Freedom Rant, Part Two... (For Greg And Terence)
socialism, existentialism,
the pages are revealed.
patriot lies, god dies,
unmarked graves in a field.
the addict weeps, cold hard streets,
poverty has a heavy hand.
discrimination, salvation,
leaving footprints where we stand.
single mothers, live for another,
food stamps and minimum wage.
desperate young men, without a friend,
commit acts of senseless rage.
the prisons turn, the money earned,
fills the bellies of greed.
children taught to kill, against their will,
to survive, to feed the need.
those who slept with goats, and came in boats,
to steal the land of the free.
buried the bones, beneath time and stone,
became written history.
now the sins of the past, come due at last,
the slaves rise against the lie.
feet cross the line, eyes read the signs,
for it's liberty or die!
the farms foreclosed, bankers pick their noses,
the factories shut down...
streets filled with ghosts, businesses closed,
nothing left but the sound.
of family trees, brought to their knees,
and babies born in empty rooms.
where roaches crawl, blood spattered walls,
black eyes, needles and spoons.
while Bibles scream, in human dreams,
of the gospel of flesh and bone.
suicides, mass genocides,
stones stacked upon stones.
hungry faces, leave human traces,
on words spoken without a voice.
beneath the gun, dare we stand or run,
we stand before our choice.
Fox News, for those who refuse,
to feel anything at all.
whose bloodless hands, sign time's demands,
on the dawning of the fall.
the guns of war, as ignorance roars,
but who falls victim to this day?
backs turned too long, hearts turned to stone,
is it too late to pray?
nay, i say! another way!
one chance to make a difference...
for it is this act, taking dignity back,
that is the cost of our forgiveness!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Liberty... (Dont Betray Me Now!)
Liberty...
dont betray me now.
i have paid your price,
in bodies burning,
and mouths that tremble.
in toil and struggle,
in sweat and faith.
take not thy hand from my heart,
for you have spoken to me with eyes.
eyes that see the beauty
of the common, and simple.
eyes that drink equality,
seeing hands joined in darkened rooms.
eyes that pray common prayers.
who am i to have a face?
who are these faces,
giving dignity to names?
history written in warm blood,
on the farmhouse walls,
on the factory floors,
in the carpenter's apron!
i am the voice of what should have been...
what could have been!
i am family handed down to family,
i am equity and justice.
i am the black hand taking down
the all white sign...
i am the horses of Crazy Horse,
Sitting Bull, and Cochise.
i am the mill worker's only son,
going to college.
i am the daughter of the minister,
marching for women's rights.
i am the young man in prison,
teaching himself to read!
i am the sound
of machines shut down,
of fields left unplowed,
of courtrooms empty.
i am the bodies of the young men,
killed in your napalm wars...
i am the mother and father,
burying their only son.
i am the rage of the poor,
with calloused hands torn.
i am the housing projects,
the trailer parks,
and the prisons full.
i am the cities gone mad,
with despair and grief.
i am the spirit of rebellion,
and the body of revolution!
i am the scientist, the doctor,
the preacher, and the drunkard.
i am the free thinker,
daring to question.
i am the man alone,
who dares to stand and defy.
i am the voices of the grandfathers,
and grandmothers,
crying out from their graves.
i am the migrant worker,
the bedpan emptier,
the garbage man,
and the small town sheriff...
the stink of injustice,
and the vote not counted.
Liberty, o Liberty,
turn not your face...
for i am the breath and the blood,
that moves your body!
i am the prayer too long unprayed...
one hand in a fist,
and the other left open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Frozen Snow
heroin and homelessness,
broken relationships and guns.
cold nights, broken glass windows,
even Jesus got baptized
in a muddy river!
blood on the kitchen floor,
roaches crawl up the walls.
