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Erections, Elections, No Objections

let us trade

martin.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Symphony

"O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert dead!
The Time needs heart -- 'tis tired of head:
We're all for love," the violins said.
"Of what avail the rigorous tale
Of bill for coin and box for bale?
Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost hope:
Level red gold with blue sky-slope,
And base it deep as devils grope:
When all's done, what hast thou won
Of the only sweet that's under the sun?
Ay, canst thou buy a single sigh
Of true love's least, least ecstasy?"
Then, with a bridegroom's heart-beats trembling,
All the mightier strings assembling
Ranged them on the violins' side
As when the bridegroom leads the bride,
And, heart in voice, together cried:
"Yea, what avail the endless tale
Of gain by cunning and plus by sale?
Look up the land, look down the land
The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand
Wedged by the pressing of Trade's hand
Against an inward-opening door
That pressure tightens evermore:
They sigh a monstrous foul-air sigh
For the outside leagues of liberty,
Where Art, sweet lark, translates the sky
Into a heavenly melody.
`Each day, all day' (these poor folks say),
`In the same old year-long, drear-long way,
We weave in the mills and heave in the kilns,
We sieve mine-meshes under the hills,
And thieve much gold from the Devil's bank tills,
To relieve, O God, what manner of ills? --
The beasts, they hunger, and eat, and die;
And so do we, and the world's a sty;
Hush, fellow-swine: why nuzzle and cry?
"Swinehood hath no remedy"
Say many men, and hasten by,
Clamping the nose and blinking the eye.
But who said once, in the lordly tone,
"Man shall not live by bread alone
But all that cometh from the Throne?"
Hath God said so?
But Trade saith "No:"
And the kilns and the curt-tongued mills say "Go!
There's plenty that can, if you can't: we know.
Move out, if you think you're underpaid.
The poor are prolific; we're not afraid;
Trade is trade."'"

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poem by Sidney Lanier
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The Hind And The Panther, A Poem In Three Parts : Part III.

Much malice, mingled with a little wit,
Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ;
Because the muse has peopled Caledon
With panthers, bears, and wolves, and beasts unknown,
As if we were not stocked with monsters of our own.
Let Æsop answer, who has set to view
Such kinds as Greece and Phrygia never knew;
And Mother Hubbard, in her homely dress,
Has sharply blamed a British lioness;
That queen, whose feast the factious rabble keep,
Exposed obscenely naked, and asleep.
Led by those great examples, may not I
The wonted organs of their words supply?
If men transact like brutes, 'tis equal then
For brutes to claim the privilege of men.
Others our Hind of folly will indite,
To entertain a dangerous guest by night.
Let those remember, that she cannot die,
Till rolling time is lost in round eternity;
Nor need she fear the Panther, though untamed,
Because the Lion's peace was now proclaimed;
The wary savage would not give offence,
To forfeit the protection of her prince;
But watched the time her vengeance to complete,
When all her furry sons in frequent senate met;
Meanwhile she quenched her fury at the flood,
And with a lenten salad cooled her blood.
Their commons, though but coarse, were nothing scant,
Nor did their minds an equal banquet want.
For now the Hind, whose noble nature strove
To express her plain simplicity of love,
Did all the honours of her house so well,
No sharp debates disturbed the friendly meal.
She turned the talk, avoiding that extreme,
To common dangers past, a sadly-pleasing theme;
Remembering every storm which tossed the state,
When both were objects of the public hate,
And dropt a tear betwixt for her own children's fate.
Nor failed she then a full review to make
Of what the Panther suffered for her sake;
Her lost esteem, her truth, her loyal care,
Her faith unshaken to an exiled heir,
Her strength to endure, her courage to defy,
Her choice of honourable infamy.
On these, prolixly thankful, she enlarged;
Then with acknowledgments herself she charged;
For friendship, of itself an holy tie,
Is made more sacred by adversity.
Now should they part, malicious tongues would say,
They met like chance companions on the way,

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poem by John Dryden
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The Hammers

