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Poetry

Don’t Forget the Killin’

April 21, 2015 By Guest

I saw it there,
right there on the wall,
“Don’t forget the killin’”

I did,
I saw it.

The sons, grandsons, cousins,
brothers, childhood friends
who happened,
just happened
to jump into the wrong gang,
And now they’re the enemy.
Don’t forget the killin’

Children who can’t play outside
’cause their mama’s afraid,
they won’t stay alive.
No mom should have to watch
the life drain out of their baby
Or worry
if they’ll grow up,

And jump in with their
cousin, brother, or friend,
so they won’t be hunted down
‘cause they’re the enemy

Burgers on the grill,
laughing, singing, talking
at the family gatherin’.

A drive-by doesn’t mean
you’re grabbing a Happy Meal.
A dark car draws closer to the house
looking for their victims.
Guns come out as they scan the yard.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

People go
diving, hiding, dying.
Children become unintended targets.
Some not even old enough to know
they should be scared.
Innocents killed,
because they don’t ask for ID as the bullets fly.
Don’t forget the killin’

Mama, what do you have to say?
As your baby walks over the passed out bodies
on the living room floor
from having too much fun last night,
yours in the middle.
He walks alone out the door to school
because he wants to escape so bad,
he’ll find his own way out
Don’t forget the killin’

Social Worker, what do you have to say?
Moving him place to place
like it’s a game, and
he’s just a chess piece.
But he won’t win.
He’ll end up somewhere he feels he belongs.
And he don’t forget the killin’

Teacher, what do you have to say?
Thinking he can’t read ‘cause he’s lazy
when the letters jump,
and he can’t hold them still on the page
no matter how hard he tries.
He hits the end of road
in the school bus with nothing.
Don’t forget the killin’

Boss man, what do you have to say?
Wouldn’t hire him because he couldn’t read,
but mostly
because you were afraid,
your customers would be frightened away.
Don’t forget the killin’

Uncle, what do you have to say?
You needed him so bad to take your drugs
to the hotel door.
Law wouldn’t hit him hard.
He was only 16 with no juvey record.
Don’t forget the killin’

I don’t forget
as I hear his Grandma.
Hurt so bad to hear her say
“Baby, I begged you,
begged you not
to die.
Don’t get the way of the bullets”
I said,
“but you did.
The blood stain on the sidewalk
is the only thing left, and
it reminds me of where I held your head
Begging you not to die.”

I see.
We’ve failed him.

We saw it on the wall.
Please wipe it from our minds,

Or let us save ’em,
And stop the killin’.

What do you have to say?

—Mary Morton

Marty Morton
Marty Morton

 

Tunnel Vision

April 20, 2015 By Guest

I enter, though reluctantly, into this dank cavern
Leading deep within the earth.

Into the darkness I go, sensing a twisted maze.
I venture into the unknown.

I pause with trepidation with each step I take.
I feel a coldness and aloneness in the deathly silence.

I lose my way in the blackness of no-where-ness:
I don’t know where I came from so I can’t turn back:
My direction is lost so I inch along blindly.

I am descending now: my feet begin to slide in wet rock:
I grope the walls for balance;
The walls are slippery and help not.

Suddenly, I fall through space, twisting and turning finding nothing to grasp.

I begin to see a bright light at the end of the tunnel.
I feel a sense of peace and I stop resisting gravity.

Weightless now, I glide to the exit.
As I come nearer to the end,
I know that all will be well: my pain is gone.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner

Kathleen Ellis Faulkner
Kathleen Ellis Faulkner

The Cherry Tree

April 19, 2015 By Guest

She looked up and saw them wave,
the leaves at the very top of
the cherry tree.

Don’t wave at me like that.
I don’t know you.
I live on the ground.
The top of the tree is your home,
the branches are your family.
Don’t wave at me.

Are you beckoning me to climb?
I can’t leave this solid ground.
My branches would miss me.

Your swaying and dancing tempt me though.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like up there.
Stop waving at me!

Give me time to think and learn.
Grant me security before I go.
I’m not ready. Don’t wave at me!

I want more time for this love and laughter,
but I’ll be there, I know.
Winter will not sneak up on me.

—Caroline Reid

Caroline Reid
Caroline Reid

Grandpa

April 18, 2015 By Guest

Grandpa played a violin and
surrounded me with Norwegian folk tunes.
He fiddled and rocked and sang and laughed.
His face was crinkled from
sun and smiles and songs.

When I was only 10 they buried him
on a hill overlooking a valley of flowers and trees
and a stream that will forever flow.
Like the stream, he stayed with me.
I still hear his violin
and his music fills my soul.

—Caroline Reid

Caroline Reid
Caroline Reid

My Grandma

April 17, 2015 By Guest

Grandma died one day.

I lived 1500 miles away.
She died at 94.
I was too busy to stop and mourn.
I always sent her a special card.
She wrote back and said, “I like to be remembered.”
When she was 95 I bought a card to mail.
I stopped. I remembered. I mourned.

—Caroline Reid

Caroline Reid
Caroline Reid
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