protestpoems.org

15 September 2012

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 10:09:00 +0000

Marietta Calvanico

Howie Good

Afzal Moola

Claudia Serea

Marietta Calvanico

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 10:08:00 +0000

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The Door We Want to Lock

(after the New Colossus)

Like strutting cowboys of the Old West,

We swagger in righteousness, pacing off an invisible wall,

Our singular land, not as our fathers recall,

A woeful woman stands, her message put to the test,

Our past now fading, along with our best,

Echoes of bidding, welcoming all,

Our flame diminishing in the world, flickering small,

“Now we are intolerant!” she seems to attest,

Masses shouting, “Stay away!”

As the sun sets on our closing gate,

the poor grasp for freedom from hunger each day,

The least of these, we say, we did not create,

Homeless, downtrodden, they helplessly pray,

A fire extinguished, hope tarnished with hate.

Bio:
I live in Staten Island, NY. After spending a bit more than two decades in advertising/marketing, I now work with my architect husband and have been able to devote more time to writing and music. My poetry has appeared in the Bare Root Review, the damselfly press, Poem2day, Word Salad Poetry Magazine and fourpaperletters.

(author retains copyright)

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Howie Good

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 10:03:00 +0000

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THE FUTURE OF US

There’ll be cages of fireflies.

Darkness will be just as much
a true color as red or white

or blue.

Drunk college students
will crowd into the street
during the news
and then vanish again
when the game show resumes.

I will warm my hands

over a trash can fire,
staring up in consternation
at the grim parables
lavishly retold in stained glass.

THE SCREAM

I want a clock without hands,
and someone to agree
that the moon looks
just like a frozen scream.

I want to find a tattoo
of a woman’s name
when I roll up my sleeve,

and for the millions
that regimes have murdered
to cross back over
on a bridge of bones.

I want to bang on a can
to spread the alarm.

Bio:
Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the new poetry collection, Dreaming in Red, from Right Hand Pointing. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to a crisis center, which you can read about here: https://sites.google.com/site/rhplanding/howie-good-dreaming-in-red. He is also the author of numerous chapbooks, including most recently The Devil’s Fuzzy Slippers from Flutter Press and Personal Myths from Writing Knights Press. He has two other chapbooks forthcoming, Fog Area from Dog on a Chain Press and The Death of Me from Pig Ear Press.

(author retains copyright)

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Afzal Moola

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 10:02:00 +0000

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Enough

Civilization by the bullet,

and by the whip.

They descended upon us,

with their fearsome piety.

They brought The Book,

and swept our collective pasts aside.

Scavenging for ore,

snouts in the trough,

the pillaging rarely ceased.

Gold. Women. Diamonds. People.

All commodities,

stripped and raped and sold and bought.

The schizophrenic benevolence of colonialism,

left us battered and bruised and almost broken.

Almost.

But not quite.

For,

the tides began turning,

winds of indignant defiance began rolling,

up through the hinterland,

and down to the sea.

The rising began,

in pockets,

then in swathes of the plundered country.

The rising took shape,

grew,

and found its coherent voice.

They were chased,

chastened,

from our shores,

back to the northern lands that craved the sun.

And the gold. Women. Diamonds. Men.

This was centuries ago.

Yet,

the craving persists.

And,

they scavenge still,

never sated.

Till the rising shouts out,

once again,

Enough.

Bio:

Afzal Moolla was born in Delhi, India while his parents were in exile, fleeing Apartheid South Africa.

He then travelled wherever his parent's work took them and he still feels that he hasn't stopped travelling.

Afzal works and lives in Johannesburg, South Africa and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic - his 12 year old cat.

(author retains copyright)

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Claudia Serea

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 10:01:00 +0000

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The guards

Abandon all hope,

Ye Who Enter Here.

—Dante Alighieri

The first guard

Here,

you’re worth

less

than dirt.

You’re worth-

less

than

a worm.

Give up

hope

to make it out

alive.

The second guard

I’ll crush you–

smash–

crash–

hit you

until

you piss

blood,

until you’re sorry

you were born.

My dog

will drink

your bones.

The third guard

You only have

the right to work.

You only have

the right to die.

See that fence?

Walk toward it

and I’ll shoot.

Stumble

for a watermelon rind

in the roadside

garbage.

Do it.

Make me

do it.