I

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786

Bang!
Bang!
Tap!
Tap-a-tap! Rap!
All through the lead and silver Winter days,
All through the copper of Autumn hazes.
Tap to the red rising sun,
Tap to the purple setting sun.
Four years pass before the job is done.
Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,
Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,
Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks
With huge boles
Round which the tape rolls
Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks.
Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;
Planking from Dantzig.
My! What timber goes into a ship!
Tap! Tap!
Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,
Tapping, tapping.
You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze.
Through the fog down the reaches of the river,
The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.
The church-bells chime
Hours and hours,
Dropping days in showers.
Bang! Rap! Tap!
Go the hammers all the time.
They have planked up her timbers
And the nails are driven to the head;
They have decked her over,
And again, and again.
The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.
Black and blue breeches,
Pigtails bound and shining:
Like ants crawling about,
The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.
Joiners, calkers,
And they are all terrible talkers.
Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales
Of whales, and spice islands,
And pirates off the Barbary coast.
He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.
Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,
He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:

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poem by Amy Lowell
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Aston Martin

24 hour sunset,
I got a tank of gas and...
All the things i can do when driving with you in my aston
(oh oh oh oh!)
It's a perfect chance (oh oh oh oh!)
For some romance (oh oho oh oh!)
With a little luck now baby,
(oh oh oh oh!)
We might get to start
(oh oh oh oh!)
Chorus:
In my aston martin,
(oh oh ooh oh!)
We might get started,
(oh oh ooh oh!)
In my aston martin
(oh oh ooh oh!)
Let's go!
(oh oh ooh oh!)
In my aston martin,
(oh oh ooh oh!)
You can call me darling,
(oh oh ooh oh!)
In my aston martin
(oh oh ooh oh!)
Let's go!
(oh oh ooh oh!)
I love the records playing,
On a late night radio,
Just anticipating how much faster we can go
(oh oh ooh oh!)
It's a perfect chance (oh oh ooh oh!)
For some romance (oh oh ooh oh!)
Got my fingers crossed now baby,
(oh oh ooh oh!)
That we get locked...
(oh oh ooh oh!)
Repeat chorus:
Way down by the sea,
Is where i wanna be,
Way down by the sea,
Is where i wanna be,
Way down by the sea,
(in my aston martin)
Is where i wanna be,
(we might get started)
Way down by the sea,
(in my aston martin)
Is where i wanna be,
Way down by the sea,

[...] Read more

song performed by Kylie Minogue
Added by Lucian Velea
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Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Is In Heaven

Brother Martin was assassinated at a very young age.
Intelligent and determined; he was a wise sage.
I am convinced that he is definitely the only man
In Heaven.

Bro. Martin fought for everybody’s civil rights, regardless of race,
Color, gender, origin, etcetera, etcetera. He is in a better place
Right now, I feel that he is the only man
In Heaven.

Brother Martin was a very dedicated disciple of Jesus Christ,
Who did not fight back, but he was stronger than ice;
He was a peaceful warrior. I know that he is the only man
In Heaven.

There is a lot that one can say and write about this legend.
He had many dreams and great visions, He knew how to blend
Fiction and reality. He was a man of ideas and actions.
Brother Martin is in Heaven working on different transactions.

I want to thank him and his associates for their sacrifices.
Brother Martin is still alive. His dreams are alive under the auspices
Of God’s blessings to fight racism, unfairness and all sorts of inequalities.
Brother Martin is not dead. We shall overcome despite our inabilities.

Jesus died for our sins, but Brother Martin died for things
That benefit all humanities. Let the angels sing, let freedom ring
In every corner of the earth. I am overjoyed to say that Brother Martin
Is in Heaven.

poem by Hebert Logerie (15 January 2012)
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Tale XIX

THE CONVERT.

Some to our Hero have a hero's name
Denied, because no father's he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend -
A point she was not eager to defend:
But who, without a father's name, can raise
His own so high, deserves the greater praise;
The less advantage to the strife he brought,
The greater wonders has his prowess wrought;
He who depends upon his wind and limbs,
Needs neither cork nor bladder when he swims;
Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along,
As not himself--but in his helpers--strong.
Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear,
For call John Dighton, and he answer'd 'Here!'
But who that name in early life assign'd
He never found, he never tried to find:
Whether his kindred were to John disgrace,
Or John to them, is a disputed case;
His infant state owed nothing to their care -
His mind neglected, and his body bare;
All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
But in a market-town an active boy
Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ;
Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began
To show the talents of a thriving man.
With spirit high John learn'd the world to

brave,
And in both senses was a ready knave;
Knave as of old obedient, keen, and quick,
Knave as of present, skill'd to shift and trick;
Some humble part of many trades he caught,
He for the builder and the painter wrought;
For serving-maids on secret errands ran,
The waiter's helper, and the ostler's man;
And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose,
His varying genius shone in blacking shoes:
A midnight fisher by the pond he stood,
Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood;
At an election John's impartial mind
Was to no cause nor candidate confined;
To all in turn he full allegiance swore,
And in his hat the various badges bore:
His liberal soul with every sect agreed,
Unheard their reasons, he received their creed:

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poem by George Crabbe
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Tradewinds

(macdonald / salter)
Here I stand looking, looking around me
While all around me what do I see
Unhappy faces behind a painted smile
Heartache and loneliness dressed up in modern style
Unhappy people living in sin and shame
Reflections of myself, life is no easy game
Were caught in the trade winds
The trade winds of our time
Here I stand looking, looking around me
While all around me what do I see
Young girls wholl soon become
Streetwalkers in the night
Young boys, the restless breed
Looking for a fight
Children both rich and poor
Theyre searching for the truth
If they dont find it
God help tomorrows youth
Were caught in the trade winds
The trade winds of our time
Trade winds are blowing, blowing around me
While all around me what do I see
Hatred and jealousy
Brotherhood is dying
Love is the answer
But nobodys buying
Good people turning bad
Some dont but they are few
The winds are blowing
The choice is all up to you
Were caught in the trade winds
The trade winds of our time
Yes were caught up in the trade winds
The trade winds of our time
We are riding on the trade winds
The trade winds of our time

song performed by Rod Stewart
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Long Way To Go

We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
Her/His skin wasn't the same color as mine
But she/he was fine, she/he was fine
If all men are made equal
Then she/he was fine, she/he was fine
Up until the time we went out on a date
I was fine, I was fine
Now I'm getting dirty looks, I wonder what they'd say
If we were blind, we were blind people
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
Beauty is beauty, whether it's black or white
Yellow or green baby, you know what I mean
What if Picasso only used one color
There shouldn't be a rule, how to choose your lover
Lovers in love is such a wonderful thing
Maybe in time, we'll get together and sing
I really hope so, there's nothing wrong with this picture
We got a long way to go, we gotta get there quicker
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
What color is love [3x]
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
...that all men are created equal...
...children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by...
...by the color of their skin...
...but by the content of their character...
...this will be the day when all of God's children...

[...] Read more

song performed by Gwen Stefani
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Long Way To Go (feat. Andr 3000)

We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
Her/His skin wasn't the same color as mine
But she/he was fine, she/he was fine
If all men are made equal
Then she/he was fine, she/he was fine
Up until the time we went out on a date
I was fine, I was fine
Now I'm getting dirty looks, I wonder what they'd say
If we were blind, we were blind people
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
Beauty is beauty, whether it's black or white
Yellow or green baby, you know what I mean
What if Picasso only used one color
There shouldn't be a rule, how to choose your lover
Lovers in love is such a wonderful thing
Maybe in time, we'll get together and sing
I really hope so, there's nothing wrong with this picture
We got a long way to go, we gotta get there quicker
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
What color is love [3x]
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
...that all men are created equal...
...children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by...
...by the color of their skin...
...but by the content of their character...
...this will be the day when all of God's children...

[...] Read more

song performed by Gwen Stefani
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto I

THE ARGUMENT

The Knight and Squire resolve, at once,
The one the other to renounce.
They both approach the Lady's Bower;
The Squire t'inform, the Knight to woo her.
She treats them with a Masquerade,
By Furies and Hobgoblins made;
From which the Squire conveys the Knight,
And steals him from himself, by Night.

'Tis true, no lover has that pow'r
T' enforce a desperate amour,
As he that has two strings t' his bow,
And burns for love and money too;
For then he's brave and resolute,
Disdains to render in his suit,
Has all his flames and raptures double,
And hangs or drowns with half the trouble,
While those who sillily pursue,
The simple, downright way, and true,
Make as unlucky applications,
And steer against the stream their passions.
Some forge their mistresses of stars,
And when the ladies prove averse,
And more untoward to be won
Than by CALIGULA the Moon,
Cry out upon the stars, for doing
Ill offices to cross their wooing;
When only by themselves they're hindred,
For trusting those they made her kindred;
And still, the harsher and hide-bounder
The damsels prove, become the fonder.
For what mad lover ever dy'd
To gain a soft and gentle bride?
Or for a lady tender-hearted,
In purling streams or hemp departed?
Leap'd headlong int' Elysium,
Through th' windows of a dazzling room?
But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,
The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.
This to the Knight could be no news,
With all mankind so much in use;
Who therefore took the wiser course,
To make the most of his amours,
Resolv'd to try all sorts of ways,
As follows in due time and place

