Poem by Sarah Page, Rev Poet, activist, and co-publisher of Out of Our magazine

MOTHER OF THE WORLD

Don't ask me to grieve
for these children only
ask me to grieve for them all.

Ask me to grieve for the 16 million
who go to bed hungry
every night
ask me to grieve for them all.

Ask me to grieve for the 1.6 million
who go to sleep without a home
every night
ask me to grieve for them all.

Ask me to grieve for the six million
around the world who die from hunger
every year
or the 176 killed by US drones in Pakistan
ask me to grieve for them all.

You don't have to ask me to mourn
for these innocents
for I mourn all the children of this world
always
and I am ashamed
and I am grieving.

New poem by Dee Allen

STAY SILENT

                 For Lean-Lynn Plante, Matt Duran and Katie Olejnik

You're the latest
Catch in the federal dragnet
To your dismay.
You're summoned before
A cold, insinuating
Set of faces.
Take a seat
On the stand
And you're welcomed
Like the worst possible criminal.

Barrage of questions
Fly at you
Rapid-fire in
These secret proceedings.
Seated target has
No line of defence:
Barristers aren't allowed.
Witnesses are forbidden.
So you do
What heart advises:

Stay silent.

Summoned before the
Grand accusers again.
Take a seat and
Be a target again.
Barrage of questions
Dead aim again.
Probing for names
And certain identities
Familiar to you.
Digging for weakness
Gripping fear
On your part.
The accusers
Count greatly on your
Capitulation, cooperation,
Collaboration and implication
Of nearest & dearest.
And you choose again to

Stay silent.

Taciturn rebel
Charged with contempt
By a jury of no peers.
You feel nothing
For the court
But contempt.
As your punishment,
Buried alive
In grey concrete,
Reinforced steel,
Digital locks, alone.
Even this
Won't loosen your lips
Make you
Breathe a word
Whole sentences and
Destroy a community.
To do so would
Help out the witchfinders.
We know how that shit worked for
Early Massachusetts
Puritan culture.

There'll be no
Drownings or hangings.
Not on your watch.
Keep those lips sealed.
You saw nothing.
You heard nothing.
You breathe nothing.
The quiet can be powerful.
Stay silent.
___________________
W: 10.16.12

new poem by brigade member John Curl

TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

an exploitation of human labor business

a looking out for number one business

a make your pile and get out business

a boss order abomination business

a whatever the market will bear business

a cheat lie steal business

a do what you're told or else business

a degradation inflation depression toxic wastes business

a hemorrhoids beat your best friend business

a draft plutonium gangster business

an atomic dust imperial world war three business

a business as usual business

where is the honesty of penguins?

where is the justice of sunrise?

must free people be prepared to sleep as well

in garages, under bushes or in dreams?

even at this moment the boardmembers meet

in the condemned sewer to divide our livers

into exacting shares, sealing the fate

of munition profits on

our ability to have children

a rapture stars tumble along your spine business

a fields of orange poppies spread their knees to the mountains of your eyes business

a mass demonstration rubbed with alchemical smoke business

a conch shells withdrawing energy from stuffed ballot boxes business

a lifting the consecrated picket line to the east business

a boycott all businesses business

a submachineguns melt in cops screaming hands business

a collectivizing your boss' business business

an abolishing business

a taking care of business

New poem by jimmy.mankind

 the beach the sea

The old man strewn prone upon a green blanket when we arrived.   I’d say 11, she 11:30.

She, Marie, a meticulous clock, a camera, voice recorder meme artist supreme, was correct.

The sun-baker began making for us croissants of our bodies.

Avoiding a death wish, small scale, pain at least: at 12 we oiled each other.  At 12:15 the old man rose and waddled w/ gritty determination  was it determinism?

into the older, colder sea

I casually observed at 1^st a brave ol’ soul. 

Then a start, while he drove himself relentlessly into the oncoming waves as if he was wading to Japan.   You can walk out here a quarter mile before you have to jump for air.

A refrigerator, probably from Fukushima, glided by him inbound.  It stuck, sunk dumbly into the sand, tired-as-work from the battering trip

(excessive  agitation for a fridge).