The leeches

The guards

have boots,

but prisoners

have sweet

lean feet.

We lunch

on them

and multiply.

They taste salty

and warm,

still alive.

The fourth guard

I do my job,

then go home

to my children.

Daddy,

what did you

do today?

I helped

someone

die.

Someone

who didn’t

deserve

to live.

Daddy, do we

deserve

to live?

Shut up.

And eat.

The dragonfly

From above,

everything looks

orderly

and neat.

Guarded by men

with dogs,

the rows

of bent backs

move

hills of dirt

from one place

to another.

The sun

glitters

on my helicopter

wings.

Bio:
Claudia Serea is a Romanian-born poet who immigrated to the U.S. in 1995. Her poems and translations have appeared in 5 a.m., Meridian, Harpur Palate, Word Riot, Blood Orange Review, Cutthroat, Green Mountains Review, and many others. She was nominated two times for the 2011 Pushcart Prize and for 2011 Best of the Net. She is the author of To Part Is to Die a Little (Červená Barva Press), Angels & Beasts (Phoenicia Publishing, Canada), and A Dirt Road Hangs from the Sky (8^th House Publishing, Canada). She also published the chapbooks Eternity’s Orthography (Finishing Line Press, 2007) and With the Strike of a Match (White Knuckles Press, 2011). She co-edited and co-translated The Vanishing Point That Whistles, an Anthology of Contemporary Romanian Poetry (Talisman Publishing, 2011).

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26 August 2012

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 20:30:00 +0000

John Kaniecki

Bryan Murphy

Sandra Noel

Ramon Weaver

Changming Yuan

John Kaniecki

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 20:28:00 +0000

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Four Men from the Hay Market

Four men

Who defied unjust laws

Four men

Who fought for our cause

Four men

Condemned to die

The damning testimony

From witnesses being paid to lie

Four men

Hoods over their head

Four men

Soon to be dead

Four men

From the gallows an angry word

If your listen real hard

Their voices can be heard

Albert Parsons

August Spies

Adolph Fischer

George Engel

Four men like you and I

Truth be said

The rich men are glad they are dead

As is the state

Full of contempt and hate

But that truth I deny

George Engel

Adolph Fischer

August Spies

Albert Parsons

Four men

They are alive and well

Four men their story we tell

Four men

Slaughtered in an angry rage

Will live into every age

They are alive upon this page

The battle for a just Earth

The fight for what is right

No matter how we suffer or hurt

We won’t bow down to their might

I curse you cowards hiding behind a wall

I curse you cowards seeking to take it all

Your evil dreams and wicked schemes

Are not as powerful as it seems

For men will fight be they great or small

And we shall answer

To those four men who still call

This is the message that we hear

Resonating eternally clear

We are not slaves but forever free

And we have a right to live decently

Four men who fought for all men

Let the battle rage once again

What do we have to lose but our pain

And everything to gain

Bio:

John Kaniecki has been married to his beautiful wife, Sylvia from Grenada for over seven years. The happy couple reside in Montclair, New Jersey. John and Sylvia attend the Church of Christ at Chancellor Avenue where they are both very active members. John is dedicated to peaceful, non violent, revolutionary change of the world. Oppression, greed, fascism and control are among the worst this world has produced and they should be fought with Love, compassion, joy, and such.

(author retains copyright)

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Bryan Murphy

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 20:27:00 +0000

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Ruling Out The Equaliser

Tinpot dictator? Capable enough to snuff out

the Thatcher brat’s attempted coup,

to woo a Swiss dictator who understands

the need for PR stunts

like this award of half a Cup of Nations

to a microstate where oil flows like blood.

Face is all, money the make-up to salvage it.

From his second-best purse, the dictator’s son

empties a year’s earnings of half the population

at the feet of the “National Lightning”,

151^st best team in our world.

Opponents, like officials, calculate their due,

and duly act as though they’ve got it.

Lightning strikes Libya and Senegal

from the path to glory,

before orange-shirted “Elephants”

trample the usurpers,

restore a semblance of merit

to the spectacle,

which no-one watches live.

The circus moves on. South Africa next.

The world’s attention floodlights fail.

A shroud once more encases

Equatorial Guinea’s heart of darkness.

What happens now? History regurgitates.

Oil powers the wheels of bulldozers,

clearing shanties for developers,

not for the souls who live there.

