Featured poets this month include --in random order:

Laala Kashef Alghata, Ian Thorpe, Chris Major, Jim Dunlap, Aberjhani, Taylor Graham, Kimmy Van Kooten, Randy Barfield, Michael Estabrook, Jody Kuchar, Amparo Arrospide and Robert D. Wilson.

Please scroll down the page.


Remember, every poem in this section participates in PLT  Readers' Poll, where you may choose your favourite one by vote. The only rule is for Featured Poets not to vote for their own poems.
Results for our Third Readers' Poll: Top rated poems were those published by Kimmy Van Kooten.  All poems will be found in PL&Times June 2007~Featured Poets.






Bahriani poet and novelist (and student) Laala Kashef Alghata writes regularly for the Bahrain and Kuwait issues of Clientele, a lifestyle magazine, and is the editor of the poetry journal, Write Me a Metaphor. Her most recent book, "Behind the Mask: A Folded Heart" (2006), a collection of poetry and prose, is available at Amazon.co.uk. She is a poet-in-residence at Soul to Soul and ArgoBoat, and her work appears online in poetry journals such as All Things Girl, Argotist Online, and La Fenetre.






   

Laala Kashef Alghata


Crimson Death


Shock. Horror.

A fresh wave of grief.
One shot. Two shots.
Two people. Dead.

Blood.

Bodies left for the shadows
to indulge.

Death:
metallic,
bitter.

Anger and frustration.
Those soldiers had no right.

I cried a river of blood;
in this goblet, a few drops,
crimson.
Mr. President:
Drink.

You Paint War


You paint destruction on the inside of our eyelids
so we can't ever close our eyes and forget what
it is you're doing to the world, destroying homes
and tearing apart families, killing brothers and
mothers, disregarding lost fathers and sisters;
you paint them in the backdrop in camouflage,
make us try to believe they are not important.

But you forget there are some who can look
past the propaganda that is the eight o'clock news
and your face and stuttering voice, realising
we are being slowly destroyed. Your country rises
against the killing of your men, but the killing
of our men is accepted– you rocked the country
to the brink of civil war.

You paint disasters into life, you've got a way to
disrupt the world and can always murmur veto
with a smug smile when you don't agree, stop
the world from advancing and kill all organized
religion, thought, belief.

But you forget that someday we will gain
enough power to stop you and put someone
in your place that deserves your position.
You forget, you represent millions of people
who don't share your warped ideas, who take
to the streets and demonstrate for peace,
shouting in sync, "No more blood for oil."



c. All poems by their author, 2007.



 
Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada of California, and also helps her husband (a retired forester/wildlife biologist) with his field projects. A native Californian, she studied for a year in Germany and has also lived in Alaska and Virginia. She and her husband responded with their trained dogs to the Mexico City earthquake of 1985.




Her poems have appeared widely, including America, Grand Street, The Iowa Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry International, and Southern Humanities Review, and she’s included in the anthology, California Poetry: Gold Rush to the Present. Her newest book, The Downstairs Dance Floor (Texas Review Press, 2006), is winner of the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize.

Read more at Taylor Graham's Website




  Some poems at PL&T:
Featured Poets
 




Taylor Graham



IF IT WERE OURS


We’d grow onions and potatoes
to ship to loved-ones at the front.
We’d knit woolen socks and scarves.
After Sunday prayers
we’d gather around the table,
sitting in a common circle
of fear. We’d pick lint for bandages,
repeating the names of fathers,
sisters, brothers.

    But it’s not our
        civil war. So

we carry placards, put bumper stickers
on our cars; sign petitions,
write letters to officials. We list
important reasons. We skim
the paper for familiar names,
the latest body-counts. We turn on
the evening news to make sure
it’s still a world away;
make sure it isn’t ours.



A SOLDIER’S PAY

 
Gold stars
when he got his lessons
word for word.

Thrill rides
across a lava desert,
through unexploded ordnance,
dodging concertina wire

drilled till he got it all
just right.

Yesterday in Baghdad,
a bomb in a morning market,
glint of silver scales
and dog-tags scattered.

We look to the heavens for
gold stars.


