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“This virus is teaching us that from now on living wages, guaranteed health-care for all, unemployment and labor rights are not far left issues, but issues of right versus wrong, life versus death.” Rev. Dr. William J. Barber II, American Protestant minister and political activist. Rev. Barber is the author of several recommended books. His Amazon page is HERE.
The dreams can drive you crazy sometimes
The ones that envision a just world, one
Where equity is the backbone of endurance
A vineyard of bliss, so to speak, a garden of joy
Relative to the greed times of unworthy living
In a penthouse with a golden toilet, while
Others sleep on cardboard outside, urinating
In the streets, begging for lunch and walking
Barefoot in the snow, betrayed from day one
By the false ideal of rugged independence,
Of monied might is alright, of resource hording
By the richest and unconscionable trafficking of
Children for the unhinged pleasures of the elite
Oh my God, how did this happen? and who
Might have thought that the munitions factory
Of a deadly virus would bring us nose to nose?
How COVID-19 recognizes no bank account or
Prestigious position, just drops its noxious tidbits
Indiscrimanently, into lungs of princes, prime ministers
Those sleeping rough on city streets, its travels
Enhanced by an uneven distribution of access
To water, healthcare, space, living wages,
Paid time off, the rudiments of a civilized life
Girded by compassionate societies, lessons
Learned, we await implementation, and
Dare we move beyond yearning to hope
© 2020, Jamie Dedes
This poem and post are dedicated to the much admired Rev. William Barber and to Bernie Sanders.
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
This week we focus on right versus wrong, life versus death, on living wages, guaranteed health-care for all, unemployment and labor rights. Dare we move beyond yearning to hope. Tell us you thoughts in your poem/s and
- please submit your poem/s by pasting them into the comments section and not by sharing a link
- please submit poems only, no photos, illustrations, essays, stories, or other prose
PLEASE NOTE:
Poems submitted on theme in the comments section here will be published in next Tuesday’s collection. Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published. If you are new to The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, be sure to include a link to your website, blog, and/or Amazon page to be published along with your poem. Thank you!
Deadline: Monday, April 6 by 8 pm Pacific Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, check The Time Zone Converter.
Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you.
You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.
Jamie Dedes:
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- 2020 Poet Laureate of Womawords Literary Press
- The Wombwell Rainbow interviews Jamie Dedes
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FEEL THE BERN
For Peace, Sustainability, Social Justice
The Poet by Day officially endorses Bernie Sanders for President.
The New New Deal
“Democracy is not a spectator sport.”
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Not long ago I was not in a lock down situation
though I felt like being in one, restricted in ways
unreasonable- socially distanced for unknown fears
‘women of the house should stay in the house’
someone said bluntly at a combined family picnic,
‘so why are you lazing on the mat after a hearty
meal, a hot mug of tea with brownies sweet?’
No one dare say that to the man of the house-
Today, I see the whole world ‘locked down’,
in isolation, in full covering of body, fighting for
life’ –
‘Stay Home Stay Safe’ is the glaring call
For All rich or poor,white or black,short or tall-
It is not ‘come closer’ it is ‘stay away’- Ha! Life
is at war,terror fills the air, humans caged inside
as animals roam free, shattered is the economy,
roads parks markets streets silent and empty
Covid-19 is the deadly enemy,
restricting those who restricted others
isolating those who isolated others
forcing obedience on disobedient
forcing cleanliness on the unclean
exposing cowards against the brave
forcing charity on the possessive-
Creating Fear? but wait, perhaps a far cry’
hunger poverty suffering need for medical
care, threat and danger everywhere,
Heartless humans had rendered many
homeless,hungry raped deprived deceived
life screamed for justice peace and equality –
Earth suffocated in soil and sea, pleas
fell on deaf ears,powerful showed no mercy’
So much wrong without a bit of right, how long
would torture bear the plight,as cries of innocent
took the flight and reached the Purest Point of Light
Covid-19 overnight awoke humanity to a painful sight
No more, no more, will be, the laws of might,forget -me
-not became ‘touch -me-not- if you love me hug me not
can’t hold your hands first wash them please, you may
kill me by this deadly viral disease, though I can’t see
but I know it is there, If only I had followed the law of
Care Share Beware and Be Fair—
And now Nature is taking its course as hope remains
for blessing and cure, a renaissance a cleansing a
reset for sure, a hope for faith pure-
There is hope there should be there is still some
honest just humanity-
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Love the poem. It is a wonderful tribute to Reverend Barber and Senator Sanders. The poem is very insightful in its own right. Thank you for naming through metaphor and wisdom truths that are important to our common futures.