It wormed into the sand and began to wriggle into its new continent with each thrusting undulation of its odd friends: the currents, tides, and myriad procrastinations of the sea.

The old man shrank to a mere head-bulb   bobbing alone past the easy shore-breakers.   He was approaching the big ones out past the flats before the solitary floating surfers.   He was their guest now.

You gasped.

“Get him!”  You said firmly.

I grimaced. 

I did not want to tell you this in your innocence:  “Darling.  There are 3 types of people, besides the one type you are.  There are the losers, the winners, and their thugs.   Which is he?”

You hit me.

“Save him!” you commanded.

I remember looking at you as at a goddess, #8886 of the Upper 10,000.  

Prosperity.   Luck.

I rose and started out to sea.

I could barely see him plowing ahead--away--from the swells which rose up like whales beneath my icy belly.

OK.  I’d told you.

But i was not.

i wanted to be with you forever…so bad i left you for Japan.

So bad i left You for japan.

---o---

This is the poem I would have read to you so many times before the times when I was hurt and could not think of it within my pain, which was busily teaching me another poem a song of longing to be whole and free/i think now. 

i forget more now.  marie

i know i am too tired to reach japan.

i cannot even see the old man’s head any more.

This is my attempt—a dream of mine as i go now--out to sea as you suggested—to write the very best poem I ever could--so heavy yet so light upon the wings of a swimmer--ever written…as time floats perfectly…

To give to you.

i realize now, how, i barely, if ever did, faintly, know you…

me…

the cold old man,  his green blanket.

the beach.

the sea.

Marie…

This is the best day of my life.

©  jimmy.mankind@gmail.com

new poem by Melba Abela

Vertical Judgment,
San Francisco 2012

somebody's mother
sister
holding an empty cup
at a street corner on
Van Ness and Market

somebody's father
brother
rummaging a trash can
by the bus stop at
Union and Laguna

did you see that
did you see that
it makes you puke
remembering
the blessedness
of the biblical poor
publicly gleaning
in humble sackcloth

but this is America
you said
that poor man
has a cell phone
that poor woman
has a tv in her room
even genius Einstein
did not own
a cell phone and
magnate Henry Ford
never had
a color tv

poverty in 2012 USA
a huckster’s joke
in an abundant land
of big moneybags
and bigger next social
media money-making
schemes


and so you turn
your fresh face away
annoyed that they are
littering your designer
pup’s view
standing sitting lying
in your space (on your
way to that new
fusion restaurant
or that fancy dog spa)


a public place
you paid for and
worked for with
government propped
low taxes while the
prodigals only wait and
wait as you salivate
religiously at the altar of
the ballooning bull
in our sinned
city of brotherly love.


Copyright ©2012 Melba Abela

new poem by brigade member John Curl

AMERICAN OVERTURN

 

Overturn a brand new leaf

leaf through a dog-eared book

book the d.a. for felony graft

graft a plum branch onto a peach root

root out the causes of social strife

strive toward revelatory visions

envision the end of bureaucratic dictators

dictate a hundred songs about love

love the work you live

live for wholeness and light

light the fires of forgiveness

forgive the failings of your parents

parent your children to interconnections

interconnect compassion to your world

world consciousness overturns.

Over turning privatized commons

spurning career politicians

churning ownership patents

burning corporate papers

turning over unjust laws.

Now all things American overturn.

 

Seamstresses unravel socks

carpenters nail their hammers

omelets flip themselves over

houses balance on their roof ridges

tree roots stretch into the air

cumulous clouds billow into back yards

senior execs pull each others’ comb-overs

FBI agents bug each others’ phones

patrol officers club each other over the head

incumbent officeholders change their names

the president’s cabinet put on false mustaches

Chamber of Commerce stuffs a brown paper bag

Secretary of the Interior hides in the closet

head of the SEC slips through the airport in drag

board chairmen arrive in the Cayman Islands

all the payoffs of all the corporate lobbyists

can’t buy a jelly sandwich

citizens declare the two-party system under

arrest for impersonating democracy.

Over turning privatized commons

spurning career politicians

churning ownership patents

burning corporate papers

turning over unjust laws.

Now all things American overturn.