 
 
  c. by Taylor Graham, 2007.
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A happy child but a late developer, Ian Thorpe was born at quite an advanced age and remembers nothing more for several years. One morning he awoke and was aware of being in a large white room. The blinds were drawn but the furniture was real. A note pinned to the wall said XYZZY. "I've only got your word for that" Ian replied and the note threw itself in a waste paper bin. This experience convinced Ian that his destiny was to become a writer. He immediately composed his first poem "Ode to a Milkman."

Seriously, Ian has been away some time but is back with challenging proposals.

   Some poems by Ian Thorpe previously published at PL&T:

Featured Poets

  The Making and Unmaking Dance and other poems.

   

IAN THORPE


Pals (In Memoriam)

The Accrington Pals. Died: July 1, 1916.


They came from factory, mill and mine,
from office desk and workshop bench,
were taught to shoot and march in line,
sent to defend a mud - filled trench
leaving behind sweethearts and wives,
children they would not see grow,
commanded by a voice that drives
beyond reason to bravado.

Singing the patriotic song
they marched towards the greedy guns,
in raging minutes they were gone.
Such senseless slaughter always numbs
emotions that let us grieve the loss
of a favourite horse or dog.
We never learn to count the cost
of old men's wars in young men's blood.


HISTORICAL NOTE: In an example of military arrogance unsurpassed either before or since, the "Accrington Pals," young conscripts from the small industrial town of Accrington, UK were assigned to serve in the same battalion of the East Lancashire regiment and on July 1, 1916 were sent "over the top," charging towards German  machine gun emplacements. In a few minutes an entire generation of the town's male population was wiped out.

 Read more about the Pals.


c. Ian Thorpe, 2007.

Read Ian Thorpe's recent blog post.





Born in Pequannock, NJ.
At a young age,  she moved to a 70 acre horse farm in Allentown, Pennsylvania
with all of her 7 sisters and six brothers!
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree!
Now residing deep in the woods of a
Florida tropical fauna...
Kimmy is inspired...
"I love being a mother, a grandmother,
and best of all, my husbands wife!"
She surrounds herself with nature and loves to hike unknown territories!
She also loves gardening, smelling the roses and  playing her red conga drums!
"They call me "Conga Kimmy!"
"Life itself motivates me and all it has to offer!"

"Those that can see beyond the negative, wrap themselves up in the simplicity surrounding, can Listen to the Whispers and Rejoice!"

Kimmy Van Kooten



A RAW Reflection


 
I looked in the mirror, A RAW reflection

As I look within me and beyond all animations,
I gathered the conflicts of your retaliations
I watched within these eyes of mind,
beyond the darkness, in a space of mine

How can wants take, and hand a child their strife?
When their arms explode the innocent life?
Their surface reveals all offspring traditions,
while their legs stand on tables of contradiction.

I looked in the mirror, A RAW reflection

My eyes can see each proud demonstration.
And their flags still wave in songs of nations.
Mock and mimic, O’ bloodless tongue!
I can hear now, how your bells have rung

The guns will blast in postulate chatter,
while nations recline in their lipid matter.
Someone, up there, must have turned out the light
For dawn now darkens our early might

I looked in the mirror, A RAW reflection

Now, an image reflected, when I looked straight at me;
but, we can't see behind all the worlds vanity
The straightedge will shorten in lengthy a rage,
so all pray for wisdom from our Omniscient sage.

Stay within, and surround one world of peace.
Don't look in the mirror with such furrowed crease.
Shovels only dig greed and bury us more,

I looked in the mirror and I saw WAR





Copyright 2006-2007 by Kimmy Van Kooten
 

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Jim is in the Marquis, Who's Who In America, the Marquis Who's Who In The World and in the Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers.

His list of publications include Candelabrum, Lyrical Iowa, Mind in Motion, Mobius, Neovictorian, Paris/Atlantic, Plainsongs, Potpourri,  Prophetic Voices, Sonnetto Poesia, and online on Poems Niederngasse, Poetry Life & Times, Poetry Repair Shop and many more. He is a resident poet, and an Alpha poet at the Poet's Porch, and has had about six hundred poems published to date. He has been in the Writer's Digest top 100 three times, and is currently Research Editor For Sonnetto Poesia.

