(a gospel response to some of the sillier homophobic hypocrisy exhibited by opponents of marriage equality)
A man arrested, healthy and intact
in custody was taken by the Law.
His death is still the only living fact
inside a story rife with every flaw.
Policemen, armored, ready for a fight
amass to keep a curfew, night til dawn.
The people of his neighborhood unite
to ask the question, Where has Justice gone?
The Crips and Bloods keep order in the streets
to bring the peace to wounded righteous souls
while law enforcement lies at press club meets.
(Apparently they have a different goal.)
When Law betrays the ones that they should serve
Society is hurt in every nerve.
There should be voices singing laments, old songs for a new burning time.
There should be drums pounding, feet marching, by the hundreds of thousands. Black feet, white feet, all the colors in between beating the pavement together, if justice truly mattered. There are some, but you don't hear about them on the nightly news. There isn't a focus on the drum beats of twenty thousand feet hitting the pavement of Baltimore's streets, pounding out the old rhythm for justice when the same old, same old, becomes far too much to bear.
You don't hear about drunk white baseball fans sitting outside Baltimore bars last Saturday as protestors marched by. You don't hear about the well worn racist names being hurled at people marching for justice. You don't hear about the bottles and bar stools that went flying. Only black people are outside agitators. Not some good old boys and girls from suburbia.
Of course some protestors fought back. Other protestors tried to break it up. But all protestors are too blame, right? No one should ever lose their temper, no matter what the provocation. Just keep on taking it with a smile, a nod, a - Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, Ma'am.
Only white people get to yell epithets. Only white people get to throw bottles. Only white people get to throw anything at all - curses, bottles, stools, laws, indignation, silence, dismissal - at people of color marching for an end to legalized violence being written upon their bodies.
Tens of thousands of feet marched for days because a man was left screaming, broken, and finally dead by Baltimore's finest. Just one more instance of screaming, breaking, and death in Baltimore. Just one more instance of cover up and denial across this country. Just one more reason for fear and despair growing stronger in communities large and small.
Then Monday night, Baltimore supposedly began to burn.
But, Baltimore has been burning for a long time. It has been devoured by flames of poverty that white America doesn't even notice. It has been burned by injustice that is never rectified. Baltimore's people of color have been consumed by generations of white indifference.
Black infants in Baltimore are almost nine times more likely to die before age 1 than White infants. AIDS cases are nearly five times more common in the African-American community.Babies have been dying in the ignored fires of racism. A grandmother's bones were broken.
“Only six miles separate the Baltimore neighborhoods of Roland Park and Hollins Market,” interim Hopkins provost Jonathan Bagger said last year. “[B]ut there is a 20-year difference in the average life expectancy.”
That inequality is staggering when you consider that one of the best health systems in the world — Johns Hopkins Health System — is based in Baltimore. And many of the nation’s top government health care officials live in or commute to Baltimore, to work at the Medicare and Medicaid office.
A pregnant woman was violently thrown to the ground. Millions of dollars were paid out to numerous victims of police brutality. And almost none of us noticed!Our outrage is reserved for "looters" who left stores with Tide, toilet paper, and diapers. You'd think those people were worse than the Wall Street pillagers who brought the country to its knees. You'd think the people in Baltimore were worse than the politicians who allowed Wall Street to suck the life out of all our dreams. How awful those rioters were. Look at them - stealing Tide, toilet paper, and diapers for their babies. Nothing excuses such behavior. Not their babies dying. Not their grandmothers and wives being assaulted. Not the grinding poverty. Not the breaking, the screaming, and dying. Not the lack of justice, for any of it.
How dare they throw bricks. How dare they do anything but die quietly.
After all, we've stolen their dignity, self worth, hope. All they have left are the bones of their dreams - despair, emptiness, and rage. Let young men and women throw those bones, and we shall call it violence.
You have no one but you to blame
if you cannot hear the sky.
When the air is jelled and cloying,
the phone book will not open.
Soil packs too hard for fingernails,
too soft for pails and shovels.
The tap that drips on Franklin street
melts through to rot the roof ribs.
Old though I am, the pail still feeds
my appetite for blather.
Over the highest hill in town
still higher clouds will hover.
What I know of my own shadow
burns into my shoulder blades.
