Category: Poetry

Poem #11 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. The prompt was to write a “no one wants” poem. Today is Veteran’s Day in the United States, so I decided to write an anti-war poem.

No One Wants To Stare Down The Barrel Of The Gun

No Senator’s child wants to
No Congressmember’s child wants to
No Wall Street titan’s child wants to
No president’s child wants to
No chairman of the board’s child wants to
No governor’s child wants to
No investment banker’s child wants to
No hedge fund manager’s child wants to
No weapons manufacturer’s child wants to
No GE or Lockheed Martin or Boeing executive’s child wants to
No Blackwater mercenary leader’s child wants to
No Fox News commentator’s child wants to
No Glenn Beck disciple’s child wants to
No Tea Party patriot’s child wants to
No driver-with-a-yellow-ribbon’s child wants to
No PTSD sufferer’s child wants to
No homeless veteran’s child wants to
No psychiatrist’s child wants to
No VA doctor’s child wants to
No four-star general’s child wants to
No Chairman of the Joint Chief’s child wants to
No grieving mother’s child wants to
No despondent sister’s child wants to
No welfare recipient’s child wants to
No latchkey child wants to
No working-three-jobs-father’s child wants to
No out-of-work father’s child wants to
No single mother’s child wants to
No woman of color’s child wants to
No poor white person’s child wants to
No rich white person’s child wants to
No double-wide trailer child wants to
No Darien, Connecticut mansion child wants to
No ripped jeans child wants to
No designer jeans child wants to
No subsidized lunch child wants to
No sushi lunch child wants to
No Iraqi child wants to
No Iranian child wants to
No Pakistani child wants to
No Yemeni child wants to
No Afghan child wants to
No Palestinian child wants to
No Israeli child wants to
No American child wants to

Poem #8 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a “slow down” or “speed up” poem. I watched the documentary Crips And Bloods: Made In America today, which starts by talking about the 1965 urban rebellion in Watts, Los Angeles. This poem is attempt to slow down one moment of the so-called riots.

Avalon

the brick leaves
                the young man’s hand

arcs gracefully through
                the air

the spotlight from the police car
                catches it in flight

tumbling now

t u m b l i n g

there is all the

W t O i R m L e D

                now the cop
                rises from his crouch
                head just above the door
                of his patrol car

he sights down the barrel of his pistol

sees the black head of the enemy

draws in breath, pauses to steady
                his aim

moves his index finger to the trigger

starts    to    squeeze

                a corner of the brick hits him
                just above his left eye
                tears through skin, chips bone
                one down

Watts burns