Click here for Jim's website

His work also appears online at:
authorsden.com
http://www.thepoetsporch.com
http://www.aceonline.com.au/~db/
http://www.valmagnuson.com/

and in a number of other places as well.

His website is :  http://www.mindfulofpoetry.homestead.com/
&
http://allpoetry.com/user/show/ecrivain01

Read more:
A Recent  Interview with Jim Dunlap



Jim Dunlap


Imagine 


It's been some time, but we'll never forget
the man and his lyrics -- "Let It Be"
wasn't really his game -- the John we met
could "Imagine" much more than we'd see.
He believed in justice and dignity,
fought for the down-trodden poor and oppressed,
worked to eradicate all bigotry,
and brightened his age -- we were blessed.

Imagine no religion, hounding men to hell,
no prejudice marring humanity's rest,
no darkness embracing the blasting knell
of evil, destroying our khaki-clad best --
imagine the peace love's practicing yields --
envy John, sleeping in Strawberry Fields,

forever ...

Originally titled "Lennon Was No Plastic Ono" and published on TheHypertexts.com, Mysterious Ways Page, editor, Michael Burch.



The Pentagon Version of "Onward Christian Soldiers" -- Jim Dunlap


Mistletoe and holly, turkey, pumpkin pie,
Candied yams and all the trimmings,
Don't speak to us of Christ's beginnings --
How we've gathered here -- and why.
The clouds of evil hover near us,
But we choose to disregard, because
We're anticipating Santa Claus,
And the world has cause to fear us.
Such good people surely can't do wrong --
God is on our side -- they'll finally learn;
Or their cities, and their souls, will burn.
So, why not relax, and sing along?
    "Onward Christian soldiers, flay them --
    If they're not like us, go out and slay them."

Previously published on TheHyperTexts.com,  Mysterious Ways Page, editor, Michael Burch.


Where Blow The Winds Of War


Where blow the winds of war
There's a shadow hanging ... dark across our futures.
It may presage the twilight of our times.
We can't close the wound with bandages or sutures,
It's a lesion, open only in our minds.

The Four Horsemen wait impatiently to ride
And the darkness presses closer all around.
Testosterone-crazed madmen hit their stride
When bodies rapidly pile mound to mound.

It's the age old story, come again --
Old men sit home and send the young to die.
Most religions say don't kill, as that's a sin:
But "We can win" becomes the battle cry.

Wars come, fueled by demagogues and hate,
Before each storm, though, comes the pause,
Last chance to stop before it is too late.
If our cause is right -- what IS the cause?

Survivors write the histories you see,
And seldom give a thought to those now gone.
We think no one's of more value than are we,
But we'll send our young men marching with the dawn.


Posted first on the website of Grandmothers Against War, Des
Moines, Iowa, USA chapter
Author notes

This poem was written before the insane invasion of Iraq, and was in protest of that massively stupid move by our igNoble Leader, who, of course, never served in a war himself.



Calling Mother, In Two Versions *


He licks his dry, parched lips,
moans softly --
his mind wanders.

He calls, "Mother!"
He hears a moan somewhere out there
in the swirling, blowing sandstorm.
Another soldier, calling "Mother!"
in another language.

Again, he cries, "Mother!"
Again, the other cries "Mother!"

It matters little that they do it in different languages.
Somehow, the medley of Arabic and English
weaves its own spell,
mesmerizing both of them.

Soon, they grow silent --
Only an occasional moan drifts through
the keening wind.
Sand begins to pile across their quiescent bodies.

Far away, two women wake --
Dreaming of two strong, young sons.
They each pray --
in different languages --
to the same God.


Author notes

This is a poem written during the initial attack on Bagdad when there was a terrible sandstorm that stopped the advancing Americans in their tracks.  The poem is about an American soldier who gets separated from the rest in the storm and meets an Iraqi soldier who has also been separated from his comrades and, by extension, it's about their mothers.  It's a "what if" poem.

