international women’s day…

"The Child Shall Be First" - a mural by Peppino Mangravite (fragment)

the day
of recognition
is over
so it’s back
to abuse
as usual
today
a woman
from kosovo
will be kidnapped
from the street
to become
the bride
of a man
she barely knows
you needn’t worry though
it’s the way
things have
always
been
a daughter
will have acid
thrown in her face
by a rejected
iranian suitor
just another
local custom
you needn’t worry
women
will be vilified
for daring
to propose
that their bodies
are theirs
and not
the property
of
the state
you needn’t worry though
it’s the way
things have
always
been
oh
the list
could go on
but i
only
have
today

ghost dancers…

a voice
encircled by
official fears
government troops
ghost dancers
in
china
iran
cuba
mongolia
the states
prophets
are everywhere
dancing to truth’s music
disappearing
from the circle
of life
for
spreading the word
of those unheard
bound to this earth
covered with
diseased blankets
of lies
listen
to the chanting
love
chanting
peace
chanting
freedom
but
then
silence

if there is justice…

the blood
you have spilled
shall form the walls
around heaven
barring your entrance
and paving the way
to hell’s brides
behind each
of the seven veils
you shall find
the rotten corpses
of the women
you have slaughtered
like a hungry dog
you will  lick the heels
of hate
curl up beside
the most damned of life
your prize shall be
to trade places
with those you’ve killed
and the pain
of their death
shall be yours
over
and
over
again
may
the gods
make
it
so

spring ritual….

oh how spring
brings forth from poets
a multitude of verses
a never-ending array
of love lost
and then regained
friendship betrayed
and then forgiven
like an army of prodigal sons
birth and rebirth
more flowers than in a monet painting
colorful rituals of every sort
say but one
removal of the christmas training wheels
although not practiced everywhere
it is one which these poets have forgotten
and like all rituals it has its steps
first to ride upon the softest grass
assuring no injury to the child
leaving only injured ants in its wake
no unexploded ordinances here
unlike the fields in vietnam
next moving to the cruel street
father racing beside his child
legs pumping and out of breath
protecting his child from his past pain
like a parent in beirut, afghanistan, iran
or east la
where learning to ride is not an option
finally at the child’s insistence
the father is banned to the bay window
watching his child challenge the world alone
with coffee cup in hand
still running beside his child
and with his first fall
the first scars upon his heart
as the child continues to confront the world
the father cannot end his virtual race
and with each fall
another scar

Poem inspired by comments from Mirella McCraken http://mirellamccracken.wordpress.com/