Crisis -The Way With Our World ////

Moral Equivalence to None

Living our normal lives
We were awakened with a crash
The tragedy of the World Trade Center
Pummeling deep within our souls
Reality of hatred so deep and rare
Feeling a deep call for retaliation
To those who were held responsible
For the slaughter of thousands
Leaders stating our devastation
To the moral equivalence of none
The pain we took on and bore
Uniting together in the catastrophe
Standing and facing the danger
Of a new terrorism that has spread.

One and a half years later we stand
Behind the justification of the tragedy
To the moral equivalence to none
Watching the desolation we are creating
As the bombs in Baghdad are falling
Lighting up in the sky everywhere
Fires ablaze in a city of people like us
Innocent men, women, and children
Hearing the sounds of sirens ringing
Feeling of terror being passed to them
Fearing what they cannot see coming
Deafening explosions reverberating
Hoping the strategic targets are not near
Praying they will see a future day.

In our pursuit of the war on terrorism
As the death tolls of the innocent rise
Now who have become the expendable?
Will we be able to stand behind our tragedy?
To the loss of the moral equivalence to none.
Or will we be able to pass the titled phrase
To the many souls who will have died
So their survivors can rise against us
For the terror we have imposed upon them
On behalf of the pain we have inflicted
The devastation we’ve brought upon them
To strike upon us with their loss and hurt
Of a moral equivalence to none.

Have you seen the news today
Globle warming is here to stay,
its only a matter of time:
but present company will be fine?

The politicians have given word
it will not effect our present heard.
Currant comments radical and rude
Don't listen to the multitude.

The cars the star, the adverts said
Combustion worries are far ahead?
no need to have just one to go
some have two-three or four.

Fine furniture in natural pine
neat wooden houses, all tree lined.
Away with plastic, its out of date
Back to wood, its not to late?.

The sea's are safe we are told?
Full of fish, as of old,
don't swim near shore, please keep away
insurance will not cover your hospital stay.

And if dear reader you think it true
these caustic lines are left for you,
the experts insist a future bright.
For all our sakes I hope the're right?

copywrite Richard Taylor 2000

This poem is dedicated to Olga Banareo, who leaving her child in safety was sent to the woman’s concentration and death camp Ravensbruck in 1941-1942.
She was murdered there in 1942. Olga was a rare person who spent her time helping the other woman. She was repeatedly punished for it, but her spirit was never broken, and her humanity will never die.

STRONG I AM

Child crying, not understanding why
left behind within safe walls of home.
She gently lifts spirits of lost souls and
brings life back to them, for one more day.
To the sisters of Ravensbruck

Though cruel men, who have cast God aside,
and made her cry, but cannot break
or for a moment take, her humanity shines
Within dark walls of Ravensbruck.

Though terrified and broken, she would
not give way to terror. And her memory will
never dim. It lives today as it did then, and
remains with the sisters of Ravensbruck.

Selected, buses waiting, God taking her to him.
Head held high, she never bowed to them.
No tears shed, consoling others whom she always
led to live another day in Ravensbruck.

copywrite Richard Taylor 1999

I have sat at this bar
for two thousand years
i have seen the birds,the white doves
fly in and lay their eggs in your beer
which you have drank and destroyed
for the sake of your thirst

i have stood and watched
the old ones,who died yesterday
let their bodys drink the beer today
and i have heard the words of your heroes
repeated by the sheep

and i have seen the sheep
being led to the slaughter
and as the blood of the slaughtered ones fell
i have seen you turn away
and deny it as happenend

Call of Africa

Tribal divergence
Within genocide
Bloodshed day by day
While a Million plus
Put down deceased
Waylaid along a roadside

Echoes reverberate
In deaths ultimate toll
Manipulation within
Nations of super power
Coveting their secreted
Masked desire

Hear her plea...
Hear her cry...
Turn your ear...
Refusing to hear...