Circa May 13th, 2005

c. Jim Dunlap, 2007.
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Aberjhani is a winner of the Choice Academic Title Award and Best History Book Award for his Encyclopedia of the Harlem Renaissance; a Best of Publication Award for his poetry; and the Thomas Jefferson Award for his journalism. A former editor for the U.S. Air Force, his writings stretch the boundaries of literary form to fuse impressionistic dreamscapes, spiritual vision, intellectual inquiry, and erotic confession to create a literary style uniquely his own. In addition to the Encyclopedia of the Harlem Renaissance, the Georgia native is the author of The Wisdom of W.E.B. Du Bois and the underground classic I Made My Boy Out of Poetry. Readers voted him "Best
Poet/Spoken Word Artist" : more info is also available online at Connect Savannah.
Aberjhani's works can also be found at Amazon.com


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Aberjhani


Angel of War

This jig death dances
around your tongue, scorns and rapes
Earth as it pleases.

Why do we shout the names of gods but worship you?

Before the first stone
crushed the first skull, fear had claimed
the first victory.

Does the potential for peace make the reality of hate sweeter?

Before the first spear,
arrow, or cannon––humans
abandoned their souls.

The phrase “nihilistic techno-bitch”––means what, exactly, to you?

Wings of centuries
flutter chaos through children’s
bones, dreams, screams, and blood.

Do invitations to slaughter beauty ever make you cry?

Feathers of bullets,
feathers of daggers, missiles,
heroes, and coffins.

If missiles are faux dildos, what are babies splattered by bombs?

A halo of ice
drips the chilling truth––of this
horror mankind does.

In which countries should patriotism renounce itself first?

Were you a poet,
how easily nations would
still your holwling scythe.

If with all your power you kissed the angel of love, what then might happen?

Gobbler of prophets
and history’s excrement,
must you never rest?

 

Holiday Letter for a Poet Gone to War

If in the midst of mannequin bombs
disemboweling pregnant insanity,
a poem of love should seduce your lips,
sing each soul-dazzling stanza
with such soft rapture as an angel might.
 
If your comrade’s head should explode
while you sing with such soft rapture as an angel might,
bandage your heart with thoughts of simpler things—
mowing the lawn, washing dishes,
waking up dreaming in your lover’s arms.
 
What can bombs know of the illuminated fields
so golden with heaven in your heart’s sacred lands?
How can bullets hope to penetrate the armor
of your soul’s endless capacity for love?
 
If death should suck the marrow from your bones
while you mow the lawn, wash dishes,
or wake up dreaming in your lover’s arms,
remember: you were born a child of light’s wonderful secret—
you return to the beauty you have always been.
 

Angel of Peace


Such are these places
where lovers of bliss behold
the angel of peace:

Above the burning,
and below the cold of all
the sad killing fields;

Where poetry sighs,
smiling magic in the lap
of flesh and blood joy;

Upon the shoulders
of elders carved beautiful
by sage artistry;

Where a starbright gown
trails healing through gardens of
eternity’s laughter;

In the arms of dreams
that shepherd hope through the eyes
of praying children;

Under waterfalls
bristling silk storms from the shores
of my skin to yours;

In the taste of a
woman glowing firemilk through
the tips of her breasts;

Afloat on rhythms
of minds too stoned on love to
recall how bombs work;

At the edge of a
man’s kiss casting holy spells
of sweet compassion;

Inside the beauty
of faith’s unburied treasure
sparkling truth and hope;

Beneath trees of song
heavy with angelic light,
evergreen with strength;

Upon the wings of
nightingales trilling comfort
to embattled grace;

In your heart’s whisper,
soft as love, that truly all
is well with your soul.

All poems by their author, 2007.
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Well-known poet writing originally in Spanish and English as a second language, she is also a translator, painter and co-editor of Poetry Life and Times since 2006.





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Amparo Arróspide


TWO POEMS



1.

O Albion sweet Albion, the one of Many Green and Pleasant Lands
But doomed to kill
In the name of Greed, in the name of Profit,

O once generous Albion but today doomed to kill
In the name of your Idols
In your God's many names none of which is The Merciful,

O Albion where so many fight for Animal Rights,
What have you done?
Look at your stock market charts
Where Oil and Blood rise high
Killing by thousands to fuel your automobiles
What have you done?

Haven't you already bombed Baghdad?
Haven't you already massacred Iraq?

O Albion where Stopping a War
is a Crime...