 

 

 

New image-poem by Melba Abela

new poem by brigade member Carol Denney

The Worst Opera


my fifteenth court appearance
was like watching
the worst opera ever produced
the worst libretto
with the worst timing
the most boring costumes
the most terrible singers
no harmony
no instruments
a lot of whispering
the paper rustling was
louder than the actors
the audience was only waiting
for their small part to be over
and then one by one
they would leave


Carol Denney  6/8/2012

"Casserole" by Gary Hicks

casserole

             for laurie

remember that scene in malcolm x
where malcolm and the fruit of islam
descend upon the police station
and particularly that historico-cinematic
moment when malcolm's black- gloved
hand twists rightward and the fruit
does a left-face and marches away
along with all of the masses who came
to the police station?
do you remember that you asked me
if i was crying and i replied that
i had something in my eye?

well, i've always had this problem
of having eye-cinders at political moments
those specs just keep showing up!
the revolutionary peoples constitutional congress
philadelphia labor day weekend 1970
michael cetawayo tabor keynoting in
the indoor gym
the justice department may 1971 when the
d.c.'s black cops in total mutinous disobedience
to their white commanders refusing
to attack a nonviolent demonstration the first legal martin luther king holiday
in san francisco with at least one hundred
and more likely two hundred thousand
marchers coming across the east bay bridge
from san jose on trains reserved by the unions.

it seems that i've had a goodly supply of eye-cinders
to cover my false-shame for disobeying the rule
that men don't cry and now here we are again
another film that of one half million quebecois
students and all of their allies banging pots and
pans and strumming any and all string instruments
and out numbering the total activist pool of occupy
in my country where on mayday in oakland
eye-cinders invaded again to the sight of a mere
seven thousand marchers.

so i'm resigned to having to keep in stock many many
eye-cinders because both rumor and official story
have it that i don't cry.

berkeley ca     6-2-2012

gary hicks

new poem by brigade member John Curl

American Make-Believe


Lips meet passionate lips
in the nuanced shadows
gorgeous bodies intertwined
ecstatic dance joyful tears
soulful communion
forever whispering
infinite vows devoted depths.

Flip on the lights
giant screen torn and ragged
musty stale popcorn
rancid imitation butter
rows of empty seats
spilled soda
garbage all over the floor
smells like piss.
American make-believe.

Grammas dry their tears
with candidates promises
scribbled on shredded ballots,
nominees all promising
home love integrity prosperity
bouquets of imaginary hot jobs
blueberry syrup avatars
on every cyber maple pancake
belief in change and bereavement,
a young couple on a first date
pulled over by officers
in front of the high-tech playground
for reasons unstated in the report,
find their fashion-statement purse
and plastic leather wallet confiscated
photoshopped evidence
planted in every pocket
their late-model legoland SUV hijacked
every secret digital code of decency
systematically violated
orifices stuffed with sweaty junk
and auctioned to the highest bidder
while the duly-elected mayor
restoring public order
describes the peaceful demonstration
as an organized conspiracy
of arson and looting,
but it’s only American make-believe.

In the wake of three weeks of
indiscriminate bombardment
and revenge killings
leaving the remnants of
the once-stately city
in control of stylish pimps
drugged lieutenants
spitting strawbosses
TV detectives
psychotic anchormen
corrupted weathergirls flush
with sunny gusts in the 10-day forecast
while vomit gas permeates
all the side streets
thousands wounded, unknown dead
removing children's souls
stealing fingers for souvenirs
the masked soldiers
open fire on the hospital,
the crowd scatters, hundreds trampled
she watches her friend’s leg blown off,
they stand for hours in the freezing rain
to exercise their sacred right to vote,
but just kidding,
it’s only American make-believe.

by John Curl

A new poem by brigade member Mahnaz Badihian

Red as Poems of Jack Hirschman in SF

Tell me David* what should I write  

For this last poem before the finish line of my MFA

What should I write so you do not step on its tail?

To do surgery on its limbs or even pull its teeth

Or even give it to Dorianne** to kill it!

In that case there are not many more new subjects

I just have to repeat myself on the subject of

Love, sex, food, lovers, loneliness, exile and Recycled Woman

But I am astounded by the vast number of things we can write about

Like the thirsty flowers in our backyard that no one waters

Or about my little dogs dead mother!