Migrants get harassed by bribe-sucking cops

with inflated stop-and-search concessions.

Students are acquainted with jails,

the continent’s worst, lest they protest

when summit-bound dignitaries

come from afar, some months hence.

A news blackout leaves the rest

to our imagination.

The sport itself still searches

among warehouses full of its gold

for the beauty it has sloughed:

cynical, corrupt, creeping

every day closer to the apex of its hubris,

every moment more akin to Equatorial Guinea.

Bio:

Bryan Murphy is a newly retired translator who now concentrates on writing his own words. His work has recently appeared in The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising, Dead Snakes, The Eunoia Review, The Rainbow Rose and The Pygmy Giant. He used to believe that soccer could be a vehicle for human rights by fostering inter-cultural contact and respect, and, through its simplicity and ubiquity, creating a level playing field - the equaliser.

(author retains copyright)

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Sandra Noel

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 20:23:00 +0000

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May Day Seattle

Signs and voices reminding us

America once welcomed her immigrants

until we didn’t need them any longer

the Chinese who built railroads

drilled seven mile tunnels

through our purple mountains’ majesty

for the Great Northern and Union Pacific

then told to go home and put on ships

the ones who weren’t slaughtered on the shore.

Japanese farmers who prospered in this new land

until shoved into concentration camps

the ones forced to come from Africa

as slaves, then slaves again to southern Jim Crow laws

here so long they fought for their rights

and finally won but

so much and so many were lost in the process.

Others come from Mexico

as long as we need them

to pick our apples and asparagus

or as long as it is politically expedient

then we build a wall

enact some laws that say America welcomes

only those who have their paperwork in order.

Driving while Hispanic is the new driving while black.

“Where is your identification?

What are YOU doin’ in this neighborhood?

Go home! Go to jail! Go to hell!” BANG!”

May Day in Seattle

and workers fill the streets

signs and voices remind us

we have this right to protest peacefully.

Anarchists with no real cause

do damage in their cute little ways

masked white boys and girls

in good shoes, well fed

(Remember the weathermen?)

Peter Pans and Wendys armed

with rocks and spray cans

“ Hey man, it’s the corporations!”

SMASH!

Hey man, it’s also you and me and all of us

together talking, singing, marching VOTING

Ghandi and Martin and Jesus

and Buddha and Aung San Suu Kyi

May Day in Seattle.

(I watched it from my couch.)

Bio:
My day (and sometimes night) job is as a freelance illustrator/designer developing interpretive text and illustrations for environmental education exhibits. My passion is working with Alliance for Tompotika, www.tompotika.com an environmental organization involved in rainforest/community conservation work. I provide art and design for the group and have had the opportunity to teach art and ecology workshops for youth in SE Asia. My other passion is poetry– reading and writing it. Heart of Darkness, a narrative poem was published in In the Mist, Imagining Babylon in Paradigm and Imagine, Night visitor and Albatross in Barnwood International Poetry Magazine, Blessed in ProtestPoems, Heron, All for Marilyn and Tree Tonglen in Buddhist Poetry Review.

(author retains copyright)

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Ramon Weaver

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 20:22:00 +0000

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Self Immolation

When no one listens.

When gas goes up.

When the cost of living goes up.

When taxes come around.

When cops kill the defenseless.

When business drives wars.

When you're hung over.

When youre in the bank and your account is empty.

When you need a drink

a friend, a lover.

When Hell is other people.

When the news is on.

When a commercial is on.

When you're pissed off and don't know why.

When you're declined, denied or convicted.

When you're in court.

When lawn mowers are there at 7 in the morning.

When she's gone with another man.

When she's gone.

When you're in handcuffs and squad cars.

When you've finally lost it.

When sacrifice is the end all be all.

When futures spawn from here and now.

There are better worlds out there,

there is a better world right here,

right now, inches away.

(author retains copyright)

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Changming Yuan

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 20:21:00 +0000

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America Deep in Debt at Everett

Also on the morning of March 3
I was driving south light-heartedly
Along I-5, as an invited reader to perform my poetry
To a friendlier post-bush America
When a gloomy-looking trooper (numbered 837)
Suddenly stopped me supposedly for my safety’s sake
I must give you – eh, a speeding ticket.
-Why me sir! I was just following the traffic.
But you are the first one I saw.
-Simply because I have a Canadian license plate?
If you were an American, I would do the same.