No sooner was the bloody fight,
Between the Wizard, and the Knight,

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Butler
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Who Gave The Order

I'm Buju Banton with the preacher's son
Who gave the orders
For them to go, alright
Who gave the orders
Martin was shut down, ah, alright
Who gave the orders
To drop the bomb, we wanna know
Who gave the orders
No refugees across the borders, yeah
Questions asked with no response, ey, Wyclef
Who's gonna answer
Where did all these guns come from, tell me, ey
Who's gonna answer
Feeding lies to our daughters and sons
But they will have to answer
Then what you gonna do when the Rastaman comes
Where you gonna run for cover
Looking through the window of my ire eyes
On this city filled with lies
Observing the people working so hard
Doing whatever it takes to get by
Then I look at myself and realize
That I was put here for a reason
Lord knows I've done my best and I've tried
We gon' keep trying
Who gave the orders
For them to go, Lord no
Who gave the orders
Martin was gunned down, oh
Who gave the orders
To drop the bomb, my God
Who gave the orders
No refugees across the borders, who
Questions asked with no response, ey, Wyclef
Who's gonna answer
Where did all these guns come from, tell me
Who's gonna answer
Feeding lies to our daughters and sons
They will have to answer
Then what they gonna do when the Rastaman comes
Where you gonna run for cover
Well what you gonna do, what you gonna do, what are you gonna do
Incarcerate a million and only free few
What was done to others, it shall be done to you
Open up your eyes and you will see the full view
Work all day, and you can't get raise in pay
Civilly bodies being taken away
I wonder what the voice of the people have to say
Stand up and defend your rights today
Who gave the orders, who gave the orders

[...] Read more

song performed by Wyclef Jean
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Credo

I.

For the sole edification
Of this decent congregation,
Goodly people, by your grant
I will sing a holy chant—
I will sing a holy chant.
If the ditty sound but oddly,
'Twas a father, wise and godly,
Sang it so long ago—
Then sing as Martin Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
'Who loves not wine, woman and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!'

II.

He, by custom patriarchal,
Loved to see the beaker sparkle;
And he thought the wine improved,
Tasted by the lips he loved—
By the kindly lips he loved.
Friends, I wish this custom pious
Duly were observed by us,
To combine love, song, wine,
And sing as Martin Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
'Who loves not wine, woman and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!'

III.

Who refuses this our Credo,
And who will not sing as we do,
Were he holy as John Knox,
I'd pronounce him heterodox!
I'd pronounce him heterodox,
And from out this congregation,
With a solemn commination,
Banish quick the heretic,
Who will not sing as Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
'Who loves not wine, woman and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!'

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Borough. Letter VIII: Trades

OF manufactures, trade, inventions rare,
Steam-towers and looms, you'd know our Borough's

share -
'Tis small: we boast not these rich subjects here,
Who hazard thrice ten thousand pounds a-year;
We've no huge buildings, where incessant noise
Is made by springs and spindles, girls and boys;
Where, 'mid such thundering sounds, the maiden's

song
Is 'Harmony in Uproar' all day long.
Still common minds with us in common trade,
Have gain'd more wealth than ever student made;
And yet a merchant, when he gives his son
His college-learning, thinks his duty done;
A way to wealth he leaves his boy to find,
Just when he's made for the discovery blind.
Jones and his wife perceived their elder boy
Took to his learning, and it gave them joy;
This they encouraged, and were bless'd to see
Their son a fellow with a high degree;
A living fell, he married, and his sire
Declared 'twas all a father could require;
Children then bless'd them, and when letters came,
The parents proudly told each grandchild's name.
Meantime the sons at home in trade were placed,
Money their object--just the father's taste;
Saving he lived and long, and when he died,
He gave them all his fortune to divide:
'Martin,' said he, 'at vast expense was taught;
He gain'd his wish, and has the ease he sought.'
Thus the good priest (the Christian scholar!)