Agent Orange, and picket signs,
flags burning in the alleys.
babies never seen their daddy,
mothers working, minimum wage.
breaking into churches,
and sleeping at the altar,
dont turn back time, or stop the wind!
empty graves, orphaned parents.
the nursing home smells like death
seeds planted in summers past...
wait beneath the frozen snow!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Montsgur
I stand alone in this desolate space
In death they are truly alive
Massacred innocence, evil took place
The angels were burning inside
Centuries later I wonder why
What secret that they took to their grave
Still burning heretics under our skies
Religion's still burning inside
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
As we kill them all so god will know his own
The innocents died for the pope on his throne
Catholic greed and its paranoid zeal
Curse of the grail and the blood of the cross
Templar believers with blood on their hands
Joined in the choruse to kill on demand
Burned at the stake for their soul's liberty
To stand with the cathars to die and be free
The book of old testament crippled and black
Satan his weapon is lust
Living this evil damnation of flesh
Back to the torture of life
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
As we kill them all so god know his own
Laugh at the darkness and in god we trust
The eye of the triangle smiling with sin
No passover feast for the cursed within
Facing the sun as they went to their grave
Burn like a dog or you live like a slave
Death is the price for your soul's liberty
To stand with the cathars and to die and be free
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nowhere Left To Stand!
angels made of dust,
stray dogs, homeless children.
righteousness invades,
who forgives the forgiven?
the hands on the clock prophesy,
and the darkness demands.
god stares back from the mirror,
moves with human hands.
empty houses on fire,
empty hearts strike with fear.
and all that remains,
words spoken, unseen tears.
pay the cost of the choice,
pay the price of a life.
but you cannot learn to live,
till you learn how to die!
faces without names,
names written in the sand.
praying for deliverance,
with nowhere left to stand.
when hatred takes form,
the identity revealed.
what we cannot bear to touch,
and wont admit we feel.
the candle burns on the table,
the self walks before.
we have to free ourselves,
before we unlock the door!
faces without names,
names written in the sand.
praying for deliverance,
with nowhere left to stand!
praying for deliverance,
with nowhere left to stand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Who Bury Your Poets
America....
you who bury your poets
like fallen leaves beneath weeping trees.
like the sound of the tire
that strikes the stray cat.
like the trembling dark skinned hands
you ban from your voting booths.
like the flag draped caskets
of your sacrificed young.
like the books you burn
with religious fervor....
like the shuffle of boots
in your unemployment lines.
like the faceless ones
in your clinics shutting down.
like the ones who speak out,
then suddenly disappear.
like the crack pipes and needles
of your 'worthless' poor....
like the babies born to babies
in your rat infested government housing.
like your Native Americans
in your 'poverty prisons'....
like the angry young men
you put behind bars.
like the hungry child sleeping
in the back of a broke down car.
like your factory ghosts
haunting empty shells.
like your foreclosed farms,
the fields left to crows.
America,
you who bury your poets,
and dance drunkenly in empty rooms,
neath the shadow of the noose
your indifference tied!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Cynicism, and Hope
as i grow older
my cynicism grows...
i've grown tired of paper kingdoms
& dreams that end
with the taste of blood in my mouth.
i do not believe that
God lives in synagogues & churches,
or in the exhortations of evangelists,
or in the rituals of priests...
or in hell-fire & damnation,
the sword of judgement, the end of time,
or in holy graves...
i see God in the eyes...
the eyes of small children,
of homeless men beneath the bridge...
in the eyes of young lovers
madly lost in each other...
in the eyes of the old woman dying
in the empty house where she raised her children...
in the eyes of the activist arrested
& confined to a cold cell for believing
in human rights...
in the eyes of the addict
whose life is lost in the hole of the memory
that the needle fills...
in the eyes of dead soldiers
forever staring into the rage of war...
in the eyes of those struggling to survive
drowning in the despair of cold reality...
in the eyes that stare at me in the night,
& wont let me sleep without feeling...
in the eyes of the dog lying faithfully at my feet,
with no need to be anywhere else...
who is this God? of form & formless,
of light and shadow, dissolving, redefining...
who's not always male, but often female!
not owned, and not owning....
like the waves that carve the shore,
& leave it nameless...
(hungry for the footprints
of human desire!)
not aloof, but immersed,
almost drunk with sadness & joy...
not bound by dwelling or canyon,
but as free as the wind
that cant be spoken!
do i believe? yes! madly! ecstatically!
in life, & stillness, & even death!
in the song that takes no prisoners,
leaving dew in the parched grass...
