Everyday
The whole day long
Everyday
The same tired song
Feeling parallel parked
In a diagonal world
This way and that
Our image tossed and twirled
Hope and change vowed on the campaign
Yet we’re going down the same road again
Hope we’re not being used as political bait
Change how we think, let’s try to relate
That airing dirty laundry doesn’t make it suddenly clean
Stand up with a solution, a suggestion, I mean
We sit and we watch as we’re thrown under the bus
And no one says anything because “it’s just us”
So when does it stop, when does it end
How can we bring about a positive spin
We all aren’t lowlifes and tricks on the street
We got to school and work, have ends to meet
I want hope and change that I can follow
Not just words all too soon ringing hollow
Dark as midnight
We hear all the time
If not midnight
Then 11:59
Was the day originally meant for celebration
For good fathers to enjoy a moments elation
Not mentions of men with the backbones of squid
To overshadow the positive and good they did
It’s not that the message lacked real truth
Just that the timing was a bit uncouth
You can’t succeed
And then proceed
To bash us when the heat gets hotter
Our image and esteem your political fodder
We have problems yes, I’ll admit that’s so
So I’m not saying toss them out the window
The only thing I’m really trying to say
In perhaps my own misguided way
Is that continually speaking of the negative without
Offering solutions is no doubt
The quickest way to lose integrity
Not to mention it’s the epitome
of efforts done in futility.
© Missy 2008 Renaissance, New Millennium, New Millennium, diagonal world, change, hope, futility, negativity, positivity, Barack Obama, poetry, social commentary, politics
Friday, June 20, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
HERO
My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy was special;
He was a short,
Thick, tree stump
And was a smutty brown
Like the soil in
His vegetable garden.
And he took me
and my friend fishing
and I hated the worms
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My granddaddy let me
drive his blue Malibu.
I was only fifteen.
I liked his house.
His back yard was
Woodsy and sunshiny,
with a black iron pot with
boiled squirrels
and chitins,
And I ate them
and I hated them,
choked on the smell
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy
Let me hug him
With my little girl arms.
And he hugged me
Back.
And I loved him,
Until
He wanted me to
Be his flower,
And be a part of his
Special garden.
But I didn't,
He wanted it to
Be our secret,
But I couldn't
Even though I was a girl.
My daddy
heard my secret.
My daddy could slay dragons,
but his daddy was his hero.
He kept my secret
and said nothing more
I asked him years later
As a daughter woman
If he ever had ever thought
About it
And got angry about it. He looked at me and would not say anything.
Because he kept my secret
And said nothing more
His daddy was his hero,
And my father was mine,
It is the way it was
The mystery it remains
For all time.
Copyright © June 2008 by CC Gill. All rights reserved.
cee_duncan@hotmail.com
The Renaissance, The New Millennium, heroes, dragon slayers, anger, granddaddy, daddy, poetry
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy was special;
He was a short,
Thick, tree stump
And was a smutty brown
Like the soil in
His vegetable garden.
And he took me
and my friend fishing
and I hated the worms
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My granddaddy let me
drive his blue Malibu.
I was only fifteen.
I liked his house.
His back yard was
Woodsy and sunshiny,
with a black iron pot with
boiled squirrels
and chitins,
And I ate them
and I hated them,
choked on the smell
but I showed him I could
do what he could do
even though I was a girl.
My father is my hero
And his daddy was his.
It is the way it should be
It is the way it is.
He is always there.
My granddaddy
Let me hug him
With my little girl arms.
And he hugged me
Back.
And I loved him,
Until
He wanted me to
Be his flower,
And be a part of his
Special garden.
But I didn't,
He wanted it to
Be our secret,
But I couldn't
Even though I was a girl.
My daddy
heard my secret.
My daddy could slay dragons,
but his daddy was his hero.
He kept my secret
and said nothing more
I asked him years later
As a daughter woman
If he ever had ever thought
About it
And got angry about it. He looked at me and would not say anything.
Because he kept my secret
And said nothing more
His daddy was his hero,
And my father was mine,
It is the way it was
The mystery it remains
For all time.
Copyright © June 2008 by CC Gill. All rights reserved.
cee_duncan@hotmail.com
The Renaissance, The New Millennium, heroes, dragon slayers, anger, granddaddy, daddy, poetry
Saturday, June 14, 2008
The Great Gas-Out (part 1)
People - please don't forget that today is the first day of the
GREAT GAS-OUT.
Please do not purchase gas today.
If you must, please do it sparingly.
I will be more diligent next week, and remind you for the
upcoming Saturday,
June 21, 2008.
Peace.
copyright © 2008 blackstarr
Friday, June 13, 2008
Indigenous Tribe of the Amazon
I was immensely fascinated by the story of the indigenous tribe found deep in the Amazon jungle. Seeing is definitely believing and I think it’s beautiful that there are tribes of people out there that live according to thousands of years of tradition rather than the latest five-second technological fad. Jose Carlos dos Reis Meirelles, an expert on un-contacted tribes at Funai states that the indigenous tribe was photographed to prove they exist. Obviously, there are some out there that didn’t believe or didn’t care. Also quite obviously, this has more to do with the land they are on than the well being of the people.
