Featuring: Please Welcome Kindheart101

January 12, 2013

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Please welcome Kindheart101 to our house.

She is an excellent poet and I love poetry.

She introduces herself to us with this comment:

I am disabled, and spend late nights chatting with friends on HP, and by email about Trayvon. Depending on what is being discussed, I am asked frequently to post a poem. This is just one, of many, I have written over the last 9 months.

I think my personal favorite was about his birth:

What is this here, what can this be?
I do not know, I can not see.
I move around, and wonder why.
although I try, I can not cry.

It’s dark, yet I can hear the sound,
of muffled voices, all around.
A voice says push, and then I see,
a bright, white light, in front of me.

It’s cold, I cry, I gasp for air,
I hear a voice, proudly declare.
We have a son, we’ll call him Tray!
and thank the Lord, for him each day.

Trayvon Benjamin Martin was born February 5, 1995

Trayvon was murdered by George Zimmerman February 26, 2012 while walking home from the store.

Thank you, Kindheart.

I hope you choose to grace us with your presence and more of your poetry for a very long time.

Welcome to the blog.


Forever Can Wait

December 17, 2011


Polandeze under creative commons on flickr

Forever Can Wait

“Don’t hurt me,” I beg

I cannot feel my legs

and my back is broken;

broken by the faceless Sheriff’s gun.

Zip ties cuff me

a gag chokes my pleas,

muffs silence my ears,

mask and hood blind me.

I scream inside my prison


but no one hears me

as he drops me hogtied

at forever’s doorstep.

He isn’t done with me;

Forever can wait.

Sycophant King

November 21, 2011

Occupy Mordor
by Jamison Wieser on flickr Creative Commons
h/t to Crane-Station to save my marriage 🙂

Sycophant King

He favors tailored navy blue suits that look exactly the same

And white shirts decorated with solid silk ties

Perfectly pinched below the Gordian knot

That binds him to the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.

He majored in deception and has picked many a pocket clean

Wearing his practiced smile of starched white teeth

Flashing like a strobe in an after hours club.

He reached the top the old fashioned way —

Kissing ass

Taking credit for other people’s ideas

Daggering them in the back with whispers made of lies.

No one knows what he really thinks and neither does he

Because he thinks like the people he seeks to please.

Now that he’s reached the top there is nothing left to steal

No one with whom to share a thought

Only angry ghosts seeking revenge.

Who shall shed a tear

For the sycophant king?

Cross posted at my regular blog, Firedoglake/MyFDL, and the Smirking Chimp.

Vast Amounts of Time

November 18, 2011

Stunned by thunder out of the sun

A woman wearing a hooded black shawl

Kneels and wails

Weeping bloody dew.

She clutches a slippery chunk of bone and flesh

All that is left.

Her child or her husband?

Both were laughing a moment ago.

Waiting at the gate.

He was reaching toward his father to pick him up.

Now they ride the shoulders of shadows,

Somewhere . . .

Their bodies silenced, seared and shredded by drones.

There will be no hungry bellies to feed tonight

Only pain

And time

Vast amounts of time

To paint her dreams with tears.

Cross posted at my regular blog, Firedoglake/MyFDL, and the Smirking Chimp.


November 17, 2011

Grand Canyon
Under creative commons on flickr by Moyan_Brenn

OCCUPY is the “prime directive” (h/t shekissesfrogs). I dreamed this poem into being last night after writing a short comment to a diary by Frank Lee Speaking.


We decide

what matters.

We lead

but we are leaderless.

We act

and wait for no one to save us.

We save ourselves.

Sometimes a drop

sometimes a tsunami,

we are everywhere and we are nowhere.

National boundaries do not separate us;

Language does not separate us;

Religion does not separate us;

Skin color does not separate us.

Anything that separates us,

we go around

wear it down

disappear it.

We are becoming . . .

there is no force in the universe that can stop us.

we are an idea taking form

We are becoming . . .

Birthing a new world

No one imagined a year ago.

We are becoming . . .

Let he who doubts the power in a drop of water

leap into the Grand Canyon.

In the beginning there was the word.

We know that word today:


Cross posted at my blog Firedglake/MyFDL and the Smirking Chimp.

Be Music, Night

November 8, 2011

Ken Patchen is my favorite poet. He died in 1972. I discovered him in the 70s and felt like I’d finally found my brother.

For some reason, he’s been on my mind a lot lately.

Here’s an excerpt from Sleepers Awake.

You want form, do you? I’ll give you form. I’ll make you wish for something nice and cozy — Something all chewed and digested for you — Look the thing’s worn out — It don’t work no more. If it ain’t in a pretty package, you don’t want it — Because it ain’t art. Because the book critic of the New Porker might now want to see a bit more respect for tradition hrrum, hum. I got my money on nobody. Tolstoy was right about all these people.

A tree near a lake.

Red deer.

Greatness and Truth can never be in danger from these murdering wretches.

To perform one’s duty, be it now, be it clean, be it done with humility . . .

A man is a sacred thing.

Any action or thought which injures the human imagination is evil.

The artist — they hate the artist. Mediocrity and servility are what they want. To get to the point — hell with all these bastards. I tell you it’s got to open up . . . hit the flow . . . Humble, I’m humble before the sacred mystery of life and the

–Let me say


For more information, check out this link.

Cross Posted at my other blog and at Firedoglake/MyFDL and the Smirking Chimp.

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