“A Piece of the Sacred Planet”. . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

Lightening storm in Africa (Monrovia, Liberia), courtesy of Bethany Laird, Upsplash

“At the heart of globalization is a new kind of intolerance in the West towards other cultures, traditions and values, less brutal than in the era of colonialism, but more comprehensive and totalitarian.” Martin Jacques, British journalist, editor, academic, political commentator and author

Zimbabwean poet activist, Mbizo Chirasha, hosted this prompt on January 22, which called our attention to neocolonialism or the use in place of direct imperialism of capitalism, globalization, and cultural imperialism for the suppression of human rights by First World actors in Third World* arenas: Africa, Asia, Latin America. Admittedly this was a difficult challenge, especially for those who don’t live in a Third World country or if Third World issues aren’t something closely followed. Hence, we didn’t consistently make the target but we do have a thoughtful pointed collection to share today that emphasizes issues of poverty, violence, inequality, land-grab, and human rights abuses. This is gifted to us by Anjum Wasim Dar, Irma Do, Taman Tracy Moncur, and Pali Raj. Much appreciation to these writers for rising to the occasion with intelligence, courage, and passion.

I recognize that some might say “Developing Countries” would be the more appropriate terminology, However, I would suggest that where destabilizing by First World countries is the order of the day, “developing” is difficult, if not impossible.

Because I am working on moving to another apartment, I won’t be posting a writing prompt tomorrow. The next Wednesday Writing Prompt will publish on February 5.

A Piece of The Sacred Planet

A piece of sacred soil
whose land is it ,
why so many claim it ?
land of purple saffron gold,
land of golden apples bold,
land bought again and again
land controlled, land sold,

conquered, ruled taken by force
maharajas, badshah, rulers
for what crime natives told to
abandon ship’ can land ever sink?
who is to think?

August is a cruel month
leaves wither as souls fly,
the only flowers are on
warm cloth embroidered with
blood, cries muffled, eyes dry,

beauty reflected in aquatic surfaces
camouflaged evil toads in inner deeps,
land of pure peace, poets and dreams
land of silence, in sounds of screams’
world has forgotten to cry,

law is a uniform,rule is a gun,
power is the force under the sun
all bodies are war,blood spills are fun
and we children too were on the run
we hand no toys no food nor bun
then all fell, one by one-

a crime a time a right unknown
a helpless innocence grown
the king can do no wrong
people can never be strong
pansies died in the flower beds
governors live in far away towns
all is owned all belongs to the crown.

I see the soldiers they look like me
their garb is like mine, how then
are they my enemy?
I am not to think I am not to speak
why I had to leave my land
why I laugh and cry, sit and stand
I wish I could understand…
I wish I could Understand…

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

In Freedom

In freedom there is fear
When a close and dear
one, is no more,

In freedom there is blood
When all you made in life
Is washed away in flood;

In freedom there is sacrifice
When all you claim and own
Is taken away without a price;

In freedom there is liberty
For many just a statue
fights, no rights, nor equality;

In freedom there are letters
promises and false hopes
soon you are in iron fetters;

In freedom I was born
I never saw my land
I long for its beauty,
like dewdrops in the morn;

In freedom there is a gift
treasure not and you find
it floating by and adrift;

In freedom there is ease
calm and harmony, hold
it strong for eternal peace.

© 2020, Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum-ji’s sites are:

“POETRY PEACE and REFORM Go Together -Let Us All Strive for PEACE on EARTH for ALL -Let Us Make a Better World -WRITE To Make PEACE PREVAIL.” Anjum Wasim Dar

“Do You Want Fries With That?”

Your wild red hair,
Pale skin and
Painted lips belied
Your power.
Despite Scientists showing
The Traditional Ways were better,
Our greased guts and
A-salt-Ed hearts craved the
Colonial Menu
Of broken McPromises and
Big McLies.
Our health for Your wealth.
Not funny Clown.

© 2020, Irma Do

Irma’ site is: I Do Run, And I do a few other things too …

Poverty Rocks Hard
The ratta tat tat of guns in the night…a fight…a fight to the death…in search of illusive respect. The convictions of the streets supersede all cognition…all rationality…all logic…it’s dog eat dog, tit for tat, disrespect me I’ll disrespect you right back. No space or place for politeness…kindness portrays weakness… that’s just the way it is. What’s there to do but live hard in the face of endless denial; laugh hard during the constant struggle; party hard to revitalize and make dry bones come to life.

Poverty rocks hard!

The music blasts…feet dance fast…hearts beat as blood rushes through the veins transporting surreal images of feigned happiness…another puff…that’s the stuff to die for…another puff…calms nerves…another puff supports muscles that inadvertently crave in evolving waves of dependency…another puff to the point of no return to any pretense of normalcy.

Poverty rocks hard!

The high is fleeting looking down into the neck of an empty bottle, ranting…raving…fixating on who took the last of the elixir…the fixer. Rage that has been smothered by day to day survival spies out a rival…a beef erupts spewing volcanic emotions and repressed anger into the atmosphere mushrooming into a toxic waste laced with venom… a gun is fired that eradicates all semblance of euphony and implodes into a rubble of broken dreams as a stream of blood oozes from the collapsed corpse.

Poverty rocks hard!

Sirens wail in the night. Violence devours innocence…sorrow then masticates the essence of life and regurgitates hopelessness. Shame becomes ingrained into the psyche…anger lashes out slapping kindness into a condition of degeneration… masochism becomes entrapped in isolation …love and fury become enmeshed in confusion crippling empathy impeding the expansion and the maturation of the human spirit.

Poverty rocks hard!

© 2020, Tamam Tracy Moncur

Diary of an Inner City Teacher is a probe into the reality of teaching in our inner city school systems as seen from the front line. Over two decades in the trenches, educator Tamam Tracy Moncur exposes through her personal journal the plights, the highlights, the sadness, and the joys she has experienced as a teacher. Come to understand why the United States Department of Education and the various state departments of education must realize the teaching of academics cannot be divorced from the social issues that confront the students. Let s be innovative together and design new millennium schools that address the educational needs of the inner city students before it s too late! Our children s very existence is at stake! Laugh, cry, and become informed as you embrace the accounts of an inner city teacher.

Poverty, Hunger, and Sanitation
Oh, I throw myself upon
Violence, Terrorism
Once where was war
Now tearing our nations apart
May be, thus, they are taking control
(May be it’s neocolonism) but
What has happened to the whole world?
Poverty, Hunger, and Sanitation
Oh, I throw myself upon

© 2020, Pali Raj

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