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Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. Much appreciated. Best wishes …
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Hello Jamie! Sneaking in under the wire again! Here is my contribution – I don’t know if it is on point with the prompt as it isn’t necessarily hopeful, yet here it is! Thank you for getting me out of my head with what’s happening.
“Bananas”
I sit on my overstuffed couch
Scrolling on my iPhone
Waiting
Impatiently for groceries
Annoyed
At not being able to get all the food
I ordered from that same couch
Two weeks ago
She sits in her second hand Honda
Giving her phone to her toddler
Popping the trunk
Opening her door in the rain
Gathering two bags at a time
Making five trips
Leaving them on the covered porch
After ringing the doorbell
And then swiftly getting back into her car
I open the door
Dismayed that two bags had fallen over
And the cereal had gotten wet
I see her drive off with the toddler in the back
Eating a banana
And I wonder if that’s why I didn’t get bananas in my groceries.
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Respected Jamie Ji
One Day when I had the time and freedom to go for a walk I met Life on the way–
I went for a walk, to nowhere have I been
my eyes are painful at what they have seen
have stepped on trash rough paper and stones
have bent down to peer at what was ‘real bones’
stray cats dogs cows and goats seemed to wink,
as I wandered near many a strange company
Walking to a book center was heavy on the feet
if school were good I would’ve stayed on the beat
question me not please, for I have no answers
have no words, for humans, living as campers
fumbling empty tins bags bottles and cans
living often without food water, pots and pans
kids roamed, hair disheveled scratching away
hungry, hopeful beyond hope, ignorantly at play
what people are these, are they refugees ?
do they need passports and passes, please
I wanted to be at ease, but restless I felt
there is more than eye can see, the ears
can hear, figures grow, the world thickens
unkempt more, like a place of Charles Dickens
question me not for what more I see
people hit, shot, killed, a girls bleeding body–
Oh now I question myself, about right and wrong
a world for all, a world just, equal, fair and strong
am I awake is this real I ask myself, as I turned back
why can’t I reach for the answers, in- The Book on The Shelf?
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PANACEA
Everyone does their best
From their own point of view
Nothing wrong with people
Genocide wouldn’t cure
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We haven’t had winter,
but we have spring,
with rain and even some snow.
We were locked home
and only the birds sing outside.
The cage can be cozy,
if we go back to ourselves again.
It is raining hard
and the birds are singing,
while someone is saving the world.
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Thanks Jamie
:: really, oh really ::
what some folk feel is right
others consider wrong, some
write with the music
a few fail, falter
without much to live on
no one to care for them
some say this is not fair, yet
i find that fair does not even figure
this life you gets what you gets
and feels how you choose to
after
dealing
however the dice fall
the cards come out
this may be your heaven
here on earth
if you like
if that is the way to think
really, oh really.
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“And yet We Live”
We don’t know why life leaps from nonliving things
And yet we live.
We don’t know why we see a bird or think a thought
And yet we see and think.
We don’t know why we die
And yet we die.
I don’t know why you love me
And yet you love me.
Aren’t these things enough for us?
February 12, 2020
(c) Mike Stone 2020
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“Mothers and other Collateral Damage”
This is not an epic tale in dactylic hexameter
Such as Homer’s Iliad or Odyssey;
No kidnap of Helen or destruction of Troy,
Nor a lover’s star-crossed tragedy,
But an Ohio story, not as unique
As you might well imagine:
My father aspired to escape his parents
And their protective quarantine,
To write stories for the radio,
And met a beautiful poetess
With the soul of a whippoorwill
And a heart born in the wilderness.