Lost in anger against such blatant discrimination
(Or bad luck,) I stopped protesting
While shaking my head all the time, peacefully

Oh, poor America! Look at this armed boy of yours
He is ambushing your neighbor like a robber
To help bail you out of your financial shit

I thought, but never said so
For fear of getting another ticket, bigger or thicker

Bio:
Changming Yuan, 4-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman, grew up in rural China and published several monographs before moving to Canada. With a PhD in English, Yuan teaches independently in Vancouver and has poetry appear in nearly 490 literary publications across 19 countries, including Asia Literary Review, Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Exquisite Corpse, London Magazine, Poetry Kanto and SAND.

(author retains copyright)

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19 August 2012

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 22:05:00 +0000

Protestpoems is alive and well

Ruslana Westerlund

Jack Peachum

Afzal Moolla

William Wright Harris

protestpoems is alive and well

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 22:05:00 +0000

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From the Editor

Once again I have to apologise for a prolonged hiatus in publication. It's not as if there's been nothing to protest about. If anything, there's been more.

I could make many excuses, but I won't except to say that the past six months have been very trying.

Protestpoems will publish weekly until our backlog of submissions has disappeared, and then it will revert to its fortnightly cycle.

Next edition is 25th August 2012.

Richard PIerce-Saunderson

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Ruslana Westerlund

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 22:04:00 +0000

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My Speech is Accentless, But My Skin Color is Not

Where are you from?

What languages do you speak?

Aren’t you from Mexico?

Really, where are you from?

Since you asked, I will answer you.

You might listen, but will you hear me?

You might hear me, but will you understand?

You might nod, like you’re understanding, but will you accept me?

Will you accept me and my olive skin as your equal, as your American kin?

You might “embrace diversity”, but will you respect me?

You might even say, “We are not just tolerant, we are multicultural!”

But will you truly listen to what I have to say?

If you listen, I will answer you.

I will speak on behalf of those who were born and raised on this side of the border, but who get interrogated constantly.

You asked, “Where are you from?”

I am actually from Irvine, California.

No, but where are you really from?

From Irvine, Orange County, California, I thought I had already said that.

“Aren’t you from Mexico?”

I say nothing. I want to say, “Aren’t you from Ireland?”

I say quietly, “Born and raised right here, Irvine, California.”

Not all of us are FOBs, “fresh-off-the-border”

And before you ask…

Yes, I am here legally.

I dare not repeat “Born and raised, Irvine….”

Instead inside of me I yell, “NOT ALL MEXICANS ARE ILLEGAL, FYI…”

“Who is your ESL teacher?” he continues.

I do not say a word…

My English is flawless. My speech is accentless, but my skin color is not.

No, I do not dare say, “Not all of us, Latinos are in ESL!”

Instead inside of me I yell, “NOT ALL OF US LATINOS ARE IN ESL!”

You asked, “What languages do you speak?”

I say, “English. Do you want to know what language my grandpa
spoke? Spanish! When he went to school, they didn’t let him speak Spanish. That’s why I am not bilingual.”

“Wow! You speak English good!”

I reply,“You mean, I speak English WELL?”

(author retains copyright)

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Jack Peachum

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 22:02:00 +0000

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Representative Democracy

Where’s the Congressman speaks for me?
Democrats want to spend every penny I’ve got–
Republicans mean to see I don’t have a penny.
They’re all wealthy and well-fed,
they all have government health insurance
– I am poor, my diet meagre–
the insurance man shakes his head,
tells me I’m too sick to qualify for insurance!

(author retains copyright)

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Afzal Moolla

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 22:01:00 +0000

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the seeds of acceptable hate...

