"newsreels" poems - Hello Poetry

For 21 days I saw changes wrought by the freedom of 22 years Secrets of razor wire straight and taut Speak of those who continue to fear I saw nature’s beauty in land and face As black heel continues to rise Via school, ambition they prep for the race Even as secretly despised What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live But photos and newsreels survive Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give Whites room to extend their hives Now malls; monuments to white retail Built on Mandiba’s words Polished chrome and marble hail “Happy” workers in a black-faced world Monuments ringed with vendors tribal Carved goods for sale and cheap The rands they make do not rival What multi-nationals’ continue to reap Happiness is shallow until sundown When the curtain of decorum lifts Showing reality’s new shanty-town Where space and plumbing are gifts I wonder if He would be okay Seeing his people so used As pawns for labor with little say As black is seldom excused The young know the time is now As old hatred’s in shallow graves To be unearthed by book and plow Keeping dreams from stunting and fade

0

Oct 12, 2016

Oct 12, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC

gwen-davis-feldman

SOUTH AFRICA - POST APARTHEID

For 21 days I saw changes wrought by the freedom of 22 years Secrets of razor wire straight and taut Speak of those who continue to fear I saw nature’s beauty in land and face As black heel continues to rise Via school, ambition they prep for the race Even as secretly despised What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live But photos and newsreels survive Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give Whites room to extend their hives Now malls; monuments to white retail Built on Mandiba’s words Polished chrome and marble hail “Happy” workers in a black-faced world Monuments ringed with vendors tribal Carved goods for sale and cheap The rands they make do not rival What multi-nationals’ continue to reap Happiness is shallow until sundown When the curtain of decorum lifts Showing reality’s new shanty-town Where space and plumbing are gifts I wonder if He would be okay Seeing his people so used As pawns for labor with little say As black is seldom excused The young know the time is now As old hatred’s in shallow graves To be unearthed by book and plow Keeping dreams from stunting and fade

33

all eyes, all on me, all eyes, hanging all over me. milk the silence. fingertips trace the splintered podium. clear my throat, once, twice. "We shoulduh' seen this coming." great opener. **"Our end was scored by symphonies of sitcoms, reality television, coffeehouse blenders, and fanatical braking. Our pride in resilience was the spark that lit the powder keg. Foreigners couldn't stop us, for we stopped letting 'em in years ago. Time couldn't stop us, for our bodies are made of plastic, and words don't dent us, for our emotions are backed by the most stubborn of metals. We broke love when we were still young. All us boys were aiming for quick fixes, and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes. Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the smoking age, and if they were attractive enough, us boys bit. We all got divorced. We all got into politics. Some of us died for a country, but none of us are sure why. Some of us ran from debt, some recorded folk songs on laptops, some sexed their way out, some drank themselves to death. We shoulduh' seen this coming. But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots. The smart ones had foresight, and departed us early. Now we idiots look to the murderous sky, and wait."** all eyes, all on me, all eyes, hanging all over me. milk the silence. i raise my arms up, as though the crowd is crucifying me. they want to finish their burgers. they want to stroke each other's egos. they want to pass the blame on some distant land, and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags. **"So civilization doesn't get to rust, it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust. Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom. Get stoked for the funeral pyre."** all eyes, all on the ground. all skin, all plastic skin did melt. all forgotten dreams, all torn from hidden seams. all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat, all the white, the black, the chinese, the arabs, the jews, the druggies, the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars, toilet seats, pamphlets, all the newsreels, dvds, collector's editions, suvs, all fuse together, all in one immaculate heat. no one even got a chance to applaud.