***

This poem is protected by a Creative Commons Licence.
Amparo Arrospide, 2004.

Song of Guantanamo Base

We have come back from hell
Back from Guantanamo Base

We were tortured night & day
Back in Guantanamo Base

Till our eyes dropped from their sockets
and our hearts missed their beats
as time melted in eternity
Back in Guantanamo Base

What awful crime had we committed?
No one answered no one said
no one near no one human
Back in Guantanamo Base

Still we prayed in utter silence
Back in Guantanamo Base

Could not touch nor feel
Could not walk nor smell
Could nothing but pray
Back in Guantanamo Base

How we cried in utter darkness
In our bright red overalls
No one near no one human
Back in Guantanamo Base

In those cells or senseless shells
as time melted in eternity
no one answered no one near
Damned in Guantanamo Base

Were you made of flesh or stone?
Were you human, was this Earth?
Executioners passed by
Back in Guantanamo Base...

Some returned alive and kicking
Out of Guantanamo Base
But we're dead and still remember:
Damned be Guantanamo Base

NB: Guantanamo, five years on. The above first published in 2004 by Indymedia Sheffield.




Randy Barfield

Randall has been writing for many years.  His first publications began in the mid-eighties, including a poem in the literary journal
Ploughshares.  His topics of great interest are family, locations, psychology, movie stars, beauty,  and tributes for certain individuals he admires.
He also writes about many secondary topics.  His greatest readership to date lies with his poems for children (Abrakadoobra and others via google.com).  He dislikes long poems and believes they eventually "disappear", never again to surface.  Conversely, certain shorter poems such as She Walks In Beauty seemingly live forever.  He tends to be traditional in format and, in certain ways, a "Southern" (USA) poet.  Randall has
read widely in poetry and has half a dozen favorites which include Emily Dickinson.

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Recommended further reading:


  Some poems by Randy Barfield  previously published by Poetry Life and TImes:

Randy Barfield

TWO POEMS
"One is left with the horrible feeling now that war settles
 nothing; that to win a war is as disastrous as to lose one."

Agatha Christie (1977)


They started a war
The planet began
protesting,

Asking who was in charge,

Had the ship sailed off course.

They outlawed our prayers
The students became
More savage

Many thought that was cute,

Others milled around mute.

Tears fell from the skies
Flooding the plains
Muffling the cries
A quiet fell o'er
The earth
Waiting to see
For what it was worth.

They had no respect
They did not revere
Their Maker

Life they say isn't fair

Now they're no longer there.
 


The New One


Lights that are
varied. White. The color.
White, white, white.
A lot of it. Lights and walls.
Tinkles and jingles.
Voices. Feminine
and masculine,
high-pitched and low.
Walls and abysses
and caverns and doors.
Windows big and small
that need washing.
The cold cloth of fresh
sheets and pillow cases.
The cold space there
at the right
for a friend or other
listener. Cold metal,
gleaming, clean.
A warm tear runs down
his right cheek, proof
of his realization
that all this is real.
This nightmare. The
landmine they could not see.
His missing leg.
It is all too real.
Someone said "war is hell."
It isn't, he thinks.
It's a deceiver,
a big cheat.
It takes lives
but isn't God.
All poems by their author, 2007.

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Seems I’ve been writing poetry for so long that Methuselah should be taking notice, but in reality, time is simply doing its thing streaking ahead blithely pulling all of us along for the wild ride whether we like it or not; reminds me, I’ve published 15 chapbooks over the years, the last one just came out about my Dad, and before that was “when Patti would fall asleep,” about my wife, guess you could say I’m a family man.

 

The fall has arrived here in New England ,

beautiful leaves turning the landscape into a Monet palate,

the roads into a Jackson Pollack mural,

and the air is so crisp, the scent of the fallen leaves

taking me back to much younger days when the future stretched out before me

like the shoreline of Lake Michigan at dawn.














Michael Estabrook


loose ends and dangling wires


Helicopter overhead banking screeching

power-pumping the air, but I’m here

in Massachusetts far away from Baghdad

so I suppose I’m safe at least

for the time being. It’s only

an impressive sight to see such power

overhead, nothing more nothing less.