between the folds of faith and belief

tucked neatly in cushioned corners

lie the seeds of acceptable hate

through quaint pleasant rituals

and joyously hummed words

dumbed down thoughts

and dazed faces exude

righteous sweetness

belief wrapped in glistening foil

faith painted in gaudy colours

conceal the murmurs of hate

of embraced intolerance

and welcomed bigotry

the seeds of acceptable hate flourish in damp fungal minds

as indifference flowers into the silence of frozen apathy

with blooming petals of finely measured howls of rage

while the ever smiling faces beam with deep pride

drenched in all the pious tears they've cried

and so it is that the viral seeds of acceptable hate

thrive among the genteel folk that quietly gaze

in silence at the slow creeping of the horror

as more seeds of hate are sown with manic zeal

and in the shrieking of this cowardly silence

the seeds of acceptable hate

continue to thrive

and germinate

a child of war

as she lies bleeding

the girl who skipped and hopped to school

all of nine and a half years old

with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was

her father's pride

as she lies bleeding

the warm bullet lodged in her torn stomach

she stares at her skipping rope

as her blood soaks it the colour of the cherries her mummy buys

as she lies bleeding

she sees the people through the thick black smoke

blurred visions of scattering feet and shoes left behind

hearing nothing but the pinging in her blown-out eardrums

as she lies bleeding

she slips away quickly and then she is dead

a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl

whose laugh was her father's pride

as she lies bleeding

for even in death she bleeds some more

the warm bullet wedged in her torn stomach

steals the light from her bright little eyes

as she lies bleeding

in jallianwala bagh in '19

leningrad in '42

freetown in '98

soweto in '76

jenin in '02

hanoi in '68

beirut in '85

kabul now

basra still

gaza too

as she lies bleeding

this little nine and a half year old girl

whose laugh was her father's pride

we know she'll bleed and bleed some more

tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn

with that warm bullet in her stomach

ripped open and torn

as she lies bleeding.

Bio:

I am a 39 year old man and take a keen interest in reading history as well being appreciative of fine writing, wherever it may be found. My 11 year old cat has, thus far, been my harshest critic! I enjoy writing for the simple joy of writing, as well as for the catharsis, by verse, that writing brings out.

I grew up as a child of a South African family who has forced into political exile during South Africa's struggle for freedom and racial equality. I subsequently gre up in India, Egypt, Finland and finally South Africa.

My father represented Nelson Mandela's African National Congress (ANC) in a few countries before we finally returned to South Africa following the release of Nelson Mandela and the negotiations for a new South Africa.

(author retains copyright)

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William Wright Harris

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sun, 19 Aug 2012 22:00:00 +0000

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ode on crubeens

the pig's feet are boiled

& cost eighty bits

apiece

eaten by hungry

fingers

free forks

by teeth decaying

buildings hanging

an industrialized cityscape

in the framing of a

dutch angle

the economic boot

of colonialism

grinds deep

on the neck of erinn

Bio:
My poetry has appeared in nine countries in such literary journals as The Cannon’s Mouth, Ascent Aspirations, generations and Write On!!! I am a student at the University of Tennessee- Knoxville, where I have studied poetry in workshop settings with such poets as Jesse Janeshek, Marilyn Kallet, Arthur Smith, and Marcel Brouwers.

(author retains copyright)

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03 March 2012

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 11:19:00 +0000

Rick Hartwell

John Kaniecki

Darrell Petska

Rick Hartwell

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 11:18:00 +0000

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The Re-Education of Zhu Yufu

There is much to learn
in re-educating the poet –
You can’t take away all
desire he sees in the world, or
remove hunger seen in the land; or
blind the beauty he sees within you.
You can’t take away songs
he hears of birds singing,
or the raw tinkling sound
of spiraling wind chimes;
soft sigh of wind in trees.
You can’t take away earthy
smells of honest days’ labor,
or the pungency of dung
strewn, plowed into fields;
whiffs of rice cakes with
jasmine tea allowed others
on their last visiting day.
You can’t take away the taste of
brass in the poet’s mouth after his
most recent protocol lesson,
or a remembrance of wet lips;
last kisses before parting.
You can’t take away fingers
tracing old scars as if they were
nipples of a first and lost love;
mixed feelings of shame and
satisfaction as the poet voids
his bladder after marching on
parade for most of the day.
You can’t take away a mind’s
longing to be known by the
simplest names: writer, poet, man.
Perhaps it is true, poet Zhu Yufu
can be broken, can be re-educated;
however, only the point may break
leaving the body of the pencil intact.
honed, whetted, poised to write again.

Bio:
Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school English teacher living in Southern California with his wife of thirty-six years (poor soul; her, not him), their disabled daughter, one of their sons and his ex-wife and their two children, and twelve cats. Yes, twelve! He believes in the succinct; that less can be more; the least can be the best. He was nominated by Red Poppy Review for Sundress’ Best of the Net 2011. When not writing Rick wishes he were still pushing plywood in Coquille, Oregon.