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Jul 30, 2010

Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC

jj-hutton

Giving the Keynote at the Apocalypse

all eyes, all on me, all eyes, hanging all over me. milk the silence. fingertips trace the splintered podium. clear my throat, once, twice. "We shoulduh' seen this coming." great opener. **"Our end was scored by symphonies of sitcoms, reality television, coffeehouse blenders, and fanatical braking. Our pride in resilience was the spark that lit the powder keg. Foreigners couldn't stop us, for we stopped letting 'em in years ago. Time couldn't stop us, for our bodies are made of plastic, and words don't dent us, for our emotions are backed by the most stubborn of metals. We broke love when we were still young. All us boys were aiming for quick fixes, and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes. Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the smoking age, and if they were attractive enough, us boys bit. We all got divorced. We all got into politics. Some of us died for a country, but none of us are sure why. Some of us ran from debt, some recorded folk songs on laptops, some sexed their way out, some drank themselves to death. We shoulduh' seen this coming. But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots. The smart ones had foresight, and departed us early. Now we idiots look to the murderous sky, and wait."** all eyes, all on me, all eyes, hanging all over me. milk the silence. i raise my arms up, as though the crowd is crucifying me. they want to finish their burgers. they want to stroke each other's egos. they want to pass the blame on some distant land, and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags. **"So civilization doesn't get to rust, it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust. Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom. Get stoked for the funeral pyre."** all eyes, all on the ground. all skin, all plastic skin did melt. all forgotten dreams, all torn from hidden seams. all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat, all the white, the black, the chinese, the arabs, the jews, the druggies, the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars, toilet seats, pamphlets, all the newsreels, dvds, collector's editions, suvs, all fuse together, all in one immaculate heat. no one even got a chance to applaud.

80

The bittersweet harmonies of Barber’s song of ruing carry me back two score years to that day I sat intent on the bench - Barber’s accompaniment on the stand. Ben Walker exploded into the room “Have you heard about the president? ” My blankness answered, “Kennedy's been shot! ” My stiffened fingers lifted from the keys. Dread-filled I stammered, “Will he be all right? ” Unable to utter the words, Ben shook his head. Scenes flicker on our mindscreens like scratched newsreels - tears staining Bernstein’s face, Eroica and Resurrection weeping our televised agony, Oswald doubled over Ruby’s bullets, a toddler's unbearable salute. Watching motorcade frames repeat in slow motion, we careen on rubber legs: a nation’s heart shattered in Dallas. The somber song plays on: Housemans’s words Joined with Barber’s melodies: 'With Rue my Heart is Laden.' April, 2007

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Jul 30, 2013

Jul 30, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC

robert-c-howard

That Dark November Day

The bittersweet harmonies of Barber’s song of ruing carry me back two score years to that day I sat intent on the bench - Barber’s accompaniment on the stand. Ben Walker exploded into the room “Have you heard about the president? ” My blankness answered, “Kennedy's been shot! ” My stiffened fingers lifted from the keys. Dread-filled I stammered, “Will he be all right? ” Unable to utter the words, Ben shook his head. Scenes flicker on our mindscreens like scratched newsreels - tears staining Bernstein’s face, Eroica and Resurrection weeping our televised agony, Oswald doubled over Ruby’s bullets, a toddler's unbearable salute. Watching motorcade frames repeat in slow motion, we careen on rubber legs: a nation’s heart shattered in Dallas. The somber song plays on: Housemans’s words Joined with Barber’s melodies: 'With Rue my Heart is Laden.' April, 2007

30

I never knew until now, Dear Dad, though I listened to the stories you told, Of War that re-ignited after the one supposed, To end all wars, or so it was proclaimed. You went abroad, your Varsity Stalled, dreams put aside, Long before I was born, Before you met my mother or I was named. Instead, you wanted to fly, High above the Bay of Bengal And the Andaman Sea, Above the carnage, or so you said. And that must have seemed a way to save That sanity You needed to take you through, To come back and marry a beloved girl. I watch the newsreels now, They are old, with time and victory ingrained. I can see you flying that high, Himalayan peaks shining in your eyes, Cold death above and horror below. You told me stories, I recall, Too young for me to imagine. Now too old for me to hear them all. You never piloted again Except in your nightmares. On a road between moon and sun In your own history you flew The infamous, undying path Of The Burma Run.

0

Aug 17, 2018

Aug 17, 2018 at 12:05 AM UTC

sharon-talbot

The War in Me

I never knew until now, Dear Dad, though I listened to the stories you told, Of War that re-ignited after the one supposed, To end all wars, or so it was proclaimed. You went abroad, your Varsity Stalled, dreams put aside, Long before I was born, Before you met my mother or I was named. Instead, you wanted to fly, High above the Bay of Bengal And the Andaman Sea, Above the carnage, or so you said. And that must have seemed a way to save That sanity You needed to take you through, To come back and marry a beloved girl. I watch the newsreels now, They are old, with time and victory ingrained. I can see you flying that high, Himalayan peaks shining in your eyes, Cold death above and horror below. You told me stories, I recall, Too young for me to imagine. Now too old for me to hear them all. You never piloted again Except in your nightmares. On a road between moon and sun In your own history you flew The infamous, undying path Of The Burma Run.