& in the Lover who opens & closes the door
of eternity in the human heart...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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On The Road To Gethsemane
on the road to Gethsemane...
i pass burned out buildings,
farm lands scorched by the bombing.
i pass the skeleton bodies
of young children who starved.
i pass the unmarked graves,
of young boys sent to war.
i pass the flag of the liars,
and the tents of mourning.
i pass vacant factories,
and houses left empty.
i pass through cocaine streets,
where all flesh is for sale.
i pass the unemployed masses,
and their desperate eyes.
i pass the baby born unwanted,
and the prison's stink.
i pass empty churches,
and hollow ringing bells.
i pass families broken,
and peoples enslaved.
i pass the moral guns of prejudice,
rank with immorality!
i pass the crippled, the sick,
and those desperately alone...
these tears of blood
are human tears,
this cross we all bear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Which Way Are You Goin'
Which way are you going, which side will you be on
Will you stand and watch while, all the seeds of hate are sown
Will you stand with those who say, let his will be done
One hand on the bible
One hand on the gun
One hand on the bible
One hand on the gun
Which way are you looking, is it hard to see
Do you say whats wrong for him, is not wrong for me
You walk the streets, righteousness but you refuse to understand
You say you love the baby
Then you crucify the man
You say you love the baby
Then you crucify the man
Everyday, things are changing, words once honored turned to lies
People wondering, can you blame them
Its to far to run, and to late to hide
Now you turn your back on, all the things that you used to preach
Now its let him live in freedom, if he lives like me
Well you light has changed, confusion rains, what have you become
All your olive branches turned to spears
When your flowers turned to guns
Your olive branches turned to spears
When your flowers turned to guns
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another Heaven
He lived his life in isolation, a man without a name
Saddled with a reputation, from cheyonne he came
He moved down south when the money ran out
Turned to a life of crime
Things werent all that different then
Theyd kill you for a dime
Never showed no mercy, had a heart of stone
His hands were dirty, stained to the bone, he said
Chorus:
Turn back? its too late!
All I can do is pray theres another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
Sinners like me need another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
Ive run out of time. . .
He lived at least a dozen lifetimes, luck was on his side
The only friend he ever had,
Was his trusty forty-five
His final words to my gran-daddy were
Son you must be brave
All thats left of what he was
Is in this texas grave
He could smell the danger
He knew the end was near
Thru the smoke and whiskey, one thing was clear
Chorus:
Turn back? its too late!
All I can do is pray theres another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
Sinners like me need another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
All I can do is pray theres another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
Ive run out of time. . .
Look me in the eyes, I wanna see it comin!
Never showed no mercy, had a heart of stone
His hands were dirty. stained to the bone
Chorus:
Turn back? its too late!
All I can do is pray theres another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
Sinners like me need another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
All I can do is pray theres another heaven
Turn back? its too late!
Sinners like me need another heaven, yeah, yeah!
Turn back? its too late!
Ive run out of time. . .
Look me in the eyes, I wanna see it comin!
song performed by by Richard Marx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'll Be Around
i'll be around...
in the wind that rustles your curtains,
in the whisper of darkness that taunts the moonlight.
in the silence that roars, and is then still...
in the prayers that children do not understand,
in the dying old man's aloneness.
in the blood that testifies against the hands,
in the hands that cannot escape the heart.
in the feet walking by their own will,
in the soul scarred by mistakes.
in the hungry mouth and the desperate eyes
that have seen and known too much.
in the fear that comes in the middle of the night,
and the dawn that never seems to come.
in the need to worship and the faith to act,
in the doubt that destroys false idols.
in the pound of the guns, the cries for help,
and the fire that has no favorites.
in the defiant stand, feet set firm,
the mark of the chains on backs and wrists.
in the freedom that does not buy and sell,
that sees beneath the skin.
in the constant dialogue of 'i and thou',
in the me that disperses and dissolves.
in the hammer, the saw, and the shovel,
in the grasses beneath bare feet.
in the song of the whipporwill,
and the final hoot of the owl.