What I refuse to see flays me,
with darkness I make of myself.
For this recipe, you will need:
1 precisely-tuned concert grand piano
1 Daniel Barenboim
(The first two ingredients may be substituted with any Barenboim recording that includes Beethoven/Moonlight Sonata (No. 14 in C#), Appasionata Sonata (No. 23 in F minor, Opus 57), and Pathétique Sonata (No. 8 in C minor, Opus 13).
2 tablespoons olive oil (You can substitute butter or margarine)
2 to 4 cloves garlic, to taste, smashed with the side of a chef's knife.
1 tablespoon Penzey's Bavarian Seasoning mix*.
8 ounces of Crimini Mushrooms
2 cups of fresh potatoes, peeled and diced (substitute frozen American fries)
4 cups mushroom broth (substitute vegetable or chicken stock)
1 cup white wine
1 tablespoon spicy brown mustard, Dusseldorf style (substitute Dijon style)
1 cup plain yogurt (substitute sour cream or vegan sour supreme)
* - The link isn't meant to be a plug for Penzey's, it's simply for your convenience. if you choose to use your own seasonings, the Bavarian mix includes crushed brown mustard, rosemary, garlic, thyme, bay leaf and sage in proportions that only the Penzey's folks know.
I have a friend who loves angels. She has angel statues all over the place. Now I'm not going to comment on whether that verges on idolatry - mainly because I don't care, but among all the other angels was the angel for the aborted fetuses. On the base of the statue there was a very touching little poem asking the guardian angel to watch over the fetus. I immediately thought of the 230,000 people, many of them children, who died in the 2004 tsunami. I wonder what their guardian angels were doing that day - getting drunk on the beach perhaps?
I was moved to write this poem for the unborn, and for all the Conservatives who wouldn't have helped these people because the people weren't Christian or because, "they should be taking care of themselves - get a job!" or some other similar, anti-Jesus reason, so here's my poem.
My Guardian Angel. You're holding me tight
Help me to make it all through the night
I'll need all the help you can give - don't you see
'cause the conservative mandate - they all do agree
All fetuses' lives are of value they say
'Till you ask them them for help - then they answer you, "Nay!"
Conservatives care that I live - that is true
So long as to them no costs do accrue
So long as it costs them no trouble, nor care
Because if you ask them for aid - they'll never be there
Ask them for food, education, or help
All they will say is, "You ignorant whelp."
"Get out there and work. We won't open our door."
"We like you better ignorant, starving, and poor"
No food when you're hungered, no help when you've drowned
But plenty of preaching, with no God to be found
Plenty of talk, 'cause that's free don't you see
They care about talk, not about you - and not me
The God that they preach speaks of loving and alms
But Republicans care for the greasing of palms.
A marginal life malnourished, uneducated, and brief
not just for me, but my mother; without help or relief
Ah, but life eternal, a wonderful aim
Or is that just more words that they're spouting, some sort of a game?
Hypocrisy's theirs, with their mouths full of lies
Perhaps they're all devils in some other guise
They talk about life, so sacred, so pure
Raining blows on the Bible to show that they're sure
that their God has shown them what is good, what is right
What Jesus said in the dark of the night
But they forget all his lessons, like the conquistadors
Spouting words without meaning as this poem underscores
Attacking and lying: rapacious for gold
If Jesus's charity is as it's foretold
Then the wages they've earned for all their sin and deception
will ensure them nothing but a fiery reception
for if they were true to their God's loving promise
They'd be loving and humble with nothing amiss
They'd be giving and open, and never judgemental
They'd be less sex-obsessed and and so much less banal
They'd refrain from judging - as Jesus told them to do
They'd then be better people - they'd be honest and true
I mowed the lawn yesterday,
for the first time this year.
I hung a load of laundry on the backyard clothesline.
I daydream as I do these things.
Some of yesterday's daydreams,
below the divider doodle.
Daily Kos has been prodding me for another diary. I had a great idea. During the Shrub years, I wrote a series of political/cultural short poems and dated each one as I wrote it. I own the copyright, so I own it, and I can share as I choose.
One of them got read on the radio when Jay Marvin was the morning talk show host on the one, now sadly gone, progressive radio station in Denver at the time, AM-760. I shared all of them with my friends in the Denver Poetry Community, as I wrote them.