She could poem all day
And poem all night,
She could poem you a poem
Till the dawn’s first light.
She could rhyme you by the river,
She could rhyme you in the wood,
She could rhyme you in the field
Where the scarecrow stood.
She could mete out any meter
Like galloping horses on a plain,
Dactylic or iambic
Till you went insane.
He put a ladder to her window
And they ran away together
To a justice of the peace in ol’ Kentuck
Too young to know any better
And got married, till death did them part.
O how we loved them both,
My little sis and I,
Their happily-ever-after troth.
But I’m getting ahead of my story –
I was born respectably later
And my sister sometime after that
Not knowing of the traitor.
Mama suckled me on poetry
Instead of mothers’ milk.
Maybe that’s why I grew up skinny
With a voice as soft as silk.
Dad told me stories sitting on his lap
O how he could spin yarn,
He could tell me stories
That would burn down an old barn
And Mama burned his face with kisses
After we were put to sleep
Dreaming dreams with safety nets,
Little souls deposited in God’s keep.
If only our stories had continued so
We would have been content,
But that was not what was to be
And nothing we could prevent.
Maybe Dad grew jealous of her poetry
Or his parents threatened him
That if he didn’t break it off,
His fortune would be slim.
One night she was loved and cherished,
The next night she was betrayed.
Her fragile soul was broken
When she saw their vows unmade.
I’m sure they didn’t mean to hurt us,
We were just collateral damage,
Thinking we had somehow caused it
And felt like abandoned baggage.
How could she stop being Mama?
Things like that couldn’t be,
Such was inconceivable
To a seven-year-old and one who’s only three.
We were raised by housekeepers
For the next two years,
Grandma made sure they were ugly as sin
To assure there were no affairs.
I remember Missus Weber
Told me of the Rapture at the end of days
And scared the bejesus out of me
With the world being set ablaze.
Then Dad brought home another Mom.
They told us Mama never loved us,
That she’d take a pancake turner to me
If something made her fuss.
The new Mom, that’s what I was to call her,
Not stepmom; that she wouldn’t stand for,
She promised she would love us
Better’n we’d been loved before.
Years later I grew to understand that
Love meant something else to her
Than what we had understood:
Cooking meals and pots were stirred,
Making sure we brushed our teeth and
Washing behind our ears.
No poetry would feed our souls,
No one would wipe our tears,
The ten commandments would have to do for us,
We pretended that was love
And laid our dreams to rest
In the starry night above.
One day Mama married another man,
They moved to Panama
And adopted two new infants
But a careless driver killed Mama.
My little sis and I grew up and moved away
To escape from our ordeal,
Sis went to live in Connecticut
And I moved to Israel.
We’d keep alive our memories
Of evidence of Mama’s love.
Sis was always certain of it
But I had doubts thereof.
What with all the fictions I’d been told,
What memories could I believe?
I continued to play the son
But myself I couldn’t deceive.
Dad passed away; it’s been ten years now.
Soon after that, Mom became demented.
Her brain was strip-mined by disease
And claims that she had married Dad were soon rejected.
With all the fictions gone, all that was left was truth:
That sis and I were Mama’s kids, Mom had to agree.
A few years ago, the infant girl Mama had adopted
Sent us Mama’s book of poetry,
Casting away my many doubts
And resurrecting love from Lazarus’ cave.
Mom passed away some months ago,
Buried next to Dad, grave to grave.
Maybe they’ll warm each other’s bones
On the long train-ride to eternity
Pointing out the windows with bony fingers
At stars and galaxies flying by.
February 16, 2020
(c) Mike Stone 2020
(NOTE to Jamie: I’m not sure this is on theme or not. It’s your choice. Please erase this note.)
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“The Two Colors of Wisdom”
All things in the world
Are painted with two colors:
The color of good
And that of evil.
