MRS. BASHAM THIS IS MY ORIGINAL POEM #2
Peace or Poverty
Their skin soaks up the heat
Leaving it as black as the midnight sky,
Their eyes wide, white, pleading
Begging to the passersby.
They litter the street
Half naked bodies,
Red and colouring their feet
Searching for a entrance
A door out of the circle of poverty.
Poverty means destruction
Destruction means fear
Behind locked doors we sit in early evening
Too scared to see a black face
Terrified of black feet crossing the threshold.
But why be fearful of your slaves,
Those you whip and beat
Treating like the dirt from the doormat
Where you wipe your feet.
Role diversity causes poverty
Poverty destroys peace
But peace minus poverty
Means Equality should increase.
by:Sonali Shah
This poem can be found in www.poemhunter.com/poem/peace-or-poverty/
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
SALT OF THE EARTH PEOPLE
Author: Gavin y Russell Closey, New Zealand
Not Rated Average Good Great Excellent Unbelievable
We break our backs daily in the sweatshop
Working from dusk to dawn for very small pay
We're paying rent, gas, and the tax man
By voting it's said we can have our say
But what can we really do, poor people
Aren't we just pawns in their game
Faceless numbers on rich man's account sheet
Credit can lure us like moths to a flame
So maybe they can control the masses
If we allow them to rule the roost
Our votes bought by countless promises
Sales pitches fool us, their tills boost
So stand together in union all as one
Small people be strong, then battle is won
Not Rated Average Good Great Excellent Unbelievable
We break our backs daily in the sweatshop
Working from dusk to dawn for very small pay
We're paying rent, gas, and the tax man
By voting it's said we can have our say
But what can we really do, poor people
Aren't we just pawns in their game
Faceless numbers on rich man's account sheet
Credit can lure us like moths to a flame
So maybe they can control the masses
If we allow them to rule the roost
Our votes bought by countless promises
Sales pitches fool us, their tills boost
So stand together in union all as one
Small people be strong, then battle is won
This is my lyric
a song by Zack de la Rocha & DJ Shadow Original Site Download Scrawl Wall Contact
I was born with the voice of a riot, a storm
Lightening the function, the form
Far from the norm, I wont follow like cattle
I'm more like a catalyst; calm in the mix of battle
Who let the cowboy on the saddle? He don't know a missle from a gavel
Para terror troopin flippin loops of death upon innocent flesh
But I'm back in the cipher my foes and friends
With a verse and a pen, against a line I won't toe or defend
Instead I curse at the murderous men in suits of professionals who act like animals
This man child, ruthless and wild
Who gonna chain this beast back on the leash?
This Texas Furor (Führer), for sure a, compassionless con who serve a
Lethal needle to the poor. The cure for crime is murder?
On the left, left, right, left
But it's just the march of death
I read the news today, oh boy, a snap shot of a midnight ploy
Vexed and powerless, devoured my hours I'm motionless with no rest
Cause a scream now holds the sky, under another high-tech drive-by
A lie is a lie this God is an eagle or a condor for war and nothing more
Islam peace, Islam stare into my eyes brother please off our knees
To beef now we feed their disease, interlocked our hands across seas
What is a flag but a rag, a shroud out loud, outside a faceless crowd
Cause a cowering child just took her last breath, one snare in the march of death
On the left, left, right, left
But it's just the march of death
Here it comes the sound of terror from above
He flex his Texas twisted tongue
The poor lined up to kill in desert slums
For oil that boil beneath the desert sun
Now we split flame we flip this game
All the targets are taking aim
All targets are taking aim
We're the targets, they're taking aim
a song by Zack de la Rocha & DJ Shadow Original Site Download Scrawl Wall Contact
I was born with the voice of a riot, a storm
Lightening the function, the form
Far from the norm, I wont follow like cattle
I'm more like a catalyst; calm in the mix of battle
Who let the cowboy on the saddle? He don't know a missle from a gavel
Para terror troopin flippin loops of death upon innocent flesh
But I'm back in the cipher my foes and friends
With a verse and a pen, against a line I won't toe or defend
Instead I curse at the murderous men in suits of professionals who act like animals
This man child, ruthless and wild
Who gonna chain this beast back on the leash?