in the howling of wolves,
and the sleepy stillness of the cattle.
in the hidden depths of your heart,
and the quiet darkness that forms your thoughts.
in the grain of the tree just cut,
and the rhythm of the fire going dead.
in every voice that cries for justice,
in every hand that reaches for help!
in the working hum of common thread,
in the simple dignity of the family.
in the ghosts of soldiers lost in battle,
in the weeping of mothers over their graves.
and in the constant courage of the peacemakers,
the voice of reason and compassion.
in the truth that all men are equal...
in the bridge from here to there!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Throwin' Stones
Picture a bright blue ball just spinning, spinning free
Dizzy with eternity.
Paint it with a skin of sky, brush in some clouds and sea
Call it home for you and me.
A peaceful place or so it looks from space
A closer look reveals the human race.
Full of hope, full of grace, is the human face.
But afraid, we may our home to waste.
There's a fear down here we can't forget hasn't got a name just yet
Always awake, always around singing ashes to ashes all fall down.
Now watch as the ball revolves and the nighttime calls
And again the hunt begins and again the bloodwind calls
By and by again, the morning sun will rise
But the darkness never goes from some men's eyes.
It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets
Stalking turf, dividing up meat.
Nightmare spook, piece of heat, you and me, you and me.
Click, flashblade in ghetto night. Rudies looking for a fight.
Rat cat alley roll them bones. Need that cash to feed that jones
And the politicians throwing stones
Singing ashes, ashes all fall down.
Commissars and pin-striped bosses role the dice
Any way they fall guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian gray, selling guns instead of food today.
So the kids they dance, they shake their bones
While the politicians throwing stones
Singing ashes, ashes all fall down.
Heartless powers try to tell us what to think
If the spirit's sleeping, then the flesh is ink.
History's page, it is thusly carved in stone
The future's here, we are it, we are on our own.
If the game is lost then we're all the same
No one left to place or take the blame.
We will leave this place an empty stone
Or this shinning ball of bule we can call our home
So the kids they dance, they shake their bones
While the politicians are throwing stones
Singing ashes, ashes all fall down.
Shipping powders back and forth
Singing "black goes south while white comes north"
And the whole world full of petty wars
Singing "I got mine and you got yours."
And the current fashions set the pace.
Lose your step, fall out of grace.
And the radical he rant and rage, Singing "someone got to turn the page"
And the rich man in his summer home,
Singing "Just leave well enough alone"
But his pants are down, his cover's blown
And the politicians are throwing stones
So the kids they dance they shake their bones
Cause its all too clear we're on our own
Picture a bright blue ball just spinning, spinning free
It's dizzying, the possibilities. Ashes, Ashes all fall down
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's Now, It's Time
albino skunks,
nuclear rain.
on the tracks again,
no whistle, no train.
sit down and stand,
occupy your rights.
you gotta be honest
to join the fight.
black man, white man,
your blood colored red.
throw down your anger,
forgive and forget.
the time of the end,
or the time of change.
freedom's never won
without forgiveness and pain...
the soul of the callouses
the hands of those that worked...
dignity defined
by the sweat and the dirt...
their blood in the land,
the cities, and the town.
written far too deep
for greed to take down...
now all that's left
is guts and heart.
you either lay down
or stand up and start.
the choice is ours,
it's all on the line.
the guns are drawn,
it's now, it's time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Human Chronicles (Part Two)
and here in the United States...
the flag of freedom desecrated.
betrayed by our own greed,
by the sins of 'I, Me, Mine'...
carrying the weight of the wars,
the patriotic lies,
the lives taken,
the peoples abused.
the karmic curse
of Native American blood,
the bodies of the slaves,
buried beneath the hanging tree.
the muffled cries of the immigrants
who did our farm work,
and were herded like cattle.
the ghosts of the common workers
pounding the unemployed streets.
too long, too long,
we've closed our eyes.
too long, too long,
we've turned the other way!
and now we've come to this!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fireflies In The Dark
like fireflies in the dark,
those who stand firm are taken,
stamped, and put out...
