Act/Art: New Year's poetree
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Art/Act: New Year's poetree, Write On :)
Have an activist/advocate, sociological to political poem you want feedback on, make a pledge, post your poem in it, and discuss it, as well as other's poems :)
Some twigs of my poetree, for example :)
"What's Love Got To Do With It..."
They say, a rose by any other...,
Would still be as sweet....
Every 9 seconds a woman is raped
By someone who says he loves her.
Give a real gift to sisters,
And brothers, all, reach one,
And teach one, to not be a
Link in that patriarchal chain,
Not adding to that number of
Humanities bane, not a statistic
in la machine's game, ever;
From this Valentine Day on.
Above..., and beyond..., they fly,
Betwixt earth and sky,
Feathers fully feeling the wind,
Reality, on high, at once message, messenger,
As betwixt the profane and sacred,
In the mundane, realism, we walk.
Addressing, not addressing them
have costs, the former is individual,
the later is global, as well.
ends or means
Neither do I embrace.
Rather, the struggle well run,
Which uplifts us uncrowned,
Every moment humans race!
If you don't exercise it,
Its Siamese twin sister, freedom,
Will wither, like a muscle, as well.
A Weaver Of Life
To a student of Christ's and Ghandi's.
One who had a dream that someday
We'd live in the promised land and
Took us by the hand.
Yet, we won't get there
If you don't break your chains,
Refusing to be a pawn in their games.
We can't turn our back to those
Unchosen, on the outside or in,
Simply 'cause they can't afford.
We can bring them with us, if we,
Resisting, everyday, their common
Delusions, not be a link in that chain.
The chains that keep our humanities
Growth arrested, our potentials
Unexplored; our thoughts,
Feelings, and deeds flawed.
If you don't refuse
To be the chains that bind you,
We'll never break the chain.
The chain that murders.
The chain of delusions.
The chain of death.
Talk the talk, walk the walk, and even
Be the be, but, if you don't vote the vote,
You'll never be livin' in a democracy!
Your living was a gift.
Your life taken shows us
All how we're not being.
Taking our own lives,
In effect, by not doing
All we can.
You may be dead, yet,
Still, you give us insight,
That we're not fully alive.
May your memory be
A constant reminder of
What we lose when
We fail to be;
That being everything.
(For Amadou Diallo, who was assassinated by NYPD with 41 bullets (as a message to Africans, et al), when he complied with their request "to show them id", by reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.)
'We will never stop
'Til we get our freedom.'
The song sings, while them that kill it,
Greed driven, avarice ridden, never
Filling their enlarging hole inside, for,
They can't be, nor hide
Their poverty or deathly stride,
Murder to die.
These murderers of life
For delusional profits and pleasures,
Why aren't they tried?
Delusions are sweet,
So, what do we do?
Their choosing is losing their potential
To grow, and personal power in the
Moment so, we show the growth, and
Walk towards the dream,
We're realizing for both.
While life, here and now, is the point
Made with art, in our hearts,
Our beings are the heart of the point.
So, it is I stand and say,
The murder stops here.
Turning our back to the convolution,
We walk, evolution's way.
As machinations of
Miraging, veil and mirror
False-ego, as self,
We evince to be!
C'est La Unvie
A million monarchs lie dead, though,
No less sociological programming of
Upper-middle to rich classes with
Decadence, affluence, inclusion, is.
No less societal determination of
Middle to lower, being excluded by
Division and conquering, privation.
Yet, they, on wing no more, still
flyIn our spirit's eye, heal humanities'
Heart. While their silent cry echoes
The 33,000 species extinct each year,
A rate not seen since the last ice age
Ensued; does it move you?
Does your curiosity ask why?
Will you, on this 33rd Earth Day, allow
A tear for all life's fallen? Consider
The losses economic apartheid incurs,
Mirrored by the divide human-centricity
Has levied? Our underlying duplicitous
Disregard for life, greed and oil fueled,
Won't abate for our existence, will you?
( For the beautiful butterflies, et tu, mon amis, written one and a half years before the 33rd. )
Well, what do you think, et al?
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