Now that the world knows of their existence, hopefully we can work together to help maintain their way of life. I admit that I am not particularly hopeful and am rather fearful for their continued existence. Historically, Indigenous peoples all over the world have not fared well and they somehow always end up with the short end of the stick -- and a substantially smaller portion of land.
It was stated that in the past, within the first 12 months of contact with the outside world, around 50% of other “unknown” indigenous communities have been lost.
As I type, I’m sure there is a specialized focus group of highly paid corporate consultants thinking of a ways to put a spin on things to justify moving these people so that their oil or logging companies can move in. Sure, right now we hear cute stories about how fascinating it is. I fear that pretty soon, the media will let the words “savages” and possibly “cannibal” slip. Then, there won’t be a man, woman or child alive that will think that these people should be left as they were. Unfortunately that is the true nature of our capitalistic society. If you’re not making money for yourself or somebody else, you’re a drain on society. We do not appreciate nor attempt to understand the traditional culture and values of any indigenous people and we don‘t realize that they have as much to teach us as we think we have to teach them.
We may be on the cutting-edge of technology but we lag far behind in traditional values.
Now that the world knows of their existence, hopefully we can work together to help maintain their way of life. I admit that I am not particularly hopeful and am rather fearful for their continued existence. Historically, Indigenous peoples all over the world have not fared well and they somehow always end up with the short end of the stick -- and a substantially smaller portion of land.
It was stated that in the past, within the first 12 months of contact with the outside world, around 50% of other “unknown” indigenous communities have been lost.
As I type, I’m sure there is a specialized focus group of highly paid corporate consultants thinking of a ways to put a spin on things to justify moving these people so that their oil or logging companies can move in. Sure, right now we hear cute stories about how fascinating it is. I fear that pretty soon, the media will let the words “savages” and possibly “cannibal” slip. Then, there won’t be a man, woman or child alive that will think that these people should be left as they were. Unfortunately that is the true nature of our capitalistic society. If you’re not making money for yourself or somebody else, you’re a drain on society. We do not appreciate nor attempt to understand the traditional culture and values of any indigenous people and we don‘t realize that they have as much to teach us as we think we have to teach them.
We may be on the cutting-edge of technology but we lag far behind in traditional values.
copyright © 2008 Missy
myeishaspeaks@gmail.com
Renaissance, The New Millennium, rain forests, indigenous, South American jungles, Jose Carlos dos Reis Meirelles, Funai, savages, cannibals, cannibals, cutting-edge, traditional values
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 7 of 7)
GHETTO SUMMERS
Three holidays, in the summertime,
the backdrop for my ghetto rhyme.
Memorial Day finds me on my way,
to a shore,
a shore with a boardwalk, a bikini, and, a party.
I depart, for a moment, from the confines of my beloved ghetto,
to the clean, endless sand of a Virginian beach.
In July, I depart, for a moment,
to pay homage to someone else’s beloved ghetto.
I depart to the smell of charcoal, of hot dogs.
In someone else’s beloved ghetto,
I taste of cooking put to good use,
and, lay low with a gin and juice.
September finds me at home,
enjoying the sights, enduring the sounds,
feasting on the aromas of a rapidly fleeing ghetto summer.
Money’s too short, now, for one last
trip to that shore of sand, bikinis, and, parties.
So, September finds me at home.
I can’t pay homage to another’s beloved ghetto,
as their money is too short to entertain.
Therefore, September finds me at home.
So, the distinct smell of charcoal
gives way to
the distinct smell of hot dogs and burgers,
gives way to
the distinct smell of ribs and gin,
but,
with city workers on strike, again,
it all gives way to
the distinct aroma of festering ghetto garbage.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 6)
Shorty
I see what they cannot.
They are trained,
and, I am not,
yet, I see what they cannot.
That’s why Shorty sells the drug
that’s on the one.
Out in the open, for all to see,
Shorty, without shame, disrespects me.
Yes, he politely speaks each time I pass.
But,
he buffs his Lex, and, makes it shine,
then, laughs at the Malibu that I claim as mine.
New Chucks, big bucks;
vintage wine, and, a brand new vine,
Shorty sells the drug that is on the one.
Anonymously tipped,
with names, and places, and, dates, and, faces,
those who are trained
cannot see what I see.
Yes, I see what they cannot.
They are trained, and, I am not.
Therefore, from the rising moon to the rising sun,
Shorty sells the drug that is on the one.
copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr
Monday, June 9, 2008
Ghetto Summers (part 5)
(il)legal tender(ronies)
I see tights, covering healthy thighs,
and, halter tops that attract my eyes,
and, micro-minis that solicit my sighs.
I see tights that
illuminate every curve of vivacious vixen;
thighs covered tightly,
in tights that slightly cover
luscious curves.
Halter tops, and, blouses that
are not sheer, but, SHEER,
allowing a glimpse of ample cleavage.
Micro-minis coerce my sighs,
causing me to stare, harder than is wise,
at legs that tower unto infinity.
. . . and, Charlene leans, and, whispers to Jean
“Now, you know . . . !!”.
I truly believe that I see
women with perfected bodies,
fully developed in every way.
But, I find that what I see, instead,
is the essence of youth and vitality;
an essence blossomed ten years too soon,
old enough for motherhood,
young enough to call me Sir.
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