31

I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. Some treat me like a criminal And some are calling me traitor For doing my patriotic duty And following my legal orders. If had done otherwise there I would have been in prison. I don’t know what this is about Or from where it has risen. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. Do people now go to work And decide what they will do? And if they want to do nothing They loaf around? Is that true? I know they do in Congress now But has it taken the trickle down And now following orders is Above the average working clown? I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. During our tour of duty, we all heard Some Americans had complained, Thought we ought to not be there, Hated us because we remained. They lost control of our peacetime Right here on our own home base. Yet they wanted us to stop the war No matter that we would be replaced. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. I saw forties newsreels of ticker tape Falling on huge marching parades Celebrating our fighting military And the sacrifices they had made. Back home now many neighbors Curse at me and look at me as scary Instead of a recently returning hero From their own country’s military. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. And Congress voted down help For those of us who are wounded. The V.A. used to take care of us Before the ‘One Percent’ fine-tuned it. Now many of my brothers and sisters Who did their duty suffer defeat At the hands of their own country And lay dying in our city streets. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me.

0

Nov 25, 2015

Nov 25, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC

brent-kincaid

DISCHARGE

I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. Some treat me like a criminal And some are calling me traitor For doing my patriotic duty And following my legal orders. If had done otherwise there I would have been in prison. I don’t know what this is about Or from where it has risen. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. Do people now go to work And decide what they will do? And if they want to do nothing They loaf around? Is that true? I know they do in Congress now But has it taken the trickle down And now following orders is Above the average working clown? I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. During our tour of duty, we all heard Some Americans had complained, Thought we ought to not be there, Hated us because we remained. They lost control of our peacetime Right here on our own home base. Yet they wanted us to stop the war No matter that we would be replaced. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. I saw forties newsreels of ticker tape Falling on huge marching parades Celebrating our fighting military And the sacrifices they had made. Back home now many neighbors Curse at me and look at me as scary Instead of a recently returning hero From their own country’s military. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me. And Congress voted down help For those of us who are wounded. The V.A. used to take care of us Before the ‘One Percent’ fine-tuned it. Now many of my brothers and sisters Who did their duty suffer defeat At the hands of their own country And lay dying in our city streets. I’m glad to be home But home doesn’t like me. While I was gone Home didn’t wait for me.

64

there on the scaffold colorful cacophonous screams emanating from workman’s coveralls captivated her rebel in real life engaged by her lack of hero worship dedication to her art the common cause her fire drew him to her and so they began to weave their tapestry it tells a story tumultuous traveled torn tragic timeless true brilliant hues life as art compatriots rebels lovers newsreels public pride personal degradation recovery reconciliation back on the scaffold cacophony revisited back on bedrest resilient resisting unceasing unaccepting scaffold and ego deemed titanic-like demand artistic license uncompromising crushed crumble disintegrate lose face credibility turn tale and run to the one deemed feeble whose spirit knows no bonds as body knows no freedom yet is Hercules for them both until the day her plaits were drawn crisscross on her forehead decorated with huge glorious blossoms plucked from the patio lips kissed last breath a pair destined for the history books a love rollercoasterlargerthanlife FateD? Frida & Diego: FateD? © 2017 rochelle foles

0

Feb 19, 2019

Feb 19, 2019 at 11:07 PM UTC

rochellefoles

Fate D?

there on the scaffold colorful cacophonous screams emanating from workman’s coveralls captivated her rebel in real life engaged by her lack of hero worship dedication to her art the common cause her fire drew him to her and so they began to weave their tapestry it tells a story tumultuous traveled torn tragic timeless true brilliant hues life as art compatriots rebels lovers newsreels public pride personal degradation recovery reconciliation back on the scaffold cacophony revisited back on bedrest resilient resisting unceasing unaccepting scaffold and ego deemed titanic-like demand artistic license uncompromising crushed crumble disintegrate lose face credibility turn tale and run to the one deemed feeble whose spirit knows no bonds as body knows no freedom yet is Hercules for them both until the day her plaits were drawn crisscross on her forehead decorated with huge glorious blossoms plucked from the patio lips kissed last breath a pair destined for the history books a love rollercoasterlargerthanlife FateD? Frida & Diego: FateD? © 2017 rochelle foles

