| Author | Message | ||
     Linda Rating: |
My Justice Old age is at the door It just won't leave me alone Just the fact that I am poor Suggests how much I've grown I've never had much money I can barely pay my rent When it came to milk and honey On my lips, it never went I used to want so many things But, most I did without To know the pleasures riches brings My world was not about I've suffered through a life Much harder than you know It took from me my wife Hell, it took away my soul It never gave me freedom It never cut me loose I never did become A man without a noose So now old age is creeping My time is running out He'll take me while I'm sleeping Of this, I have no doubt But, until I meet my God The one I do adore Just think of how it's odd Life won't cheat me anymore I didn't get this old By being such a fool I want the story told Life treated me so cruel I had to take a lot What a tragic life I had Hard times was what I got It treated me so bad Sad memories I leave But justice I shall see For as my people grieve My God looks down on thee Just as God forgives The righteous he shall save So my spirit lives As I rest inside my grave | ||
| Morris J. Peavey, Jr. Rating: |
You poor dear: I happened to be pasing and consider myself a bit of a poet and share your loneness as I saw just your one entry. Although I count you a kindred spirit perhaps more blessed than me because you see justice as the final resolve. You see a live spirit which give in to death and that is indeed more peaceful than I. So let me stand with you in the voice of Douglas: If we make freedom and justice our cause, we can not rest under apartheid, slavery or discrimination. We can not rest as long as Equal Rights and equal protection is negotiable. We can not accept platitudes of justice found in the dreams which are expected to trickle down in the streams of tears from our fallen heroes upon the mountains of our hope. If we make freedom and justice our cause, we can not be silent in the face of human scorn, exploitation, and globalization... (all crimes against the human spirit) And, does it matter who lead the charge? We can not wait until the great criminals against humanity give us the authority to argue, and rail against injustice and the crimes which he commit against humanity. We can't keep our peace while he stand proudly in respect of his years of human slavery and human exploitation. We can't go silently in the night for his morsel of bread and good citizen pat on the head for it should be said we believe that freedom should flow like a rushing mighty river whose torrents will sweep away the stiff resistance of racism and the evil scourage of those ancient crimes against humanity. Let her torrents awaken us to the evils done in our name to those in distant lands. Let her wave crash against the perverse policies of colonist with a resounding Never Again! Let her mighty ire raise to the defense of the Latin Native... the rainforest Aborigine the crete piou the black African the Appalachian white man. Let our voices raise as one to the master... "Never Again." When freedom and Justice is to all man and his kind we can hope for and celebrate the Holy days of man. The earth will bask in goodness and Man may expect the blessings Which come from the communion of brotherhood. As justice may have it that two spirits side by side shall come before our maker in peace and that the grave shall hold neither of us. But may it be said that my search for justice is to show you that you are not alone and hope reside somewhere in this world before the grave. Asalaamu | ||
| Linda Rating: N/A |
Morris It is true ... I am a loner and have placed only one of my poems to be viewed. My Justice is from my collection entitled, Let Me Shake Your Leaves, which is out of print. Though I know hope resides somewhere (smile) before the grave I chose to write it from the prospective of an older gentleman I met one day on a park bench while writing a draft of a novel. That was over ten years ago and yet I still meet elderly individuals who have suffered so much lost that their hope is still in their passing. I am glad to know it had the impact I had hoped for, the need for us to continue to hope. I thank you for taking the time to stand with me and you can stand with me anytime. Also, thanks so much for gracing our boards here at AALBC.com, be sure to read the reviews and keep on taking part in our discussions. Linda AALBC.com Reviewer | ||
| Morris J. Peavey, jr Rating: N/A |
Linda: i appreciate your kind words. I live hear in my brother's retirement home. I get the opportunity to see your verses wrapped up in Old-timers shawls and often everything is beyond the idea of forgetfulness. I know this lady who is perhaps about eighty years old but insist that she is not older than 40. She call this other resident her mother and she just play along. Your poem made me want to find some of my older reflections relate to DA Natural Amenities. Tonight I have nothing but time so I will share two reflections one of a young boy the other a homeless man: LITTLE KALIMBA: So clouded by the gray uncertainties called making a living-- Father, we be looking to you to be giving us hope and ask for your support Like the wind beneath the wings of eagles Don't be lost when we be looking to find someone to smile and encourage us--- Someone who knows we trust him to give us the world and any beautiful thing we see. But some men are born in the strange connubiality of time not by scheme or design, they find themselves at odds with the world and hurl insults at the wind before the storm begin. Then the sea breaks with cries and sighs against boulders da shores of sadness and madness which keep crying out from our souls the cold frightening madness of being left alone too long--no song or nursery rhyme to soothe the infantile minds the strange connubiality---reality The strange connubiality smashing rocks boulders together--in the moment of uncertainty between two wars. In the cold night storm when ancient spirits seek a home among us. Ancient spirits trying to find love assurance conquest endurance of time. Embracing the strange connubiality. Holding it close and whispering sad songs.... Loneliness which we are so afraid to know yet have known so long What's wrong with the ceaseless storm? The process is what makes the human connubiality and reality. But father is more than a whisper in the night or a name. The pain of not knowing hm surely does strange things to the mind-- and hopes of the child. So, "so