you silence the human cries
of freedom, ban books,
ideas... ban all thinking.
take anything original
back to the assembly line;
to be remade, reformed....
in the image of mindless
obedience... trained to kill,
trained to follow... trained to hate.
while the lovers of trees, rivers,
and mountains... become
the new faceless minority....
in the land of coal dust excess,
the land of black and white tv.
poverty, disease, and drug abuse
will thin the ranks of the rebellious.
and children without hope
bury their children in dumpsters.
while the angry poets rage
having spent more, done more time...
in your prisons than in college.
and dead mothers walk the streets
crying bitter tears that fall unseen.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Equality... (In A Word)
equality...
in a word,
no more talk of
the 'land of the free'.
you founded this country
over the scattered bones
of 100,000,000 Native Americans.
built this country
on the backs of
African-American slaves,
and poor Scotch-Irish refugees,
who turned your earth,
and built your homes.
'give me your tired, your poor...'
more cheap labor?
to build your cities,
your railroads, work your steel.
how many faceless bodies buried
in your cold dark mines?
how many second class young men
sent off to war?
how many women paid less,
treated as less?
how many farmworker immigrants
paid too little,
treated like trash?
how many slum children
sent off to prison?
how many lives sold off
for bottom line profit?
disembodied jobless,
driven from their homes?
how many minimum wage slaves
praying for food stamps?
how many 'cant afford an education'
futures written in stone?
how many sparrows on the fence?
you want to honor those who've served?
all of these,
the people who have served you!
who have met your needs!
Memorial Day, an epitaph!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hymn Of The Dead
the talking faces with painted lips,
stand in nobody lines making nobody sounds.
while gunpowder hangs from cobwebbed books,
in which the pages of freedom are unnumbered.
while justice faint as a wisp of smoke,
curls just above the poor man's reach.
houses left empty except for ghosts,
that have neither name nor memory.
righteous indignation with pale white hands,
that tremble as they pour the cup....
ah, but the cup is cracked,
and blood drips to the floor...
in the hallways of indifference.
a newborn son, put a gun in his hand,
castrate his eyes, teach him hatred.
a newborn daughter, put a broom in her hands,
and prepare her for the planting.
you call this America, the shores of liberty,
dark skinned bones ground beneath your feet.
while poverty takes now two from three,
and bodies are buried in the schoolyards.
crack cocaine, pills, and handguns stolen,
while gasoline steals survival.
and churches burn both plates and pews,
as the five o'clock news fills the needle.
whose mountains and valleys,
whose roads, whose fields, whose barns?
black crows on the tractors.
whose brown hands severed by the border guards?
whose factories and mills abandoned?
whose flags draped on coffins of pine?
whose voices haunt the play yards?
whose trucks abandoned on desert highways?
whose America, damn you! whose family?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Warrior's Pledge...
well, i've been to the mountain,
and i've walked through the valleys.
i've stood neath the cross
awaiting my turn.
i've heard the stories of children,
and the stories of old men.
there's not enough difference
for me to discern.
i've been to the battle,
and i've taken it to the streets.
i've been to the place,
where truth and dignity meet.
i've stood naked and alone,
and faced my sins.
i've felt the wrath of god,
known the ignorance of men.
i've worn boots of flesh,
and fought with my hands.
went back into the fire,
to save the last man.
slept with angels and demons alike,
drank the darkness, walked in the light.
found the right in wrong,
and the wrong in right....
as the storm clouds rage
on this face cut by age,
the mountains tremble,
and the rivers rage.
i'll stay to the end,
i'll turn the last page,
then catch a ride to the funeral
on the last stage....
i'll write the words of my heart,
with a pen dripping blood.
i'll cross the last river,
and stomp through the mud.
with the prayers of the children,
and the eyes of the hawk.
to the place of closeness,
where spirits can talk.
and stare deep and unashamed
into God's eyes.
and lay down my journey,
where the soul never dies.
where names be forgotten,
but hands clasp as one.
in the valley of darkness,
at the feet of the sun.