finds
'What estimate is made by vulgar minds;
He sees his brothers, who had every gift
Of thriving, now assisted in their thrift;
While he, whom learning, habits, all prevent,
Is largely mulct for each impediment.
Yet let us own that Trade has much of chance,
Not all the careful by their care advance;
With the same parts and prospects, one a seat
Builds for himself; one finds it in the Fleet.
Then to the wealthy you will see denied
Comforts and joys that with the poor abide:
There are who labour through the year, and yet
No more have gain'd than--not to be in debt:
Who still maintain the same laborious course,
Yet pleasure hails them from some favourite source,

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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The Dusky Wood-Swallow

Surely must you know me,
Friendly and content;
All my actions show me
Freely confident;
With my band of toilers,
When the blue days smile:
Little Jacky Martin
Come to stay a while.

Every town and village
Knows me, every farm.
Mine no wish to pillage,
Mine no will to harm;
Busy in the orchard,
My pest-destroying band:
Little Jacky Martin
Come to lend a hand.

Suddenly appearing
In far forest land
When you've cut a clearing,
Lo, I am at hand,
Wheeling, soaring floating
Where the new fields bask;
Little Jacky Martin
Come to aid the task.

In the chilly weather
See us in the trees,
Huddled up together
Like the swarming bees.
Awing again and toiling
When the chill days end;
Little Jacky Martin
Everybody's friend.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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I am Trayvon Martin (Justice Is Never Irrelevant)

I am Trayvon Martin
Yo soy Trayvon Martin
Je suis Trayvon Martin
Mwen se Trauvon Martin

For a long time and even now,
Justice
Is never irrelevant to us.
Very often, we wonder how
Come we are always
The victims, the culprits,
The ones who get dumped in the pits
In the shallow graves.
We get killed by being in the wrong place
At the wrong time.
We get mace on our face
For no reasons.
A horrendous crime
Is being perpetrated this season
By the namby pamby warden,
Who should be in jail, in prison.
This is high treason
For not respecting valor,
Uniforms, candor
And peers.
No one cheers,
Once ignorance
And malfeasance
Show up at the door
Of the poor
Victims.
Everyone screams,
Because the injustice
Is blatantly obvious.
This is somewhat peculiar.
The skin color
Of the Scholar
Is the matter.
The brother and the sister
Finally got a job,
But when the stock broker
Can no longer rob
The poor clients;
The brother and the sister,
Who were last hired,
Are the first saints
To be fired.
Our offspring is profiled
From the crib;
Our progenitor is defiled

[...] Read more

poem by Hebert Logerie (March 2012)
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I Am Trayvon Martin Too (Speak Aloud, Be Loud...)

I am Trayvon Martin Too
Je Suis Trayvon Martin Aussi
Yo Soy Trayvon Martin Tambien
Mwen Se Trayvon Martin Tou

(Speak Aloud, Be Loud…)

Speak aloud, be loud, and raise the decibels;
So the deaf, and the racist imbeciles
Can hear the storms that are brewing
Over this sad, and unfortunate slaying
Of this young combatant, and innocent brother.
Ring the bells of Liberty from one corner
To the next corner of the globe to raise awareness,
And to inform the world of the meanness
Of 'a few want be' masters of the universe,
Of a few who shoot first and later converse.
If you are not a cop, you should not behave like one.
If you are not a judge, don't act like you can deliver justice.
If you are a false prosecutor, stay away from a true investigation.
The Supreme and the World Court need to act without bias,
Without any preconceived notion of some unrealistic ideas.
They ought to practice fairness and call it like it is.
It is time that we see the real face of equal Justice,
Under the rules of laws that are fair and equitable.
We need to see all hands that are on the table.
May the bright rays of Justice shine upon our society,
And bring peace, and the spirits to live in harmony!

