- Is this America – Ron McKinley
- A Poem – Mary Getlein
- Been occupying Venice for some time – Roger Houston
- Ancestral Memory – Jim Smith
- Our Neighbors – Juditte Erki
- 99 to 1 – Dean Henderson
- Wealth’s Privilege – D. A. Green
Is this America
just stack the paper
it’s all about the money
Is this America the one telling the ninety and nine it’s all mine
Is this America the obtuse rule where intellect is threat
Is this America where health is maintained by wealth
Is this America where a cycle of buy consume will be our doom
Is this America an American on America
Is this really America
–Ronald McKinley
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A Poem They are sitting at one big table Full of fun and laughter She laughs and smiles and try’s to give me an idea for a poem As if all I have to do is go home & write it She doesn’t understand; The poem writes itself Sometimes so fast it’s all I can do to hold on to the pen The brain hand connection But what is the brain connected to? Good question I know we are all connected. When I got here, this sleazy little Venice I knew I was home I know people have lived here for centuries Lots of people partied here, told jokes here, sang songs here before there were houses there were lean-tos or tents or nothing Whales swam here, dolphins played here, birds flew here, all sorts of animals I would love to write a beautiful Indian poem About who used to live here, so long ago- But all I know is what I know That people form alliances with each other for whatever reasons Some people come here to die and others come to live just like any other place The pretense of the sea is to give us a place to go and be healed The waves in and out take away our troubles and cast them in a new light; It’s life a miracle! You look out to sea and see New life jumping out of it. And feel like jumping yourself. –Mary Getlein ———– Inside the Talking Stick….. Been occupying Venice for some time. Rememb’ring back, before it was a crime, To sleep inside a Ford Econoline, Before there was a height restriction sign, Before Bill Rosendahl would turn his back On guys like me; a harmless man in black. But things have really changed. Gone are the days Of gypsy life in Venice. Simon says To go along with PATH, follow the track That leads to Silverlake, and not look back. Accept the Section Eight, give up what’s mine. Bohemia is dead, killed by design. Big money calls the shots these days, and I’m About to walk away for the last time….. Adios, Roger Houston ————- Ancestral Memory By Jim SmithI am that man sleeping in the cave I am that woman walking out of Africa
I am that Pharaoh sitting on a throne I am that slave building the pyramids
I am that women dying of Black Death I am that priest taking Buddhism to China
I am that man praying with the Iman I am that woman burning at the stake
I am that Celt being raped by a Viking I am that Viking not knowing I have a son
I am that general marching with Napoleon I am that Roman soldier dying in Gaul
All these and millions more Live inside my genes
I feel them stirring in the dead of night and in the heat of struggle
They brag of feats and warn of dangers Giving advice freely according to their epoch Someday I will join them in genes and cells not yet born
Will my advice be bad or good? when I reside inside the bones of humanity.
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Our Neighbors Who are these people who cook our food? Who are these people who clean our houses? Who are these people who raise our children with loving hands? They are our neighbors Small statured brown skinned gentle people Who had crawled through sewers Walked hours in the blazing sun Bravely faced hundreds of dangers From scorpions to machine guns As they headed North with determination. When they had arrived, we welcomed them with consternation. We wanted only their hard working hands We didn’t care about their past We didn’t care about their emotions We didn’t care about their spirits We didn’t care about their hardships We put them on our fields We put them in our kitchens We put them in our nurseries We made them work hard and paid them next to nothing. And what do we do when after years of service we don’t want them anymore? What do we do when the economy has a downturn? What do we do when the wind of our politics changes direction? I tell you what we do! We throw them away like an old worn out pair of gloves We want them to disappear We want them to go back to where they had come from We tear their families apart. Do we care that they have no place to go? Do we care that their children are American? Do we care about their despair? What kind of people are we? What kind of country we live in? What is the solution? These people were part of our families They made our lives comfortable They had cared for our children They had built our houses. When are we going to open our eyes and see our brothers’ suffering? When will we look into those soul filled brown eyes? When will we recognize that our neighbors are just like us Human beings not just a pair of hands? When we do, then we will awaken to our own humanity Then we will step out of our isolation Then we can taste the sweetness of this earth And the depth of our soul Then we can say with satisfaction We are Americans and proud of it And when the time will come to knock on heaven’s door We won’t be turned away. – Juditte Erki ———- “99 to 1” We marched down to City Hall To have our grievance read. They sent the cops to drive us out, We’re lucky no one’s dead. 99 to 1, 99 to 1 You’d think that workers had a chance At 99 to 1 Tax breaks for the billionaires, Cuts to health and schools The lackeys of the 1% Are playing us for fools. 99 to 1, 99 to1 You’d think that workers had a chance At 99 to 1 They’ve pushed us all up to the wall, Our children’s future snatched. We’re rising up, we’re rising up There is no going back. 99 to 1, 99 to1 You’d think that workers had a chance At 99 to 1 –Dean Henderson ———– Wealth’s Privilege By D. A. Green Any spare change? she said to me As I walked by so hastily I looked down upon her as no one Racing towards my destination On my return in front of me She stood there smiling not down on me She gave me far more than I to she And I was the poorest for the nightCategories: Poetry
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