Man woman and child
Of diverse hues of blacks
Pitted against birthright
Within tribal belief
Propagated by
Superficial control

Raising blades in loss
Spilling blood...
To soak upon her earth...
Diminution of populace
Greater powers aspire
Obtainment of riches

Hear her pleas...
Hear her cries...
Close your eyes...
Succumbed in lies...

Industrialized countries
Turns their ethics away
Raping majestic resources
Pleading to absent nations
As masses of homeland
Congregate deaths gate

A international economy
Laced within monetary
Erogenous in their politics
Facing economic strife
In sustenance of material
Turning a blinded eye

Hear her plea...
Hear her cry...
Turn your ear...
Refusing to hear...

In propagation of power
For she holds them many
Her magnificence contained
Within virginal scapes
Prosperity of minerals
Hidden beneath her dress

Listen to and discern
Africa’s call of pain
As you sit in your chair
Feeling decimation of wealth
Upon her native ground
As a world turns in disdain

Hear her plea...
Hear her cry...
Turn your ear...
Refusing to hear...

The Call of Africa...

copywrite Kim Drone 2005

If there were a sympathy in choice
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it
making it momentany as a sound,
swift as a shadow, short as a dream,
brief as the lightning in the collied night,
that, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
and ere a man hath power to say, “behold!”
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
so quick bright things come to confusion.

Shakespeare-
A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Poem by Don Lester (snowtop)

Your Call To Africa

We the countries of wealth
resound through our children's voices,
immune, dismissing death,
guns in school, abortions by ten, choices.

We the children of wealth
respond with echoes of yesterday’s voices
expounding rituals death,
savages, diseased and by their own choices.

The children of the children of wealth
stand, when coins crackles their voices.
concealing reality, sacrificing in death
sublime, contriving, there were no other choices.

The children of the children of the children of wealth
ponder; the sound of yesterday’s angry voices
my rise, an who will be the victims that cry in death.
overlooking, many, many years of making bad choices.

Copywrite Don Lester 2005

Poem by jeannerene

Composing in a Frenzy

If I had my druthers
(wonderful word, druthers . . could rhyme with brothers)
I’d want to release ribbons of color,
streamers flowing out from my fingertips,
promise bouncing off at the tap of a touch
tangling the world with my keyboard sagacity
(sagacity, rhymes with capacity)
Rainbows of wonder . . .

But it seems I can’t tap, tap, tap nothing,
(which really ought to be anything)
except something of which I know nothing about
of the face of a woman I would not know,
save, but from portraits obscurely hung
on flat screen placations. . . .

Reporting the rainbow extinction of the Congo
of deep rivers, the Congo,
mangrove and mahogany,
and rare white rhinos.

And features of women with no expressions left for grief
whose quiet revelations, words of demure demonstrations,
slam into my ears,
bam into my ears,
tap, tap, tapping at my indignation
(let us say nauseous sensation)
into my ears,
the rape, the rapine, the profanation of women and their daughters,
mudcloth, indigo and wax print drapes,
wrapped in flora and fauna, mothers and daughters,
the dragging of women and daughters into perdition (without petition)
by hands totting weapons libido, greed and power
savage manipulations. . .

The binding of husbands
who drop their souls deep in the ground,
but who, mercy will not blind.
Of sons, cowed because they won’t spread the legs of their mother,
won’t give seed to their sisters.
Of sons,
shaped by machetes because they won’t spread the legs of their mother.

And
of babes
who disappear
under the canopies and into the roots of red mangrove trees.

I sit in a frenzy,
tap, tap, tapping a keyboard presentation
of a human kind . . . frothy spittle of the gutter,
the boils and blisters,
the pus of the Dearth of things I don’t know
outside my front door when thinking of
mothers and a phantom hip-hugging child of the Congo.

When thinking of mankind, sister and brothers,
of knowing the sensation, placing my hands palm to palm
seeding my petition, casting it to the wind . . .
I ask
Do we have the capacity?
Do we have the capacity?
Do we have the capacity to heal?
Give me my druthers,
for I’d rather not write
of why women wail.

jeanne rene 2/05