Poetry

Poetry

No More Police Brutality – Enyaj Pitchford
Yes … I did it again … Sticks and Stones – Mark Lipman
A Rain Prayer for California – Majid Naficy
Breasts – Mary Getlein
Mama – Chaya Silberstein
Roger Houston
Unjustice – Jaclyn A. Zepnick
——————————————
No more Police Brutality
Together we demand a New Reality

Homelessness in Not A Crime
We are all Near Homeless where Real estate is Prime

All Life Matters
the Media’s in Shatters
The Truth will not be televised
The Victims are all Demonized

Police are puppets of the One Percent
They Protect and Serve them
And Eliminate Descent

America is a Democracy
We will not accept this Plutocracy

The Police are here to serve and protect
We pay their salaries with our taxes, Let them not forget
While the Rich go tax free
and prey on you and me

homeless but not nameless
a mother lost her son
we will not live in fear
of losing anyone

Another unarmed brother
slain in a pool of blood
We demand the assassin apprehended
To save our Neighborhood

When the police are the perpetrators of the crime
Their place is the jail or unemployment lines

– Enyaj Pitchford
————————————————–
Yes … I did it again  …
Sticks and Stones

by Mark Lipman

for Brendon Glenn (Dizzle),
killed by LAPD, 05 May 2015
 
(whisper): Sticks and stones
                may break my bones
                but the police
                are out to kill me.  (x3)
 
Sitting naked
in a cold, damp alley
nothing but stars
above me.
 
Here come the lights
all shiny and bright
sirens and badges
they haunt me.
 
Hands in the air
and down on the ground
they’re pulling their guns
and though I’m unarmed
and pose a threat
to nobody,
 
they come to shoot me down
just because of my poverty.
 
(whisper): Sticks and stones
                may break my bones
                but the police
                are out to kill me.  (x3)
 
If you’re black or brown
or homeless in this town
they throw you to the ground
the verdict is already guilty.
 
If you’re a suit and tie
you turn your back and lie
making money while we die
shutting your ears to our story.
 
We throw our hands in the air
saying “Don’t Shoot,” don’t you dare.
yet the politicians just don’t care
they only serve and protect the money.
 
So don’t act all surprised
when the people begin to rise
and call out all your lies
this is the voice of the many.
 
(whisper): Sticks and stones
                may break my bones
                but the police
                are out to kill me.  (x4)
———————————————
A Rain Prayer for California

By Majid Naficy

Mountains are depleting of
snow,
Lakes are dying of thirst
And our farms and meadows
Are burning from
drought.

Oh, Father Sky!
We Californians
Make a pact with you:
If you rain
for three months
We in return
Will not spray chemicals
On oranges and
strawberries
Or feed hormones
To calves and chickens;
We will reduce or
avoid
Consuming meat and milk,
And extract clean fuel
From the sun and
wind.
May Mother Earth
Shower us with affection.

Do not forget,
though,
That we Californians
Like to be outdoors.
So please keep the days
sunny
And rain only at night.
——————————–
Breasts

The mother in the park
said only Americans
are worried about
breastfeeding in public
all over the world this is accepted
the perfect food
for our babies
it’s because we are so sexualized
we view body parts as for
sex, only
and when we see them, we get excited
in a sexual way
instead of
accepting the fact
we are closer to primates than any animal
and we have the
primate urge
to hold on and never let go
we are soothed when we’re picked
up
we are disturbed when we’re put down
which is why women of other
cultures
hold their babies close to them
with the aid of a wrap
all day and
all night
in Africa women are viewed as good mothers
and their breasts hang
down to their waists
everyone accepts this as a beautiful thing
in this
country people would rush off
to the plastic surgeon
to “correct” this
“abnormal” condition
in Africa they are congratulated
for being good
mothers.

– Mary Getlein
——————————————
Mama
By Chaya Silberstein

Her love brought me into this world.
Her love for everything fresh, new and exalted.
A cousin recommended a class on musical theory
and she arrived late.
A shower after gym held her up
and like Venus out of the sea,
slipped into the classroom.

Lounging in back of the room,
my father whistled to himself
and passed her a note.
“No class tomorrow,” it said.
She always loved great literature.
There was nothing like a well penned sentence
to get her juices flowing.

He played the bugle
and she danced to the rhythm
of a hundred marching feet coming home.

He introduced her to a new world
where sunset is the most important time
every Friday evening
and candles illuminate places unseen.

He introduced her to a world where death is not the end
but only the beginning of a soul’s journey.
My mama was soothed by my father’s words
for her baby sister had been taken by the angels too soon.

He opened a window to a life unimagined
and she jumped through.
Their love brought me into this world
and their love carries me through.
—————————————-
22:55 Sunday, April 26th, 2015, Adullam ….. Estranged from Venice. Miss her
friendly face. Seems I’ve worn out my welcome. Not a trace. Of warmth and
hospitality these days. I visit her on Sundays. Miss her ways. Her slow
enticement. Wispy Frankincense. My efforts to maintain are in past tense. My
family is slowly dying off. Don’t recognize these strangers. It’s enough. To
make me plan escape. To scale the fence. To disappear forever. The suspense. Has
dissipated. Watching how it plays. Does not yield reassurance. There were days.
When magic was enough. This sacred space. Was gobbled up by yuppies. They
displace ….. Roger Houston, post-beat romantic, sadly
——————————————
Unjustice
Untrue
Unreal
Un-you.

Take back the time. 
Go back to the morning
And Unwind. 

It didn’t need to end–
It didn’t need to start.

Somewhere in the middle,
Is his heart. 

– Jaclyn A. Zepnick

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Categories: Poetry

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