I'm going to send one out at a time.
Sap has run,
sweetness given up.
Steamed down, molded into golden sugar.
Steam rises into budding branches.
Tree frogs chatter in mist,
first fish hear their call,
Red horse and suckers in the cold wash.
They will glisten in jars
kissed by dill and onions.
Autumn's tubers hold us.
Spring messengers sing to cold water.
Ripples dance on silver scales,
sliding light over stones and spirits.
His positions toward women (and LGBTs, minorities, and just about everyone else) are far more offensive than his behavior toward women journalists . . . but he's comedic gold!
Under Sara's Fingernail
In a box from Portland
across half a continent
care of Sara and Ann, of hands and souls
carrying hope, good, and true
from strange friends, friendly strangers,
opened with feathers and fingertips
Wrapped like an onion
of like minds dissonant,
paper shelled, agreed to differ in layers.
Savor and sob sweet sulphur.
Many voices, much to consider,
makes my heart hurt well.
Mushy legged, fright coughed
needle stuck, copper mouthed man,
duck feet wrapped in the blessings,
gathered, wound, woven, sewn.
Torn is bound, bound is healed
one stitch at a time.
Our divinity dreams our world into being.
Tears of gods stain our pillows.
We rise on the grass of our own gardens.
Wash in the dew of Eden daily born.
Poppies, hops, cabbage and the joy we have planted here
feed others after we have dissolved into eternal rain.
See the creator of the universe.
Look up from the sink.
Look into the eyes of those around us. Love what we see there.
We are forever bone-dust, tears and stray sparks.
If you missed my call, look for me on the nearest leaf,
beside a creaking gate, under the hoof of a she-goat.
I understand that March 21st was World Poetry Day and that April is National Poetry Month, here in our benighted USA. Possibly this could inspire a few extra eyes to wander over here to our dusty corner of DKos.
In any case, however, we're here and I've created a little poetic rumination to be found below the squiggly orange dingbat. Please, read, reflect, comment, enjoy, and welcome!
Means "beautiful voice" from Greek καλλος (kallos) "beauty" and οψ (ops) "voice". In Greek mythology she was a goddess of epic poetry and eloquence, one of the nine Muses.
Join us every Tuesday afternoon at the Daily Kos community political poetry club.
Your own poetry is always welcome in the comments.
Bongos, berets & turtle neck sweaters optional.
The keyboard is mightier than the sword.
- Hang down your head, Mitt Romney? No way! After my sensational international debut, I, the GOP heir-presumptive, am taking a folk jamboree across America with my backup group The ...51 comments 44 Recs
- I made a music video envisioning Mitt Romney as a rapper named R Money who likes to rap about how wealthy he is. There is an interesting synchronicity between some aspects of hip hop culture and ...8 comments 10 Recs
- To be sung to: In 20 & 12 Mitt took a little trip ...11 comments 7 Recs
- (To the tune of Gilbert & Sullivan's "Oh, is there not one maiden breast?" from The Pirates of Penzance ) Mitt Romney: Oh, is there not one British breast, That does not ...48 comments 33 Recs
- On top of Old Smoky They're digging for coal They'll tear up the mountain And swallow it whole They fill up the valleys With rubble and rock The runs will stop running The springs will be blocked ...15 comments 32 Recs
- I was inspired to write this parody by this rec list diary . The Tale of Willard Mitt's Pile Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, A tale of a clueless twit, Who wants to be our president, ...13 comments 5 Recs
- We need to pay homage to this great man on his 100th anniversary of his birth.19 comments 28 Recs
- Last night the Freaky Friday crew did This Machine Kills Fascists . getting a jump on the 100th anniversary of Woody Guthrie. A folk song is what's wrong and how to fix it or it could be who's ...108 comments 111 Recs
- Milwaukee's Labor Martyrs who lost their lives in Freedom's Cause Frank Kunkel Frank Nowarcyk John ...7 comments 18 Recs
- Parrotheads are, of course, followers of Jimmy Buffett. For parrotheads everywhere this song is presented, based on "Nautical Wheelers"6 comments 5 Recs
Rebel Songwriters's Blogroll
- No current results.