Those with wisdom
Can see both colors
But some only see one color
And not the other.
Don’t blame the blind
For being unable to see.
February 24, 2020
(c) Mike Stone 2020
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“Making Peace with Ourselves”
Most of the time I’m just me
And sometimes I’m we
But every once in a while, we are them
And they are us.
It seems to me that everyone
Who wants their story heard
Would want their own country
To tell it loud and clear
And the problem with countries
Is that nobody will give you one
Just because you asked for it nicely
And nobody wants to be occupied
So, if you still want a country
You’re going to have to make life
Pretty uncomfortable for the occupiers.
I mean when we were them
And they were us,
Why can’t we remember that?
Then maybe we could make peace with ourselves.
March 7, 2020
(c) Mike Stone 2020
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Wow – this is so profound. Brilliant work!
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“Considerations”
Shop doors and borders,
opportunities and certainties
slam with a bang
as millions of fingernails are
frayed and
billions of curses are
screamed,
yet among the maelstrom of
closures comes
the kindness of the
pharmacist finding a way to
dispense multiple months of
blood pressure pills to a
panic-ridden patient despite
restrictions against stockpiling or the
hotelier reducing rates
for self-isolators
in a strange city or the
project manager setting aside
special assignments for the freelancer
freaking out about rent.
Pandemics and presidential elections
linger as blips in textbooks, but
undying compassion is what secures
sustainable safety nets.
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“If We Lived in a Just World (or Country)”
— inspired by Jamie Dedes
If we lived in a just world (or country)
We would not deny a seat at our table to someone who came after us
And no one would be forced to choose between medicine and food
Between one child and another
Or between grandparents and younger people.
If we lived in a just world (or country)
We wouldn’t have to be generous because our government wasn’t
The government wouldn’t steal money from us to give to the rich
The rich wouldn’t choke us and cook us with their carbon dioxide
Our armies wouldn’t march into weaker countries just because they could
And we wouldn’t turn back immigrants because we were once them.
If we lived in a just world (or country)
We wouldn’t raise hopes where there were none to raise
We’d just roll up our sleeves and do the best we could
We’d know the difference between right and wrong
And forget the difference between right and left
We wouldn’t have to choose between our past and our future
Because nobody can take away our past
And nobody should try to take away our future.
April 1, 2020
(c) Mike Stone 2020, from “The Hoopoe’s Call” (https://uncollectedworks.wordpress.com/the-hoopoes-call/)
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RSPH OldMoor
From our skies small figures
In camouflage plumage, laden with binoculars
and scopes wend between hides.
We record them as they record us.
We are Royal Society For Protection
of Humans.
Nothing worse than for humans
to sense they have no control
over their landscape
so we make it seem they care
for us, design this site, build the hides,
nurture our nature.
They must feel valued and necessary,
and make their own decisions.
Sometimes the females carry all the equipment.
Stats: 3 Widowers, 2 female single parents
And 3 young, 4 unemployed males, 7 volunteers.
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THAT’S WHY,
I water this house bound potted plant for i now know it’s feeling,
I speak softly to my pet petting it to calm it’s days indoors,
I make an effort to check kin near and far to offer an assurance I have in short supply,
I sing songs that has my throats conscripted,
I reflect on yesterday’s and marvel at my assumed ignorance,
I read a good book and refuse to get frayed,
While I yearn for a hug and a kiss close,
While I year for a drive and the wind on my face,
I remain grateful knowing many are worse off,
I turn inward and offer a prayer in humility,
Not just for me and my household,
But for humanity whom I admit are me,
And as I stay in and about my space,
My heart aches for those lying on a rocky pillow,
I cry in prayer for one isolated unable to breath unassisted,
I forgive those who should have known better but chose to ignore,
And I send good vibes to the universe with this plea,
May we never again as a species with ability to chose,
Ever again divide and demonize the very essence of life in health.
@ Nancy Ndeke.
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Reblogged this on The Wombwell Rainbow.
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