As a baby-boomer who never did

a tour of Vietnam , I don’t have much

of a clue about what real danger is, no

burning oil fields, no idiots shooting guns

in the air, flailing themselves with straps

and chains, no republican guards and

military ops, no weapons of mass

destruction, no big old Sherman Tanks

crushing streets and sidewalks, no,

nothing, no blown-up buildings with loose

ends and dangling wires hanging

everywhere. Just me and the dog

walking in the woods, contemplating

a big old helicopter flying overhead.

 

 

smoking piles in the sand


He drove a bulldozer in Vietnam,

made a long landing strip

by scraping the earth down to the sand,

pushing the trees and rocks

into jumbled craggy heaps and hills,

spent days riding that machine,

hearing its metallic groaning

echoing from the jungle all around.

When he was done the Vietcong

rose up like ants scrambling on a hot stove

over the heaps and hills he’d built.

Of course he drove his dozer away

as fast as possible back to the base,

while the machine guns rattled

and spat behind him

scattering the onrushing ants

into little smoking piles in the sand.


        Helicopter

Jimmy drives us to the club in his

battered Ford pickup suddenly a giant

khaki Chopper appears circling

banking stiff blades churning the hot

June air as it swoops down over

the trees, stopping, hovering right

above us:  thank God this isn't Nam ,

I say, voicing what I know is

thundering through Jimmy's

frantic mind (smoky scenes

of bleeding broken bodies; bullets,

rockets whizzing all around)

but it doesn't matter what I say,

he must pull over, wipe the sweat

from his face, and wait for his hands

to stop shaking before driving on.



All poems by their author, 2007.
 
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I live in Stoke on Trent , Staffordshire, where i traing to be a Psychiatric Nurse.
My poetry has been placed in over 60 UK print mags including:Outposts, Poetry Monthly, Raw Edge, Poetry Nottingham, Poetry Bradford, Pennine Platform, Monkey Kettle, Ugly Tree, Sepia, Breakfast All Day ect..
Online at amongst others: Snakeskin, Zygote in..., My Fav Bullet, Undergroundvoices, Pemmican, James River Review, Out Of Order, Passenger May, High Horse, Remark, Thieves Jargon, Stirring, London Ghetto Poetry, Laurahird ,Poetry Kit,ect...
Chapbook ' Lowest Level and other poems from White Leaf Press




  Some poems by Chris Major  previously published by Poetry Life and TImes:


CHRIS MAJOR

BEFORE AND AFTER

A poem,
where each letter
represents a person,
each word,
a group or crowd,
and eyes scanning
these lines settle
eventually on this landmine.
 
 
 
 
                                         0o0 00o0
 
                                           00o
                                                     0o0 00o0
                                    0oo0oo o0o                              s
                d           00o 00o ..   00o 00o
                      o0oo o0o             
                          s  0oo .. 00o  o0o oY
                 . ..  o0o 00 e0oo 00 oo0 o0 oo00o  00o 00o ..   a       
                 0.oo0o0 0o 0o0o0o o  o0 o 0o o0. .i  ..
                               u     0 00 0oo0oo o0o 0o0o..0i0o0o .0o0                          h
                    0oo0o00o..o0oo    0..o00      0o0.o00 .o00
                                    00o 00o ..     0oo0oo o0o              0oo .. 00o  o0o             .00o000o
    .  ... o0o o0o o0o00oo00 oooo0 0 o0        l                   o o0oo0
                             t                               0o00 0o0  0..
                                           0oo 0 . .o   S                         0o0 00o0  00o
                                                      .00o000o
                 g                                                                   l  e
                                  
                            .00o000o  c
 
                           e
                                           t                 y
 





Jody Kuchar is an artist, writer of poetry, fiction and essay, is founder and managing editor of www.ScribeSpirit.org, another
contribution to the glut of eZines. 

Jody has been writing since the
Jurassic period, and is now owned by a demanding and loquacious parrot
(whose favorite word is "Wanker").

Jody currently lives in the armpit of north America, Indiana.  She is slowly moving south in search of warmth, sunshine and fried catfish.




