oppression

Flight of the Oppressed

Freedom is innate
but deprived to some
Freedom becomes luxury
where being privileged is the key

 

Fear silenced men
Freedom is behind the bar
Serenity already slipped out of hand
A fleet of chaos coming around

 

Turmoil now in sight
Refugee, they had become
Indignation overtakes the men
Leaped down off the journey as they leave everything behind
Staying is no longer an option
Reproach becomes a ticket to succumb

 

Amity, found in another country
Seeking refuge in an unknown territory
Unagitated by fear
But their hearts still longs for the home that they had once called their own

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem inspired by the book “Dear World: A Syrian Girl’s Story of War and Plea for Peace”,
written by Bana Alabed

 

Website: https://jhoannamharie.wordpress.com/2020/10/25/flight-of-the-oppressed/

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Mother Culture's Lullaby

Streets are ablaze in Baltimore;

apathetic windbags distracted by their

intelligent devices fan flames

hungering for justice, and

pour judgmental gasoline on the white-hot embers.  

The resulting inferno of rage engulfs the local,

corporate pharmacy!  LISTEN --

the voices on the wind are not

just those of the trees!  

Your brothers and sisters are crying,

"Please help me!"  Citizens march

with peace as their only shield,

ghosts of haunting perspective their only weapons,

from streets stricken by the plague of poverty

to avenues lined with perverse privilege.  

This is the first time in centuries our nation

has witnessed red and blue unite for justice,

yet Faux News sources spew rhetoric

of violent intentions -- meanwhile,

dem Republicans siphon greenbacks during free lunches,

in exchange for ignoring institutionalized violence,

and Democrats are reppin' a different colored set

of ethics that amount to the same ignorance.  


The hum of Mother's lullaby pacifies your mind...

Keep up the routine.

 

Streets are on fire in Ferguson.  

But your Rorschach face contorts to disgust,

and you don't even whisper, "No."  

Streets sizzle with the flesh of the dead,

and you let your silence speak volumes,

decibels tightly coiling around you

like a comforting straight-jacket.  

When the damage is done,

and your molten ignorance dries ashen husks left behind,

you will abandon cold 'logic'

as the boot comes for your throat.  

Your own pleas for mercy will bubble

up to the surface of your corrupted lips,

your esophagus clogged with 'trivial'

cries of innocence, choking life from you.  


The buzz of Mother's lullaby muffles

your voice...

Past silence is future compliance.

 

Streets are burning in Ohio,

and so are your judgments.  

Seared across timelines that pinned

white, blue, black, gold dresses and

gracious compassion for ALS,

you are ironically out of character

or finally revealing, depending on

the light.  

This isn't righteous comeuppance brother;

you will not receive silence in response to

your call because what goes around comes around.  

No, you will be deafened by the echoes of past cries,

because that will be all that surrounds you -- past

lives already pushed aside, killed,

or in cages waiting for your warmth.  

There will be no free men to save you.  

Because you use your freedom to cage you.  


The melody of Mother's lullaby articulates

the bars you have yet to define...

Think inside the box.

 

Remember these truths

as Mother whispers own swan song -- death

is on the tips of her forked tongue;

she tastes the air for signs

of compassionate warmth.  Danger

is at the tip of her middle finger,

moving riot gear soldiers to quell

the rising chorus of revolution.  

Her reflective eyes gaze upon her nation

of drones, conducting a symphony of destruction

disguised as progress; she would smile,

if she had lips.  Her hair sweeps

over destitute streets, replacing bankrupt souls and homes

with bank-rolls of those whom march to the beat

of her syncopated heart.  

The ringed iris of her third eye echoes

into the air, transmitting pulsating waves of

calcifying indifference into antennas intended

for cosmic collection.  

Her aluminum dress adds a layer to

the atmosphere, a literal ceiling preventing ascension.  

She claims no nationality; her features lack

definition, save for the burning desire

of our own destruction.