See we can scream in style but we will spell the wrong words again

I may learn the art of poetry, but I have still to learn

The language of poetry that speaks of humanity

We have written so many poems in our life

But maybe not enough about hunger and people who witness

The death of their loved ones due to the lack of food, water and medicine

We have not written enough about the big thieves, the heads of governments

Let my last poem be about more urgent issues than my sexuality

Depicting the unheard voice of people in the world who die everyday

In every land by tyrants and wars

I ask myself sometimes this one big question;

What is the use of our poems if it cannot feed one hungry mouth?

What is the use if our poems are not as red as poems of Jack Hirschman in SF

And we are only trying to pull those nonsense lines from the genitalia of white pages

What is the use if we do not understand other people’s pain in this world and

Our poems only sleep between the pampered pages of North American magazines

You are so quiet and mysterious David that one cannot pass

The dark shades of your glasses to get the clear answer and see your poetic thoughts

I can climb on the vastness of each page repeatedly

 Hoping it will take me to the high tower of poetry

 But only then we can see the difficulty one may have to get close to harmony

Let’s get out of our tight, lonely houses and reach out to the poetry of the people.

* David St.John, Poet

** Dorianne Laux, Poet

Mahnaz Badihian 

new poem by brigade member John Curl

FOR THE INNOCENTS



all who have ever heard the message of the crickets

we call on you

all who have ever felt the wind splashing cleanly in your face

we call on you

all who have ever loved someone of another race

we call on you

all who are, or are descendants of

wageslaves serfs slaves prisoners debtors tenants housewives foreigners

we call on you

all who believe in the inalienable human right of the oppressed to throw off their oppressions and oppressors

we call on you



the night of the shame beyond madness is upon us

the despisers of sunrise

musicians of the ghastly dance

sorcerers grislier than hollywood movies



the night of those whose unquenchable destruction gushes from rivers of self-hate

whose murderous passions warp from the slaughtered children inside themselves



Even as these innocents are cowardly murdered one by one on city streets,

their elder brothers' deaths thousands by thousands on far off colonial shores

are being brazenly plotted in conference rooms,

their families' destruction millions by millions in wageslave pauperdom

is being flauntingly conspired

in those same plush chairs



We call down the spirit of Harriet Tubman and Angelina Grimke

the voice of Frederick Douglass and William Lloyd Garrison

the wrath of Nat Turner and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn

the heart of Sojourner Truth and Martin Irons

the strength of Thomas Paine and W.E.B. DeBois

the balance of Martin Luther King and Mother Jones



race war . . imperialist war . . . class war . . .

what's it all for . . ?



all who have ever heard the message of the crickets

we call on you

listen to the evidence



all who have ever felt the wind splashing cleanly in your face

we call on you

pass sentence



all who have ever wept at the mercy of spring

we call on you

stand with folded arms as a surrounding wall and carry out the sentence



for the innocents.

new poem by brigade member A. Nora Claypoole

This poem is from the new poetry collection  

embroidered maps, de los muertos

by a. nora claypoole

a wave was in her*

by a. nora claypoole

for Louise Bryant  and her daughter Anne Moen Bullitt

I.

swept away. a diva by her dad

under the aged bristles of gossip

their was no talk of a mother

there was no talk of her art

there was a quote in the daily news

about father is and god and freud applauded.

forgotten.  the preface

mother is my friend.

mother is a balloon

mother has bird’s nests in her belly

buttoned silent.  buttoned to rittenhouse square

her legacy of banishment was having a daughter

and loving a woman.  the paradox perplexes

the paradox exists

the paradox resists

the mother was a balloon

the mother was owned

by a man, with stolen rings

the mother wrote. her chimes

as  requiem to masses

bolshevik revivals an elixir to his kiss

collected countries in the hem of her dress

a poem was written. 

go to hell

II.

he asked for an epitaph and she laughed

a wave was in her then

it drowned the sins she hoped her daughter

would rename

her daughter

had her name and died inside her

god. as a friend to none

of the little sisters

 of saint veronica

of the assumption

was, she never loved

little sisters,  of mercy

shaved, veiled, chaste

thank her with a statue

 found broken in a box

III.

out west. her first paper.

 writing  about the klamath

modoc indians.  captain jack

her ikon.  hung by whites,

 scalped.  by her own people.

overseas.

a wave was in her.