This Texas Furor (Führer), for sure a, compassionless con who serve a
Lethal needle to the poor. The cure for crime is murder?
On the left, left, right, left
But it's just the march of death
I read the news today, oh boy, a snap shot of a midnight ploy
Vexed and powerless, devoured my hours I'm motionless with no rest
Cause a scream now holds the sky, under another high-tech drive-by
A lie is a lie this God is an eagle or a condor for war and nothing more
Islam peace, Islam stare into my eyes brother please off our knees
To beef now we feed their disease, interlocked our hands across seas
What is a flag but a rag, a shroud out loud, outside a faceless crowd
Cause a cowering child just took her last breath, one snare in the march of death
On the left, left, right, left
But it's just the march of death
Here it comes the sound of terror from above
He flex his Texas twisted tongue
The poor lined up to kill in desert slums
For oil that boil beneath the desert sun
Now we split flame we flip this game
All the targets are taking aim
All targets are taking aim
We're the targets, they're taking aim
Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief
A poor wayfaring Man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay.
I had not power to ask his name,
Whereto he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love; I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered; not a word he spake,
Just perishing for want of bread.
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again.
Mine was an angel’s portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
The crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone.
The heedless water mocked his thirst;
He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
I ran and raised the suff’rer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped and returned it running o’er;
I drank and never thirsted more.
’Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof.
I heard his voice abroad and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof.
I warmed and clothed and cheered my guest
And laid him on my couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden’s garden while I dreamed.
Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side.
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment—he was healed.
I had myself a wound concealed,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
In pris’n I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor’s doom at morn.
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honored him ’mid shame and scorn.
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill,
But my free spirit cried, “I will!”
Then in a moment to my view
The stranger started from disguise.
The tokens in His hands I knew;
The Savior stood before mine eyes.
He spake, and my poor name He named,
“Of Me thou hast not been ashamed.
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me.”
by:James Montgomery
This poem is found in www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poor-wayfaring-man-of-grief/
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay.
I had not power to ask his name,
Whereto he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love; I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered; not a word he spake,
Just perishing for want of bread.
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again.
Mine was an angel’s portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
The crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone.
The heedless water mocked his thirst;
He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
I ran and raised the suff’rer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped and returned it running o’er;
I drank and never thirsted more.
’Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof.
I heard his voice abroad and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof.
I warmed and clothed and cheered my guest
And laid him on my couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden’s garden while I dreamed.
Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side.
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment—he was healed.
I had myself a wound concealed,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
In pris’n I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor’s doom at morn.
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honored him ’mid shame and scorn.
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill,
But my free spirit cried, “I will!”
Then in a moment to my view
The stranger started from disguise.
The tokens in His hands I knew;
The Savior stood before mine eyes.
He spake, and my poor name He named,
“Of Me thou hast not been ashamed.
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me.”
by:James Montgomery
This poem is found in www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poor-wayfaring-man-of-grief/
Mother
Mom,Mom don't cry
It's not the end of our lives
We may be poor,and live in a park
But what's more important is that we have not died.
It's not the end of our lives
We may be poor,and live in a park
But what's more important is that we have not died.
