freedom’s song

ain’t no music
to be played
really
doesn’t matter
the song’s
been heard
before
with words
that
make promises
never
kept
for some reason
folks
always joined in
on
the chorus
guess
flaws are easily
concealed
when
the number
of
voices
are multiplied
but
those damn
solos
never seem
to
attract
a crowd
of
participants
it’s hard
to stand up
and
raise your voice
when
there’s
uncertainty
and
a voting audience
waiting in
judgement
to
contend with
easier
to
just wait
for
the
collective part
of
the song
the chorus
even if words
are
merely mouthed
you can’t
be proven
wrong

grasp straps and pull…

distant words
abhorring
overheard
intended
but
veiled in denial
then
an
all’s well smile
flutters before eyes
repeated gestures
of
oppressors
seen
more times
than
one can count
objective
to grease
success’ pole
before
anyone attempts
to
climb out
of
poverty’s pit
a pit
stared into
by
tormentors
from
its edge
gilded
with
promises
serrated sides
from which
despots
offer
encouraging words
and
relay
how they
arose
from the pit
but
they used
the
stairs

 

escape from each other…

we are
from
the beginning
confined
to
within the lines
from
kindergarten
until
we are
unceremoniously
covered
with dirt
and
placed
into neat rows
with
the occasional
rebel
stuffed
into
a ceramic jar
a jar
to
be placed upon the shelf
along with
the
other
knickknacks
collections
of
framed
photos
or
mementos
from
cruise ships
none the less
we are
still confined
to
stay within
the
predefined borders
of
existence
attempts
to
escape
through meditation
or
encampment
at
some
wall to wall
walden pond
merely
represents
movement
to
another part
of
life’s venn diagram
it seems different
but
one’s thoughts
are
still within the cramped space
of
musings of others
unable
to
truly
be
independent

 

dooming moral choice…

simple to ignore
the faces and lives destroyed
when your eyes are closed
if you ask for forgiveness
you’ll find that our ears are closed

 

self-delusion…

can your recall
their names
those
people
you called
lifelong friends
can you
recall their
face
their voice
the warmness
of
their touch
oh
it’s not a crime
if
you can’t
but
it’s
a reminder
you
will be
forgotten

 

poison the well…

words carefully dropped
into a child’s mind to hate
contaminates life

 

missionary work…

 

after returning home
to
africa
a friend
wrote
don’t mean
any
offense
but
after
studying history
and
seeing
what’s
recently transpired
your nation
has
never been
as
advertised
united