sorry" may not be enough for me. But, I might understand if you allow me to be heard. The SILENTMAN never spoke a word Never heeded the Catbird call Left me with this strange connubiality This pain in my heart imprinted upon my brow SOME YEARS LATTER WE COME TO THE HOMELESS...... OLE SHOE His end came swiftly suddlenly secretly In fact we weren't aware he'd died The message like wild fire came swiftly First upon the ears, mind...eyes that cried more for show than for the soul more for convenience than sheep lost to the foal because he was just a retarded pauper that they all knew as Bob but a common man who wore a simple job around his neck like a blue collar eking out his meager existence from dollar to dollar next to the monthly allotment We allowed him in his sovereign domain We allowed him in his seeming insane walking to and fro up and down the lane with his dishevel rags and clanking cart of beer cans and empty soda pop treasures which we call our recycle junk of which we allowed him a regal share in an imminent domain where fair is not always fair except in terms Where Justice, equality, freedom we've learned are in the imminent status of dominate concern are within the intolerant chatter of burn baby burn civil disobedience spiritual dissonance preaching screaming righteousness seeking bliss creating intellectual smoke--fog so we miss his trucking championing vision of individuality his common touch and occasional nod of reality his big hearted song of "He's All Right." Which he carried around like a prayer book which sprang---leap from a snaga--tooth mouth missing ivory scattering light like bones of ruin While his fingers pound the piano ivory forcing them to conform to bones of his bones taking gapping shapes---hallowed shadows shouting Don't yu know he's all right Don't You know he's all right when he graced us with his presence that night and the Big fat women held their skirts kicked off their high heels and did shout Don't you know he's all right Yes, I guess he is--I guess he's all right but I wonder about that night when he sang and sang to us with all his might Then rose from the great musical chasm and took off his crumpld OLD HAT raised it to us then cut a jig in the door Then I realized he never through about us like we did him without fame or clout in sudden and might outcry---shout Like one who yelled to a friend across the way or the Yodel and Yelp of a highlander in the day when myth were born and many a man don the same rags he'd worn therefore his song speaks that walk not the simple talk borne by real men in the age of despair and valor when greatest measure weren't dollars or color When greatest trials weren't from a man's brother When greatest hopes weren't at expense of another Men deeds were greater than men needs Men knowledge less than whispering reeds Men were something more than empty creeds and hello ment something more than "get a long Doggy" or "What you got in your coat pocket?" or the smooth reverence spoken by men irreverent sing the song of the Bob-O-link and tee--dee--lee--dee you little Chika-dee but don't whisper your hello's to me As i pass through the corridors you carved in the rain forest for me to pass to enter into the joy to gather the cans from the side of the road to cut the pepper, cabbage, peas, and celery and sing the ragge tot the bales of hay you lay in your house by the side of the road before your hearth listen to the cynic band piping your songs and being a friend to man But I too am a man one of some worth not welcome in your house before your hearth not considered worthy to share your mirth The wretched of the earth men of the dew walking in old brown sandals or run-over shoes that walk a thousand miles to collect the dos avoid the don'ts of your world's disorder perhaps I can interest you in some fresh corn nice red apples, bananas in bunches for sum water I mustn't loiter in the lane wink or wait on prayers and pain of an hireling fate perhaps I can interest you in some fresh corn nice red apples, bananas in bunches and move on slightly ahead of the presistent revenuer that walked a thousand miles to collect the dues Not knowing what I know about you Who live in your glass houses by the side of the high ways of vanity and pride; By the bloody swords and powerful words, By the stolen hordes and powerful dream works. Let me show yu these beautifly yellow squash. Are yo sure you won't try my nice egg plants and take a few of these purple cabbage with you? your maid, be she betrothed, be she paid her due, will be plessed and gingerly relieved its true belly is for the meat---belly's for the meat but give her squash instead--enjoy the feat of being eccentric in an elementary way of being the talk the gentlement of the day of just being plain down to earth with the folk sharing the old bums laughter the tired old joke of a farm hand on an old used school bus of a dish-pan hand wife, old maid, butler, Us. The wretched masters of the dew the many not few, Darwin's Masses that clutter the byways of life, that carry your burden, blamed for your strife born of of your Mis-Chief your superiority that staunch will of your misplaced authority Are yo sure you won't try my nice egg plants? Roll up yor sleeves and yell I'm home honey Let down your guard see something funny make somebody's day the real change afoot you Chief that missed your purpose for being you prophet that missed your gift of seeing great missing link in Darwin's Evolutionary chain forlorn good-perfect percipient..revolution reign where you hide your mighty sense of humor where you store your mastery of the Duma Marshaling up and down amide the Bob-a-link chime watching, measuring, counting every dime with your face engraved claiming its you who save but what you gonna do about Y2K? FICA all your left-overs from the great society making room for your NAFTA and Greenspan's Greenbacks all that M1 and M2 rigamarole that is meaningless to men like Bob and me that is the end of misguided history of run over shoes and wage slaves pipe dreams standing above Bob's simple song about mean reflections hidden behind infantile predilections "He's Alright--I say he's simple common alone He's Da moment come the lost hope gone Yet its true "He's alright" What about You? | ||
| Linda Rating: N/A |
Wow. Those were some deep reflections. | ||
| Morris J. Peavey, jr. Rating: N/A |
WOW "Z" EEis DA True Reflection Like yor Black Diamond catching light Like the eyes Wide open seeing The heart beating Forever, a sigh of relief. |