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rise Or Fall
Take action
Gotta raise a fist in blood
Domination
Can't continue acting like jerks
You show me all there's a chance
With only words for defence
There is no freedom to speak, no
Rise or fall
Number one to take the stand
Rise or fall
Take a word from this promised land
Yeah
Your reaction
Sticks and stones are no match for steel
This rebellion
Revolution's in your hands
Now listen
So it's part Apache
Do you know what that means?
Is it a segregation?
Rise or fall
Number one to take the stand
Rise or fall
Take a word from this promised land
Strength in numbers can alter your place
Take the action before it's too late
Make a stand
Give it up
Rise or fall
Number one to take the stand
Rise or fall
Take a word from this promised land
Rise or fall
Number one to take the stand
Rise or fall
Take a word
Take a word from this land
Rise or fall
Rise or fall
song performed by by Quiet Riot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Throwing Stones
Picture a bright blue ball just spinning, spinning free
Dizzy with eternity.
Paint it with a skin of sky, brush in some clouds and sea
Call it home for you and me.
A peaceful place or so it looks from space
A closer look reveals the human race.
Full of hope, full of grace, is the human face.
But afraid, we may our home to waste.
Theres a fear down here we cant forget hasnt got a name just yet
Always awake, always around singing ashes to ashes all fall down.
Now watch as the ball revolves and the nighttime calls
And again the hunt begins and again the bloodwind calls
By and by again, the morning sun will rise
But the darkness never goes from some mens eyes.
It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets
Stalking turf, dividing up meat.
Nightmare spook, piece of heat, you and me, you and me.
Click, flashblade in ghetto night. rudies looking for a fight.
Rat cat alley roll them bones. need that cash to feed that jones
And the politicians throwing stones
Singing ashes, ashes all fall down.
Commissars and pin-striped bosses role the dice
Any way they fall guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian gray, selling guns instead of food today.
So the kids they dance, they shake their bones
While the politicians throwing stones
Singing ashes, ashes all fall down.
Heartless powers try to tell us what to think
If the spirits sleeping, then the flesh is ink.
Historys page, it is thusly carved in stone
The futures here, we are it, we are on our own.
If the game is lost then were all the same
No one left to place or take the blame.
We will leave this place an empty stone
Or this shinning ball of blue we can call our home
So the kids they dance, they shake their bones
While the politicians are throwing stones
Singing ashes, ashes all fall down.
Shipping powders back and forth
Singing black goes south while white comes north
And the whole world full of petty wars
Singing I got mine and you got yours.
And the current fashions set the pace.
Lose your step, fall out of grace.
And the radical he rant and rage, singing someone got to turn the page
And the rich man in his summer home,
Singing just leave well enough alone
But his pants are down, his covers blown
And the politicians are throwing stones
So the kids they dance they shake their bones
Cause its all too clear were on our own
Picture a bright blue ball just spinning, spinning free
Its dizzying, the possibilities. ashes, ashes all fall down.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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History Stones People.
History stones people.
They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,
history did that for all to see
Marbel and cement,
that's all it leaves behind
of a long changing life.
Great heroes of time,
fall under the mercy
of the sculptor's knife.
History stones faces,
in a way that would make
ecclestias cringe.
History stones feet,
in a way that would make
piligrims cry.
History stones life
to always stay fresh,
yet, what is life without
the sins of the flesh.
All the radical kids
get stoned
and never change
or even move a muscle.
All the sword raising warriors
history stoned
without blood in their veins.
You can see all the victims
that history stoned
when you walk in the park,
they got kings
and queens
hell, they even got Gods.
They are there captive
in history's stones,
never to be again what they were;
wilting flesh and
breakable bones.
People look up at them
they are victims too.
History's stones fall far,
even on to you.
Those stoned to live
are like the ones stoned to die.
enslaved to the search
of the frozen smile.
Life is a burning bush
that doesn't get consumed.
not a dead rock
or a statue of history.
It's a fusing wind
of happinnes and misery.
An exploding volcano
of courage and fear.
It is the stem of the flower
struggling through the seasons
to stand and bloom
above the drying soil.
Life is the fighting wave
you see at sea
forgotten and denied
by the stones of history.
poem by Samuel Katz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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