Speak aloud; make very loud noise, to slowly awaken
The sleeping spirits of our deceased civil rights leaders.
We cannot take it any more, we will not be weakened
By hypocrisy and the cowardly lazy behaviors
Of some of our elected or selected public officials.
We will not take it anymore; we will use our potentials.
We want fighters who are willing to improve our situation.
This is not the time to talk; this is the hour of decisive action.
Speak aloud to force the mute to speak and to cry for Justice.
Speak aloud so the deaf and the dead can hear our passion,
And feel our devotion and perseverance for Justice for all.
Speak aloud so the crippled can march and rattle along
With us all over the world, where our brothers and sisters'
Rights are being trampled and violated like some rusty canisters.

poem by Hebert Logerie
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The Vain King

In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest,
A jewelled collar shone upon his breast,
A giant ruby glittered in his crown -----
Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town.
In him the glories of an ancient line
Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine,
Were centred; and to him with loyal awe
The people looked for leadership and law.
Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land,
Lay like a single sword within his hand;
A hundred courts, with power of life and death,
Proclaimed decrees justice by his breath;
And all the sacred growths that men had known
Of order and of rule upheld his throne.

Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart
As fits a man to play a royal part.
Not his the pride that honours as a trust
The right to rule, the duty to be just:
Not his the dignity that bends to bear
The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care,
And labours like the peasant at his gate,
To serve the people and protect the State.
Another pride was his, and other joys:
To him the crown and sceptre were but toys,
With which he played at glory's idle game,
To please himself and win the wreaths of fame.
The throne his fathers held from age to age
Built for King Martin to diplay at will,
His mighty strength and universal skill.

No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries
At every step to win admiring eyes, ----
No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws
From gaping crowds loud thunder of applause,
Was vainer than the King: his only thirst
Was to be hailed, in every race, the first.
When tournament was held, in knightly guise
The King would ride the lists and win the prize;
When music charmed the court, with golden lyre
The King would take the stage and lead the choir;
In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar;
In hawking, see his falcon highest soar;
In painting, he would wield the master's brush;
In high debate, -----"the King is speaking! Hush!"
Thus, with a restless heart, in every field
He sought renown, and found his subjects yield
As if he were a demi-god revealed.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Fisherman of Wexford

THERE is an old tradition sacred held in Wexford town,
That says: 'Upon St. Martin's Eve no net shall be let down;
No fishermen of Wexford shall, upon that holy day,
Set sail or cast a line within the scope of Wexford Bay.'
The tongue that framed the order, or the time, no one could tell;
And no one ever questioned, but the people kept it well.
And never in man's memory was fisher known to leave
The little town of Wexford on the good St. Martin's Eve.

Alas! alas for Wexford! once upon that holy day
Came a wondrous shoal of herring to the waters of the Bay.
The fishers and their families stood out upon the beach,
And all day watched with wistful eyes the wealth they might not reach.
Such shoal was never seen before, and keen regrets went round—
Alas! alas for Wexford! Hark! what is that grating sound?
The boats' keels on the shingle! Mothers! wives! ye well may grieve,—
The fishermen of Wexford mean to sail on Martin s Eve!

'Oh, stay ye!' cried the women wild. 'Stay!' cried the men white-haired;
'And dare ye not to do this thing your fathers never dared.
No man can thrive who tempts the Lord!' 'Away!' they cried: 'the Lord
Ne'er sent a shoal of fish but as a fisherman's reward.'
And scoffingly they said, 'To-night our net shall sweep the Bay,
And take the Saint who guards it, should he come across our way!'
The keels have touched the water, and the crews are in each boat;
And on St. Martin's Eve the Wexford fishers are afloat!

The moon is shining coldly on the sea and on the land,
On dark faces in the fishing-fleet and pale ones on the strand,
As seaward go the daring boats, and heavenward the cries
Of kneeling wives and mothers with uplifted hands and eyes.

' Oh Holy Virgin! be their guard! ' the weeping women cried;
The old men, sad and silent, watched the boats cleave through the tide,
As past the farthest headland, past the lighthouse, in a line
The fishing-fleet went seaward through the phosphor-lighted brine.

Oh, pray, ye wives and mothers! All your prayers they sorely need
To save them from the wrath they've roused by their rebellious greed.
Oh! white-haired men and little babes, and weeping sweethearts, pray
To God to spare the fishermen to-night in Wexford Bay!

The boats have reached good offing, and, as out the nets are thrown,
The hearts ashore are chilled to hear the soughing sea-wind's moan:

Like to a human heart that loved, and hoped for some return,
To find at last but hatred, so the sea-wind seemed to mourn.
But ah! the Wexford fishermen! their nets did scarcely sink
One inch below the foam, when, lo! the daring boatmen shrink
With sudden awe and whitened lips and glaring eyes agape,

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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