Chiaka Obasi
David S. Pointer
I. B. Rad
Angie Thompson
Stephen Jarrell Williams
Chiaka Obasi
.
.
The Impostor
You stood on that elevated podium,
Your eyes averting our eyes.
And eyeing the ceiling of the auditorium,
Your lips told good lies,
Which no excellent impostor could tell,
And only skilled salesmen could sell.
We have known you for what you are.
Your mouth has spoken.
Our hearts won’t hearken.
We want sincere men to give our votes,
And not he who won’t steer our boat,
For when the real you is unveiled,
We will look like our votes were for sale.
We have always known you for what you are.
All through your first tenure,
You were averse to our plight.
Though you claim to be our saviour,
Our district could not see the light.
Now, you want to return to that seat?
Over our dead bodies, you can’t have it.
We have known you for what you are.
Bio:
Chiaka Obasi resides in Enugu, Nigeria, where he has worked as a copywriter, taught in a private school and now works with Global Human Rights Abuse Intervention Center, Enugu, Nigeria. He has a B.A. in Theatre Arts, a PGD in Journalism and has completed his course work for the award of M.A. in Theatre Arts at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Crossroads, an anthology of poems in honour of late Christopher Okigbo, Water Testament, an anthology of Nigerian poems on water and water-related issues, edited by Greg Mbajiorgu.
(author retains copyright)
.
The Impostor
You stood on that elevated podium,
Your eyes averting our eyes.
And eyeing the ceiling of the auditorium,
Your lips told good lies,
Which no excellent impostor could tell,
And only skilled salesmen could sell.
We have known you for what you are.
Your mouth has spoken.
Our hearts won’t hearken.
We want sincere men to give our votes,
And not he who won’t steer our boat,
For when the real you is unveiled,
We will look like our votes were for sale.
We have always known you for what you are.
All through your first tenure,
You were averse to our plight.
Though you claim to be our saviour,
Our district could not see the light.
Now, you want to return to that seat?
Over our dead bodies, you can’t have it.
We have known you for what you are.
Bio:
Chiaka Obasi resides in Enugu, Nigeria, where he has worked as a copywriter, taught in a private school and now works with Global Human Rights Abuse Intervention Center, Enugu, Nigeria. He has a B.A. in Theatre Arts, a PGD in Journalism and has completed his course work for the award of M.A. in Theatre Arts at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Crossroads, an anthology of poems in honour of late Christopher Okigbo, Water Testament, an anthology of Nigerian poems on water and water-related issues, edited by Greg Mbajiorgu.
(author retains copyright)
Return
David S. Pointer
.
.
Definitions
If I define
terrorism
under criminal
law I’ve got
a crime,
If I define
terrorism
under
international
law I’ve got
an act of war,
and If I
define terrorism
as a particular
response
to unjust economic
policies while
receiving media
attention—I’ve
got irate corporate
executives calling
their PR people
Bio:
David S. Pointer has published political poems for 21 years. He was the son of a piano playing bank robber who died when David was 3 years old. David later served in the Marine military police.
(author retains copyright)
.
Definitions
If I define
terrorism
under criminal
law I’ve got
a crime,
If I define
terrorism
under
international
law I’ve got
an act of war,
and If I
define terrorism
as a particular
response
to unjust economic
policies while
receiving media
attention—I’ve
got irate corporate
executives calling
their PR people
Bio:
David S. Pointer has published political poems for 21 years. He was the son of a piano playing bank robber who died when David was 3 years old. David later served in the Marine military police.
(author retains copyright)
Return
I. B. Rad
.
.
Nuclear Proliferation
Once, I held nuclear proliferation
an unmitigated disaster
but now I've begun to appreciate
growing nuclear parity's just
confirmation of our humanity,
for what better antidote to "global warming"
than "nuclear winter."
Bio:
Ms Rad, I.B. and Wonderdog live in the "Big Apple." Though the poetry is actually written by Wonderdog, she allows I.B to affix his name to it for an occassional biscuit.
(author retains copyright)
.
Nuclear Proliferation
Once, I held nuclear proliferation
an unmitigated disaster
but now I've begun to appreciate
growing nuclear parity's just
confirmation of our humanity,
for what better antidote to "global warming"
than "nuclear winter."
Bio:
Ms Rad, I.B. and Wonderdog live in the "Big Apple." Though the poetry is actually written by Wonderdog, she allows I.B to affix his name to it for an occassional biscuit.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Angie Thompson
.
.
Here We Stand Glorious, Emerged From The Den
you thought we were numb.
You thought we had drawn the curtain on political standpoints and foreign wars
"oh another one" we said,
and you thought we believed it.
You thought that we had gone to sleep,
put to bed like naughty children after a long day of fighting in the house
leaving you to carry on your better, more important things in peace.
I'll be honest that we were tired.
I'll be honest that we started to roll our eyes, and ignore the red flags, and give up on anything ever happening again.
But After all,
it had been a long decade
..and we'd seen more civil rights and Arab blood lost
than we ever thought possible.
Shock and awe, shock and awe,
..and then...
normal.
You know it is said,
after a trauma, an animal will isolate itself,
finding a quiet place to heal, before it joins the rest of its pack again;
Perhaps we have had to do that too.
Here we are, the long sleep of knitting bones and scars lifting,
awakening again to
what it's like to be together:
to do things as one.
Flexing muscles, pulling claws in and out
stretching and roaring like a lion with picket signs
we feel our feet on the ground again,
a pride of lioness, ready for hunt.
Beware.
Between the clouds of tear gas and grenade smoke,
our eyes glow fierce and golden with life.
We will not be told any more lies and believe them.
We will not accept any more rules, and follow them
We will not turn an eye against the factories and drug sales and slavery
those corporations endorse.
