Tag: Freedom

Watching Television in a Plastic Cube

Published on by annwjwhite6 Comments

The gorilla sat in his living room,
Ignoring the rampaging children,
Tired after a long day of modeling
For the cameras.

The T.V. in the corner shouted
The humanity of humans, of conservation
When the news interrupted
Shouting of Twitters, long and loud.

They hadn’t let him vote,
Although he had watched the debates.
He had formulated a plan,
To repatriate his species.

Back in the jungles, where
He was born. They should have
Let him vote. But he was mute
To the signs he needed for

His hands to speak out. Compassion was
Cruel, he thought, to let so many
Of the tired humans slave
And lose their security. After all those years.

He watched his son and daughter
Hanging upside down from tire swings,
His wife climbing high to get to school.
Dinner was to be served soon. He was the sitter.

What was it that made human’s
The top of the food chain?
That left him in the shackles
Confined by man’s curiosity?

Curiosity still existed for him.
The wild still called him.
He mumbled a prayer for the so-called Masters
Who could dissolve the world in fire and rhetoric.

Anger erupted on the telly, more yelling
Disgusted, he stood and strode
Straight to monster machine, reaching for the remote
That empowered images, that brainwashed,

Of violence perpetrated on with fists at the
The human caged. Exhausting. Calming he turned sadly, switching
The channel to PBS, the public challenge,
The overview of the world. Change?

Democracy Now, the Warren Report, on
Expounding Columbia’s freeing the higher thinkers.
His brother! Kept in a zoo, now free. Their constitution.
Perhaps “they” would be allowed to vote.

He snorted in humor and settled
Back into his repose. These silly dreamers.
One of his infants smacked the back of his
Head and the infants outside giggled.

He reached and tumbled with his
Small daughter, letting her win,
Only to be beset by his son, babysitting,
Bouncing both on his arms.

Maybe there was hope. He had waited so very long,
The bouncing children pushed the remote buttons, changing sadness
To Sesame Street. Watching other children be children.
He was grateful to see them so engaged

With other infants, growing in a wild world of uncertainty.
Their time would come. They would visit and wonder
At the peace his family gave him. Secure together.
Finding a way to keep them all close.

Foggy, the Recollections of the 60s

Published on by annwjwhite3 Comments

My brain has foggy recollections, memories,
Of the things we were promised,  to be given,
As children, a world of peace, of standing in protest,
Flowers garlanding rifles held to sway children
By children no older than themselves.

The soldier shot, nerves and muscle, scared,
Not thinking of killing, not thinking
Of pelting rocks. Afraid. Unsure. A child of time
Given orders to stand by, to wait. Make them go away.
Orders again years after Kent. Waiting for the fog to come here, too.

Foggy recollections of Camelot, children in play,
Played in vinyl, surround sound. A glimpse into intense
Cherishing of time. The President’s Missus. Bravely
Facing the loss of a civilization, as she sat waiting, as the nation paused, then
Rushed out of the White House, a widow, out of time.

She was tall, classic, classy, a champion of children, well-educated
A woman who bore solitude in her heart. Her public face perfect.
A woman bearing in her arms, the children. Protecting them.
Mourning her husband John, her brother-in-law Robert, Martin
Luther King, all three martyrs to peace. She remained silent.

But her dream of peace arising from battle and blood was
Taken up and thrown, like feathers from a nest quickly disappearing
Erasing the stigma of violent victimization as others took up the flag of
Skin, of religion, of contesting savagery. Or so we thought.
Life fell from her hands into the ocean of solitude and ignorance.

She was a princess , a wife, lost, out of time but standing, but seen as
Perfection. Mother, editor, dressed in dark memories swirling in fog.
Clothes of the soul, shared by photographs stolen when she didn’t want to be seen,
Of private moments. With the population who couldn’t buy the tags of her style.
It’s so hard to see her now, under her packaging, with memory fading.

Foggy, recollections of the time. Childlike I believed, I still believe,
Making the decision to stand in the line of fire, to protect, being
Like her in my soul. Strong, able, sad, but never at peace.
For the world didn’t change as promised. Fog flew into the spaces as
She slipped away into obscurity and fairy tales. Moving into subtitles of time.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/foggy/

Resist

Published on by annwjwhite6 Comments

https://allaboutwritingandmore.wordpress.com/2017/02/01/resist/

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/resist/

I'm too old to sit in the corner,
Too old to twist and turn 
To find my heart and mind
Torn asunder over the
Future of the past, the once and future,
Over hatred and bigotry.

I'm too young to concede 
The world won't change
Its clothes for the better.
Won't go to a Humanity-R-Us
Establishment for a refit.
Overthrow the twenties and big brother's uniform.

Can't see the colors for the 
black and white, like TV when 
It started, with removable tubes 
You could change out tubes, glowing bright, at
The drugstore, right past the cashier
While Dubois sits writing in the corner still.

Your still produces the elixir 
Of rebellion, energizing,
Thought provoking, intoxicating,
At a forgotten power of protest,
Of knowing right from wrong
As you swing your placard proudly.

School taught me to be nice.
A fatal character flaw, unreasonable,
Being nice, compassionate, sweet, helpful,
All words that buzz and bee. Liberal.
I'm too young to join AARP
Too old to swing from a Constitutional noose.

My email sings the need for money,
Donations, signatures, and one,
Oh, blessed one, that asks for a tip.
A tip for taking my money
Because I must be old enough
To be rich, to have, to hold, to keep.

I'm too old to sit silent, Chevy waiting,
To drive with fist shaking, gun toting
Road rage. Oh yes, I'll yield, sometimes,
But not about my politics. Compromise, act.
My caution light gleams yellow,
But the red light fails. I run as I take action.

I'm too young to hand over hope, tethered to
My heart, forever to a cause. So many,
Change causes change. I change. Voices cluster.
Liberal changes are on sale, bargain prices,
On cheap fabric imported that
Feeds a family overseas, but saying, "Buy American."

Too old to wear a flag upon my two piece,
My jeans, jacket, elbow patches.
Burn my flag, I'll cheer your voice,
Serve my flag, I did that. Embroider my flag on a globe,
Don't use my flag to beat and bludgeon
Those in need. I'll use it for your shroud.

We came, my ancestors came, arrived
Found a place, to grow, manipulate
Become human, chase their tails with 
Their tales of how we became great.
It was 1624. We started it. The movement. Blame us.
We advocated freedom, compassion, hope, education.

Don't tell me I'm too old, too young,
To tell you to resist the crazy. Crazy
Worse than the flu, poverty, student loans,
Worse than children dying, drowning, starving.
I'll resist your overly patriarchal ambiguities,
Attempts to cow and control. My body, my life

Too Old, Too Young, not to care
To not open my heart to others, to welcome.
To litigate with my head. Policy maker.
Too proud of being a resistance.
For when they first banned intelligence,
They hurt us all. Stole from us.
.
Grow old, grow energized,
Hit with words, but true ones,
Turn your television to truth.
Read a book, French philosophy,
Grow young, stand and turn to the light,
Like a sunflower, follow the judicial glow.

I'm too old to find my seat
On the bus, train, plane, without
First asking to pre-board.
I'm too young to have my dreams dashed
As they play pingpong with my future.
Let me land, resist, fight. Let me...