IV.

not even fathers of the chiefs could save her

legacy is a refrain erased from music sheets

still shuffled on a piano sent East all the way from oregon.

today there is music in the village

* from “My Epitaph” by Louise Bryant
www.butterflywritingbio.blogspot.com 

new poems by brigade member Gary Hicks

to a serious inquirer

                              for blindpig

answer your questions
by bringing all that you know
to the fight at hand

all the new issues
will pose all new questions
to add to the old

we're on the rough road
building movements that will fight
until victory

leninism lives
but only as far as we
cease to genuflect

marxism lives too
but please remember lenin
was his disciple



elements of style

                    apologies to messrs strunk and white

first it was grammar all

those terms all those schematic

blackboard charts telling what

kinds of words went where when

speaking or reading  this was

supplemented by penmanship

using india ink and dip into inkwell

pens assuring that my mother

would scream as she tossed

yet another shirt to scrub out

stains alongside my father's

automotive industry leukemia

laden work clothes.

later it was composition also

jammed down my throat  hated

it with every bone in my body

excepting some moments of

fun writing flyers and

press releases for the movement

and discovered i could really

do this stuff if i wanted to.

then writing in prison  letters

to the outside  rapping with

fellow inmates which meant

writing and talking way too

much  it served me well later

in and out of college except

that on campus i rediscovered

my hatred of writing things not

of my own  was i the only one

who realized that fifteen pages

or more typed  double-spaced

footnotes properly placed

was so so tortuous where only

five pages, triple-spaced

could say it all? but we were

training to be real or wannabe

rulers  and i suppose that

it's par for the course to have

so evil a skill to be mastered

the better to mesmerize and

baffle people out of at least two

sides of your mouth

when i discovered that i could

write poetry and proceeded

to do so i finally cut through

all this bullshit  and strangely

years later my writing improved

it was as though i had become

an outlaw fugitive from convention

and upon return was

convention's master by virtue

of knowing what laws to obey

having skillfully broken all of them.

berkeley ca   april 27 2012

 

 

on finding an abandoned copy of dreams from my father

                                                    for bill fletcher' jr

beethoven's paean to bonaparte
became an elegy
disguised as majestic symphony
when the general annointed
himself emperor

i am a poet, know not a
word of music but this piece
is eroica, reloaded

all of the sacred words
of the great hope
have become naught
the world which held
its breath, bated
has reclaimed the
sense to exhale

and this poem is elegy
not for him who forgot
the difference between
puddles on chicago's
streets and the swamp
running off chesapeake
aside the potomac.

this is an elegy for
the dreams all our parents
and all who came before
and who one more time
have been betrayed
by a system
about whom
our great hopehad zip to say having
found himself the
latest if privileged
passenger on the
good ship jesus

this is an elegy
for our african
sisters and brothers
and of all who
went before them
mau mau lost the
battle and now
africom* and al qaida
cousins! must be
reckoned with

this is eroica, reloaded
elegy awaiting symphonic
music in four-four time
triumphal people's te deum

*africom..the african command of the united states armed forces
berkeley ca   4-29-2012
 

New poem by brigade member Jim Byron, "The Rules of the Game Have Changed"

THE RULES of the GAME HAVE CHANGED

When the pawns on both sides of the battle
Have built their own new city
And the bishop to the knight, he exclaims
That the kings and queens could no longer rule them
Wouldn't you say that the rules of the game have changed?

When the queen of hearts realizes
That she had been fooled
And that she too has been captured and enchained
And she sees that it is time to free the people
Then would you say that the rules of the game have changed?

So fold your hand; the jig is up
Take the rest of the wine that is left in your cup
When the game is over, there is nothing left to win
Cut your losses; it is time for a new beginning

When the laughter of all the jokers
Turns back into silence and peace
Hushes over where the swords once clanged
And the chips are left for worthless on the battlefield
Then would you say that the rules of the game have changed?