It is time we find our moral compass, and start singing our own songs again.
Have you heard?
We are lifting up our voices;
finding strength.
Bio:
Just the facts ma'am?
25, female, tall.
Relentless writer of all things, detail junkie, voracious consumer of children's literature.
Is generally woken up at night by thoughts of what it feels like to be a galaxy, or what
she's going to say next to whom. Just the RIGHT way this time.
Dedicated practitioner of Ninjutsu,
aspiring poet-warrior,
nomad.
Literature, Fine Arts, Africana Studies.
Dancer.
Activist.
Mess.
(author retains copyright)
.
Here We Stand Glorious, Emerged From The Den
you thought we were numb.
You thought we had drawn the curtain on political standpoints and foreign wars
"oh another one" we said,
and you thought we believed it.
You thought that we had gone to sleep,
put to bed like naughty children after a long day of fighting in the house
leaving you to carry on your better, more important things in peace.
I'll be honest that we were tired.
I'll be honest that we started to roll our eyes, and ignore the red flags, and give up on anything ever happening again.
But After all,
it had been a long decade
..and we'd seen more civil rights and Arab blood lost
than we ever thought possible.
Shock and awe, shock and awe,
..and then...
normal.
You know it is said,
after a trauma, an animal will isolate itself,
finding a quiet place to heal, before it joins the rest of its pack again;
Perhaps we have had to do that too.
Here we are, the long sleep of knitting bones and scars lifting,
awakening again to
what it's like to be together:
to do things as one.
Flexing muscles, pulling claws in and out
stretching and roaring like a lion with picket signs
we feel our feet on the ground again,
a pride of lioness, ready for hunt.
Beware.
Between the clouds of tear gas and grenade smoke,
our eyes glow fierce and golden with life.
We will not be told any more lies and believe them.
We will not accept any more rules, and follow them
We will not turn an eye against the factories and drug sales and slavery
those corporations endorse.
It is time we find our moral compass, and start singing our own songs again.
Have you heard?
We are lifting up our voices;
finding strength.
Bio:
Just the facts ma'am?
25, female, tall.
Relentless writer of all things, detail junkie, voracious consumer of children's literature.
Is generally woken up at night by thoughts of what it feels like to be a galaxy, or what
she's going to say next to whom. Just the RIGHT way this time.
Dedicated practitioner of Ninjutsu,
aspiring poet-warrior,
nomad.
Literature, Fine Arts, Africana Studies.
Dancer.
Activist.
Mess.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Stephen Jarrell Williams
.
.
Ego
None of us
saw
what the world was coming to
we had ideas and even visions
but
nothing like the slap and roar of the end
children no longer born
women no longer loved
sea and sky no longer blue
earth, wood, and stone
falling
on every man so full of himself.
Bio:
Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon.
(author retains copyright)
.
Ego
None of us
saw
what the world was coming to
we had ideas and even visions
but
nothing like the slap and roar of the end
children no longer born
women no longer loved
sea and sky no longer blue
earth, wood, and stone
falling
on every man so full of himself.
Bio:
Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Peleg Held
.
.
Set The Hook Deep
This we remember.
Stretched out on the half-ruined,
in unlit clearings, we sing
of extinguished constellations.
Heads back, we sing into night.
A satellite falters on the wire,
and goes black in the belly of Cetus
as the orchard slips slowly into
the uncontrollable substance of forest.
Handfasted together,
in sight of no one,
stitching respite against
the sadness.
We coalesce,
The dark between stars.
(author retains copyright)
.
Set The Hook Deep
This we remember.
Stretched out on the half-ruined,
in unlit clearings, we sing
of extinguished constellations.
Heads back, we sing into night.
A satellite falters on the wire,
and goes black in the belly of Cetus
as the orchard slips slowly into
the uncontrollable substance of forest.
Handfasted together,
in sight of no one,
stitching respite against
the sadness.
We coalesce,
The dark between stars.
(author retains copyright)
Return
Eve Lyons
.
.
The Giving Tree Makes Me Want to Give Up On This World
In my world,
we bless our food
before every bite.
In my world,
we say thank you
after we are sated.
In my world,
we pay attention
to the impact of our words,
destructiveness of our footsteps,
we try not to add
to the darkness.
In Shel Silverstein's world
a boy takes and take and takes
a tree gives and gives and gives
until the tree is no more
and that is considered love.
In my world,
that's violence.
Bio:
I am a 30 something year old married queer woman living in Boston, MA.
I have been previously published in Fireweed, Concho River Review,
Labyrinth, Women’s Words, Woven, Sapphic Ink, Texas Observer, Word
Riot, Houston Literary Review, and two different anthologies. I have
performed in the now defunct Amazon Poetry Slam for many years and
recently had a ten minute play in the production Ten Tiny Shows in
Cambridge, MA.
(author retains copyright)
.
The Giving Tree Makes Me Want to Give Up On This World
In my world,
we bless our food
before every bite.
In my world,
we say thank you
after we are sated.
In my world,
we pay attention
to the impact of our words,
destructiveness of our footsteps,
we try not to add
to the darkness.
In Shel Silverstein's world
a boy takes and take and takes
a tree gives and gives and gives
until the tree is no more
and that is considered love.
In my world,
that's violence.
Bio:
I am a 30 something year old married queer woman living in Boston, MA.
I have been previously published in Fireweed, Concho River Review,
Labyrinth, Women’s Words, Woven, Sapphic Ink, Texas Observer, Word
Riot, Houston Literary Review, and two different anthologies. I have
performed in the now defunct Amazon Poetry Slam for many years and
recently had a ten minute play in the production Ten Tiny Shows in
Cambridge, MA.
(author retains copyright)
Return
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