A POOR PEOPLE'S POEM
This poem corajudo bold has got a bad attittude un genio from darkness and your afraid of my poem
afraid of this deep dark red poem that bleeds woman words
you you're cuz even though this poem is about survival it isn't about endangered whales or dying forests
Listen this is a poor woman's poem a mexicana chicana mestiza india mujer
Este de los angeles poem yeah thia poem's got roaches crawling all over it and tiny pink mice nibblingat the edges
Listen this poem rides the bus works 12 hours a day 7 days a week with no medical benefits and no paid vacations
Listen this poem has crossed rivers and moutains jumped over and crawled under barb-wired fences this poem has slaved in hot-sun pesticide fields picking piscando your lettuce tomatoes oranges onions picking piscando the vegetables and fruits that make your meals nice and balanced
And this poem has worked all kinds of shifts in inner-city factories sewing packaging stuffing cutting folding ironing the clothes you wear the jeans the shirts the jackets that keep you in style yeah this is a poor woman's poem a brown people's poem so you see right now we don't want to talk about the ozone layer
We the people in this poem we wanna talk about drugs about the alcohol cocain crack heroin impregnating our communities making modern colonized brown black slaves of us
we wanna talk about food stamps about jobs and fair wages about 12 hour shifts and working conditions
we wanna talk about the police about choke-hold and billy clubs about busted heads and handcuffed minds about sharp-teeth dogs and shackled freedom about racist cops who hate poor brown black people
we wanna talk about dyingabout the river of blood flowing where we live about the heads of 2 year old babies scattered on concrete floors about the moutain of bodies here outlined in white chalk
So you see right now we don't wanna hear you preach about recycling cuz poor people like us we've always recycled we invented the word and out of necessity recycled our papers, cans, bottles recycled even our dreams
So you see we do wanna talk but talk about lies about Am er i kkka about treaties broken and lands and people stolen
we wanna talk about SLAVERY u.s colonization Third World penetration AND you you're afraid of my poem
afraid of the East side poem holding hands with El Salvador, Nicaragua, Tijuana, Chiapas, Pico-Union holding hands with SWETO
South central L.A yeah i know you're afraid of this brown black poor people's poem
This poem pregnant with power waiting to be born.
by:Olga Angelica Garcia
This poem is found in http://www.kintespace.com/p_olga1.html
afraid of this deep dark red poem that bleeds woman words
you you're cuz even though this poem is about survival it isn't about endangered whales or dying forests
Listen this is a poor woman's poem a mexicana chicana mestiza india mujer
Este de los angeles poem yeah thia poem's got roaches crawling all over it and tiny pink mice nibblingat the edges
Listen this poem rides the bus works 12 hours a day 7 days a week with no medical benefits and no paid vacations
Listen this poem has crossed rivers and moutains jumped over and crawled under barb-wired fences this poem has slaved in hot-sun pesticide fields picking piscando your lettuce tomatoes oranges onions picking piscando the vegetables and fruits that make your meals nice and balanced
And this poem has worked all kinds of shifts in inner-city factories sewing packaging stuffing cutting folding ironing the clothes you wear the jeans the shirts the jackets that keep you in style yeah this is a poor woman's poem a brown people's poem so you see right now we don't want to talk about the ozone layer
We the people in this poem we wanna talk about drugs about the alcohol cocain crack heroin impregnating our communities making modern colonized brown black slaves of us
we wanna talk about food stamps about jobs and fair wages about 12 hour shifts and working conditions
we wanna talk about the police about choke-hold and billy clubs about busted heads and handcuffed minds about sharp-teeth dogs and shackled freedom about racist cops who hate poor brown black people
we wanna talk about dyingabout the river of blood flowing where we live about the heads of 2 year old babies scattered on concrete floors about the moutain of bodies here outlined in white chalk
So you see right now we don't wanna hear you preach about recycling cuz poor people like us we've always recycled we invented the word and out of necessity recycled our papers, cans, bottles recycled even our dreams
So you see we do wanna talk but talk about lies about Am er i kkka about treaties broken and lands and people stolen
we wanna talk about SLAVERY u.s colonization Third World penetration AND you you're afraid of my poem
afraid of the East side poem holding hands with El Salvador, Nicaragua, Tijuana, Chiapas, Pico-Union holding hands with SWETO
South central L.A yeah i know you're afraid of this brown black poor people's poem
This poem pregnant with power waiting to be born.
by:Olga Angelica Garcia
This poem is found in http://www.kintespace.com/p_olga1.html
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