The Prizefight by brigade member Carol Denney

The Prizefight

a friend said he eats
for entertainment
giving me new perspective
on my melon
it was true
it was wildly entertaining
cutting it up
was like a prize fight
there was wrestling
fluids flying
it was exhausting
but I won.
of course, I
brought a knife

new poem by brigade member Sarah Menefee

red ant

that's what I am

a commie red ant

just see what happens

if you sit on me

with your fat 1% ass

that's why they call me

the fire ant

          Sarah Menefee

           written with the Occupy Your Visions

           writer's working group, OccupySF

new poem by brigade member Mark Lipman, "THE CROWS"

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Those crows been

  up in that tree

  longer than you’d know.

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Up there they perch

  with midnight beak askew,

  sharpened talons gripping silky bark

  ready to tear the flesh off

  the wayward field mouse.

 

Eyes translucent black

  they see right through you.

 

Cock-a-doodle-do.

 

You’d better have grit

  in your heart

  to travel in these woods.

 

Them crows be always

  one step ahead of you.

 

That’s cos they got 99

  to the 1 of you.

 

They may seem fearful,

  stepping back,

  retreating to their branches.

 

Just be careful overhead

  when you walk beneath

  them ficus.

 

Crows got a nasty way

  of keeping track of you.

So, don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Those crows been

  up in that tree

  longer than you’d know.

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Now, maybe you think

  you're gonna pitch a tent

  and stay awhile.

 

See what’s going on

  underneath them shooting stars.

 

And maybe you think those crows

  will just make way

                   for you …

 

… well, maybe they may,

  and maybe they won’t …

 

that really depends on

  your own intentions.

 

The tree is big

  and its limbs are wide.

 

There is space

  for all who wish to reside.

 

Yet, as you climb up high,

  into the thicket of those leafy branches

  do not be too surprised

  if the crows have all absconded

  and flown, now left unable to follow …

 

You might take the tree,

  but does that make you truly free,

  when their silence

  has stolen your thunder?

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Those crows been

  up in that tree

  longer than you’d know.

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

They followed me home tonight.

 

I could see their shadows

  lurking above

  stalking my every footstep

  daring me to slow my pace

  pushing me forward

  I ran away

  feet falling fast

  beating damp cobblestone.

 

I turned towards a darkened alley

  candle light shimmering

  brick cages closing in.

 

They circled in above my head.

 

Cawing, their raucous voices

  taunted my path

  unto my very doorstep.

 

Turning silver key,

  I entered safer quarters.

 

Collapsing on my sofa,

  I took solace in the knowledge

  that not a moment of this

  would make the evening news.

 

Officially, they didn’t exist.

 

Those crows – gazing

  through my window

  pecking at my eyes

  filling my head

  with their social discontent …

 

  were only a figment

  of my imagination

 

… or so I am told.

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Those crows been

  up in that tree

  longer than you’d know.

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

In winter, naked branches

  stretch out in all directions.

 

Their spindly fingers

  make nest for a flock of silhouettes.

 

99 crows have gathered.

 

They gaze onto the horizon

  watching and waiting

  they bide their time.

 

The sun sets burnt orange

  down before them.

 

Twilight marks their feeding time

  the tide is now uprising.

 

As if a cue had just been called

  they cock their heads

  and lift their beaks

  and though as if exploding

  they burst into the sky.

 

Streaking black the eventide

  99 crows devour the horizon.

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Those crows been

  up in that tree

  longer than you’d know.

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Now, maybe you think you’re a hawk,

  circling overhead,

 

or the noble and bloodthirsty eagle

  watching from on high,

 

looking down with ridicule.

  onto the swarming negro masses below.

 

But let it just be advertized,

  those crows ain’t no doves,

  ready to coo and die.

 

They’re too experienced for that.

 

Their lack of attack is based

  more on the intellectual,

  of knowing how and where

  to strike their blows

  to be the most effectual.

 

With all your speed and strength,

  the audacity of your governance

  you’d never see it coming.

 

The crows are everywhere,

  they are every one of us.

 

When we come

  it will be from every direction.

 

So, don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.

 

Those crows been

  up in that tree

  longer than you’d know.

 

Don’t you dare disturb

                 those crows.