 

Our streets are on fire,

ablaze with passion and empathy --

will you fan the flames,

or pour gasoline?


CLF 2015

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For the #BlackLivesMatter movement; we're all human.  Let's act like it.

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One Chant

Folder: 
Dusk's Rule

Latest news shows a trinket of morality, 

Arguments about all ageless asynchronisms,

Quietly growing decades past, lethality,

Wielding corrupted justice to activism,

 

We need one purpose, one chant,

 

The old puppet masters need their strings cut,

Or else we lose bright futures to small few,

Working in shadows, but now see their strut,

Come to together and be the potent brew!

 

Chant, E-O, E-O, End Oligarchy!

E-O, E-O, End Oligarchy!

 

They hire their scapegoats for us to vote,

Burying the axe, wedge the small disparities,

It should be one goal and that is to demote,

Together in our similarities,

 

E-O, E-O, End Oligarchy!

 

A web designed to make you feel righteous,

Fighting with those who are all much the same,

Instead aim above, make them feel anxious,

Know who took your homes, where to place true blame!

 

E-O, E-O!

E-O, E-O!

End Oligarchy!

 

See now your fellow broken, battered kin,

Suffering all the same under one mask,

Ignore embarassment, no more chagrin,

Together march as one, for one grand task!

 

E-O, E-O!

End Oligarchy!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The news taunts you with issues about our rights, our moralities, what's wrong with the world, while the wealthy commit crimes against you and your neighbors--stealing homes, money, your children's futures, while attempting to make you believe that it's the fault of your neighbor. 

 

You have more in common with those of "differing views" than those telling you they share your beliefs.  

 

Be caught not with a minor offense, or prison is your home. 

Be caught with a major offense, wealthy, perhaps house arrest, or a small fine.  

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Secrets of the tyrants

He is nothing but a man, mortal and afraid just like me. I do not fear his strength, for it is no greater than a bear's. I do not fear his speed, for it is no greater than a leopard's. Nor do I fear his intellegence for it is not greater than a human's, a human just like me. What I fear are the guards, the soldiers, the followers and most of all, the people. For they do not see what I see. They do not think he is nothing but a man, a man just like you and me.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Man may be the worlds most dangerous animal, but if you can read this, so are you.

Wings of Stone

I remember walking out the door,
Thinking how I can be so much more,
But it seems I can't escape because I'm stuck to the floor.

Bound to my hometown,
taking everyone's shit and being put down,
let down,
thrown down,

...Maybe if I die,
I could become an angel and fly.

...No, that's not likely, because right now, when I try to spread my wings it's like they're made of stone.
It seems I'll never escape, I'm kept here, alone.

But as my dreams are being shot down,
I begin to realize, they become easier to reach as they fall to the ground!

Their doubt gives me strength now.
I may not know how to fly yet, but I'm sure I'll figure out how.

-The Lazarus

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Bleak Days

What am I going to be? / Just a young casualty. / Fight back, and try / Fight back, and die. / Throw myself at the men with the shields. / They stand in a line, / Make walls to tear us down / What has this world become? / Soon I will be silenced forever, / Or fade away and be wiped out.

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Rebellion

TV flashes on.
An aged newsman sits behind an oak desk with images of fire and contempt blinking behind him. People in the street, fists raised and faces covered. Blind anger built on blind knowledge. Furious at the system that’s been instilled and followed by none other than themselves.
A Molotov cocktail cracks on a police car. A news van crashes onto its side. Rapture jumps on the van’s passenger window. The glass shatters and blood is bled. The man cries agony and blames anything but himself.
Young field reporter stating it’s senseless, reckless, and anything but justifiable. Notwithstanding the bottling up of oppression over years from profit hungry animals. Insurrectionary joy has surged through the people like a sudden pulse of energy.
The media quells the uprising. “It’s just a few pranksters. Go to sleep. You’re safe in your homes.”

Author's Notes/Comments: 

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