  Some poems by Jody Kuchar previously published by Poetry Life and TImes:
Featured Poets

JODY KUCHAR

The New Colossus - 2007

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
~ Emma Lazarus

Give me your hungry, your tired, your poor I'll piss on em
Thats what the statue of bigotry says
Your poor huddled masses, lets club em to death
And get it over with and just dump em on the boulevard...
~ Lou Reed, from "Dirty Boulevard"

1

Oh Land of plenty and home of the free
that gave birth to pilgrims and innovators,
opening horizons to children of the blessed, like me:

Where is your mercy, your compassionate acceptance
of those huddled masses and homeless
now echoing with hushed tones of grievance?

The veneer is fading from the face of our fathers
as the rich get richer and the poor get their
tongues ripped out in the wave of profiteers and new fuhrers -

which the "greatest" generation fought to eliminate.
Where is the compassion which opened the arms of
the new colossus whose lamp no longer illuminates?

Hunger and illness litter streets once paved with gold
empty eyes and hearts filled with despair and longing
for a land of milk and honey which made them emboldened

to cross rivers and oceans, risk death and separation
only to land on cold shores with little opportunity
outside what was left behind and abandoned.

Raise your lamp high, perhaps the light will blind
those coming to these shores to look for a living wage
and conditions better than substandard , or red-lined

by industry and cheap labor.  In fields and in factories
they toil for their family's well-being
picking lettuce and grapes and strawberries

thin, polished women in large SUVs shop at upscale
markets in communities manicured by the sweat
of their brows. For minimum wage they daily travail

while  at night suburbanites sleep in sheets of percale
believing they've brokered the best price for labor.
Elected officials seek to assail

the tenuous hold on life immigrants have,
talk of walls and guards and jail
for those who believed what lady liberty promised as salve

for the dispossessed.  This nation, sweet land of liberty,
now bought with the currency of the elite,
no room in the melting pot for a new decree.

Part 2

The children of our nation now outfitted for war
by lying politicians and corporations anxious
for stock holder accountability, greed, to the core;

of values once held in highest esteem
parlayed like collateral in a new economy
that buries all thought of the American dream.

Alone on a proscenium stage of inspection
by past allies, and those forced into
subjugation, now at war with the bedouin,

replacing one monster with another, civil
war and death to economies in the name of
oil and sweet inside contracts, wearing the laurel

wreath of failure.  Young people promised higher
education in exchange for their homage to flag
and memory.  In sand and death they become mired

in your new democracy ideals and citizens believe
what is expeditious today, false security and
homeland pork spending in the name of what can be achieved

in that land of sand and sun and Sunni / Shiite self hatred.
Blood and red hand prints of women and children
printed on walls, like graffiti left from hennaed

sorrows.  While in Cuba, subterfuge and torture
seeks to pull secrets from prisoners like thorns from feet
while denial of human rights float free of the zephyr

of news.  Hide the coffins of the dead
returning home; cover them with flags that will not
wave in a vacuum of dissent and dread.

What cost our democracy to the world?
To citizens lost because of vendetta
ultimately, what flag will show unfurled

in this new world order?
In the new democracy?
In the darkness now descended upon us?


"My country 'tis of thee
sweet land of liberty
of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
 From every mountainside
Let freedom ring!"
~ Samuel Smith



  c. Jody Kuchar, 2007.

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Robert D. Wilson

My book of haibun about the Vietnam War, Vietnam Ruminations, is
not in chronological order. I wrote each haibun as memories surfaced
in my mind. Like many Vietnam veterans, I.d compartmentalized
these memories, not wanting to revisit them, hoping they would
go away. This haibun will serve as a doorway into the nightmare I
visited six months after graduating from high school.
***


  Read more:



SIMPLY HAIKU

Robert D. Wilson

A few excerpts from Vietnam Ruminations*



 forced to shoot others
this manchild, one year
a thousand summers



dangling from your hand,
the severed head of someone
not unlike yourself


without legs,
i am a tree stump
watching the harvest


left for dead . . .
a bloodsoaked body
praying for words


on her mother's back---
the rice field
singing lullabies
* ©January 2003
by Robert D. Wilson
Illustrations by Jerry Dreesen and Robert Wilson
Photography by Robert Wilson

Read more: Recent interview with Robert D. Wilson