(author retains copyright)

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John Kaniecki

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 11:17:00 +0000

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Peace Action

Will my voice be heard
Among the maddening noise
Of wicked rulers absurd
Whose greed callously destroys
The fragile calm of peace

Will my cry go out
When missiles and bombs fall
And generals scream and shout
Where prayers in terror say all
From civilians seeking release

Will my words by read
In a society controlled by few
Lying in everything said
Denying what is true
Where evil multiplies to increase

Will my thoughts be known
By those who look away
Seeking just to be left alone
Hoping it will be okay
And that the evil will simply cease

Still I’ll speak, still I’ll cry
Still I’ll write, still I’ll contemplate
Until I go on to heaven high
Or until Love has conquered hate

(author retains copyright)

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Darrell Petska

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 11:17:00 +0000

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Do I?

Do I pray for children bloodied and torn in Homs' streets?
Do I cry for them?
Do I raise my voice in anger?
Do I write my senator?
Do I rally my friends and neighbors?
Do I squander my anger and tears?
Do I turn my head from the news?
Do I flee to my favorite pub?
Do I throw down half a dozen drinks?
Do I convince myself Homs is a footnote to another man's history?
Do I fall into bed and dream?
Do I dare dream?
Do I dream of bodies bloodied and torn in Homs' streets?
Do I wake up?

Bio:
Darrell Petska is a Wisconsin poet and former engineering editor for the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Past or forthcoming publications include San Pedro River Review, New Verse News, protestpoems.org, Red River Review and others.

(author retains copyright)

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4 February 2012

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 12:13:00 +0000

Zhu Yufu

Russell Streur

Scott Owens

Sean Arthur Joyce

Stephen Jarrell Williams

Zhu Yufu

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 12:12:00 +0000

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It's Time
The writer and dissident Zhu Yufu was indicted in China on or about January 17 on charges of subversion after the authorities found this poem to be a slander of the state. It appears here in translation by Andrew E.Clark.

It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
The Square belongs to everyone.
With your own two feet
It’s time to head to the Square and make your choice.

It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
A song belongs to everyone.
From your own throat
It’s time to voice the song in your heart.

It’s time, people of China! It’s time.
China belongs to everyone.
Of your own will
It’s time to choose what China shall be.

Bio:
More information on the case can be found at http://www.bruce-humes.com/?p=5699

(author retains copyright)

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Russell Streur

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 12:11:00 +0000

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The Emperor Is Afraid Of Zhu Yufu

Zhu Yufu is eating green moss
And making stories up.

He is arguing with Confucius
And plotting nights with Robber Chih.
He is gossiping on the Terrace of Yellow Cranes.
He is spreading rumors on three bridges.

Zhu Yufu is making faces at the emperor
In the path to Stone Mirror.

He is setting clocks to unofficial time.
He says the hour’s come.
He is stealing everybody’s feet.
He is headed for the Square.

Zhu Yufu
Must be stopped.

Bio:
Russell Streur is a born-again dissident residing in Johns Creek, Georgia. He is widely published and operates the world’s original on-line poetry bar, The Camel Saloon, catering to dromedaries, malcontents and jewels of the world. The tavern is located at http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/, where the beer is cold, the whiskey Irish, and the door is always open.

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Scott Owens

noreply@blogger.com (richard pierce) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 12:10:00 +0000

.
.
Defining Wrong

So I’ve had this argument before
at 10 when I was told
I was being hit so I would understand,
at 13 when my friends tried
to beat into me
that the only thing worse than a nigger
was a nigger lover,
at 17 when my father said
if they didn’t want to be raped
they wouldn’t go into places like that,
last year when my mother’s new husband
told me god hates fags.
I don’t care what anyone’s god
believes is wrong.
I know what is wrong.
What causes harm is wrong.
What takes away freedom is wrong.
What makes another feel small is wrong.
And silence is wrong.
It’s easy to keep your mouth shut.
You keep your job that way.
You keep peace in the home.
It’s easy just to go along.
It’s easy, but it’s wrong.

Bio:
Scott Owens' ninth book of poems, "For One Who Knows How to Own Land," is due out in March from Future Cycle Press. He edits Wild Goose Poetry Review

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