tats
Or freedom marchers sporting designer sneaks

So, all you goofs and oafs and slobs and yobs,
Get out of the way; go find yourselves jobs

Music flows from the instruments in hand,
From the students marching in the band.
Flutes, as gently as the breeze,
With their sound so sharp, like a high pitched sneeze.
Long black and elegant are the elements of a clarinet.
The sounds so smooth, makes you want to move.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, the saxophone does.
A reed in the woodwinds will bend.
It can break or chip, even cut your lip.
Shiny and loud, who drowns out the rest,
Trumpets are certainly not the best.
Deep, low noises the tuba cries;
It’s large and heavy, which makes it hard to carry.
French horn, trombone, euphonium.
Brass instruments overpopulate the crowd.
Their heads are always up in a cloud.
Drums beat in rhythm with cymbals who clash overhead.
Snares issue to start or halt the marchers, tempo sets their speed.
Thump, thump, thump, we’re done for the day.
Soon we’ll be off to another parade.