52

You may all think Matthew is perhaps up all night reading Das Capital for fun & spending odd days in his chair pondering class relations in late 21st century Capitalism, or just plain transfixed by newsreels, earnest learned scholars, smiling breezy interviewers, fooled or entertained by an opinion about this, a diversion about that, & that Matthew sits hunched over a computer screen fuming at life's repugnancies, odious & loathsome actors in the Politics Game, desperately berating liars, despising sycophants, cursing till the end of days the evil-doers, ill-wishers, & apologists, that Matthew in pure Bolshevik- style takes no prisoners, accepts no quarter, tidies up after the revolution by filling shallow graves with the still warm corpses of the enemies of the people, well, actually you'd be on the right track in some ways to be perfectly honest but still ... Matthew loves a good soccer game, caramel ice cream, bananas, bacon sandwiches, watching pelicans at the lake, children playing, old folks chilling ... he's not really some kind of Iron Man of the People all Medalled with the Order of Proletariat First Class ... fanatic, without humor, obsessed, despairing & fuming & just plain at his wits end, he actually has faith & can take a step back & curse the fool while enjoying the wind upon his face, Matthew loves the play but hates the lead actors & in the Old English tradition shouts out from the stalls "Look out behind you!" as he takes a lick from his sweet vanilla cornet.

0

Mar 8, 2017

Mar 8, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC

martin-bailes

Revolution #1 or Oh Happy Day.

You may all think Matthew is perhaps up all night reading Das Capital for fun & spending odd days in his chair pondering class relations in late 21st century Capitalism, or just plain transfixed by newsreels, earnest learned scholars, smiling breezy interviewers, fooled or entertained by an opinion about this, a diversion about that, & that Matthew sits hunched over a computer screen fuming at life's repugnancies, odious & loathsome actors in the Politics Game, desperately berating liars, despising sycophants, cursing till the end of days the evil-doers, ill-wishers, & apologists, that Matthew in pure Bolshevik- style takes no prisoners, accepts no quarter, tidies up after the revolution by filling shallow graves with the still warm corpses of the enemies of the people, well, actually you'd be on the right track in some ways to be perfectly honest but still ... Matthew loves a good soccer game, caramel ice cream, bananas, bacon sandwiches, watching pelicans at the lake, children playing, old folks chilling ... he's not really some kind of Iron Man of the People all Medalled with the Order of Proletariat First Class ... fanatic, without humor, obsessed, despairing & fuming & just plain at his wits end, he actually has faith & can take a step back & curse the fool while enjoying the wind upon his face, Matthew loves the play but hates the lead actors & in the Old English tradition shouts out from the stalls "Look out behind you!" as he takes a lick from his sweet vanilla cornet.

48

I watched you die Wasn't there next to you Nowhere in your site Just on my cell phone Watching you die While the next meme follows in the timeline I saw your family cry I've never met them Don't even know anyone who knows them Saw them on a YouTube While going through recommended videos I tuned in to your hashtag Followed for a few minutes Liked a few tweets But didn't retweet Hit the arrow on the top left And went back to my timeline After I watched you take your last breath You lay lifeless Not fortunate enough to die in the energy of love Immortalized in the death of many But many isn't enough for change Ever a hashtag Sustained by newsreels and halfhearted court cases, likes and retweets Until I watch the next you die in my timeline Worse yet, I'll read of their demise in a headline Just last week a man lost his testicles, teeth, and life after a routine stop on the highway, the story didn't trend or make it into my timeline

0

Sep 25, 2018

Sep 25, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC

CandaceDHenry

Dying in My Timeline

I watched you die Wasn't there next to you Nowhere in your site Just on my cell phone Watching you die While the next meme follows in the timeline I saw your family cry I've never met them Don't even know anyone who knows them Saw them on a YouTube While going through recommended videos I tuned in to your hashtag Followed for a few minutes Liked a few tweets But didn't retweet Hit the arrow on the top left And went back to my timeline After I watched you take your last breath You lay lifeless Not fortunate enough to die in the energy of love Immortalized in the death of many But many isn't enough for change Ever a hashtag Sustained by newsreels and halfhearted court cases, likes and retweets Until I watch the next you die in my timeline Worse yet, I'll read of their demise in a headline Just last week a man lost his testicles, teeth, and life after a routine stop on the highway, the story didn't trend or make it into my timeline

28

Rockefeller was a villain back in the olden times until he gave away all of his pockets full of dimes. A gentle kind old man frail, caring, generous to a fault sold his soul on newsreels to an adoring sheep like cult.

0

May 26, 2022

May 26, 2022 at 9:13 PM UTC

BJD

Pockets Full of Dimes

Rockefeller was a villain back in the olden times until he gave away all of his pockets full of dimes. A gentle kind old man frail, caring, generous to a fault sold his soul on newsreels to an adoring sheep like cult.

8