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no where
have I found
so much sincere beauty
like in a child’s face

shot
frozen
beautiful
fearless warrior
eye to eye we meet

As submitted to InCinq.blogspot.com. First poem done on a word count second one is syllabic.

shot
fearless warrior
eye to eye
we meet
contact

I think I played with this poem for a good three days and a couple of pages in my journal. Above is the published version in InCinq.blogspot.

no freckles, no blemishes, no marks
no hair, no fat, no odd remarks
or flat heeled shoes in public

no wrinkles, no sun, no light
no skin, no smiles, no eye-to-eye
no face, no hands, no personal space in public

tattooed brows are always black
highlights used in tasteful golds
hair is thick and bold
you’re a baby doll, baby doll, always in public

the things that look like me
are minced and used as spice
integration, well defined
I frame the scar on my legs
Baby doll, baby doll, you’re just a smile away in public

The dreaded update of WordPress. If you remember the last one, you’ll remember my exceptional works of art created during this time. In the meantime, enjoy Bob Dylan’s take on poetry: “Anything I can sing, I call a song. Anything I can’t sing, I call a poem.” The more I write, the more I think poetry is awe and honesty put in words.

The following article came from a feature post at The View From Here by permission of the blog’s author and good friend, Gunfighter. His writing challenge was 1,000 words on any random picture sent to him. Thank you for the surprise, GF, and for the introduction to your reading community. What neat comments! Please go by and support the website. –Claudia

Words can move nations. Words can effect change.

Words can seduce a lover, soothe a frightened child, or cause happiness, or even gales of laughter.

Words can produce sadness. Words can cause pain. Words can even be used to cause a war.

Words are powerful.

I don’t know what the young woman in this photo is saying. From some of the visual clues that I can see, it looks like it could be an “open mic” night at a pub or coffee house. I don’t know if she is a singer, a poet, or some sort of essayist. Perhaps she is only introducing an act. She seems to be using notes to either read from or for reference, but the look (that I can barely see) on her face is one of passion. Not necessarily romantic passion, but of deep emotion. The kind of emotion that can only come from the soul.

What is she saying?

What does she feel?

Why does she sit there, speaking her words… HER words… to other people, most of whom, it can be assumed, are strangers? She must have something to share. Something deep inside of her that she needs to express. As I said, she looks like a passionate person.

If she speaks of peace, it is most appropriate, particularly in today’s world, where there are wars and rumors of wars running rampant. From little “brushfire” wars to wars of national conquest. Wars for liberation and wars for domination. Wars for security, wars for resources, wars for religion… wars for “peace”. (No, I couldn’t say that last part with a straight face, either)

Speaking out, pleading, for peace is serious stuff. It can’t be brushed off. It must be heard, if not always heeded. What are we made of?… who do we honor?… what kind of people are we, if the voices for peace are denigrated, scorned, or dismissed?

What does it say about our national character when people who call for peace are ridiculed? or are called “traitors” What does it say about our leadership when our leaders will lie about a Causus Belli? Not anything good, that’s certain. When our leaders will lie to start a war, and then continually change the goals of said war, can we believe them when they tell us anything else? Can we believe them when they tell us their hopes for peace?

Of course not. You can’t believe them, because they are the worst kinds of liars. They are the kind of people who will lie to your face because they believe. in the darkness of their own hearts, that most people are just stupid enough… or at least gullible enough to buy their lies, just so they can seem patriotic. Not the sort of patriotism borne of a true love of country… the patriotism that makes you swell with quiet pride when you hear the national anthem. I’m talking about an ugly sort of patriotism. The kind of patriotism that is more jingoistic that patriotic. The kind of patriotism that makes you shout “USA, USA” at the top of your lungs, like some macabre cheerleaders, as our troops engage in combat.

The kind of patriotism that our current leaders wants us to feel, through their lies, all because of their own guilt. None of them served during the Vietnam era (and those who did aren’t in fashion), and are part of our collective national guilt-trip, caused by not giving the proper respect to our soldiers of the time.

Words are Powerful… but words are almost always drowned out by exploding bombs and gun-fire.

So yeah, I hope she is talking about peace.

I hope that she is speaking publicly about her feelings about the current war in Iraq. I hope that she is tearing into the leadership that has caused untold thousands of deaths. I hope she is holding the leadership accountable for it’s lies, and it’s support of the unforgivable practice of torture. I hope that she is taking the administration to task over it’s excuses for making war in Iraq, while it won’t send a single platoon to Darfur to protect the people there from genocidal madmen. I hope that she is calling the administration to account for it’s support of the criminals Alberto Gonzales and Karl Rove.

I hope so.

I’m like most people when it comes to pictures. When I see a picture, I see what’s there, and unless it is self-explanatory, I immediately start wondering what it is I’m looking at. Again, like most people, I draw immediate conclusions, and again, like most people, I see what I want to see.

I want to see a person speaking about peace, and I decided that’s what I am seeing.

God Bless Her for that.

The road to peace and freedom is closed.
Adorned with lily pads and frogs
jumping from lotus through dead bouquets
and ink stained poems that fall
from heartfelt tears on a bridge…
only when the day is clear

Looking to the north
they pray in wooden crosses to Christ
and shark fat to Buddha,
on the altar of sheets that the elders built.

Somewhere on the lowest point,
of a river under a closed bridge,
to a land they can’t cross,
they’re watching.
Praying that the bank would lengthen
that the river go dry
to make the road to freedom
longer than the bridge above

Nothing is lost,
Even emotions get canned in preservatives
Even the eight million dollars it took
to build the wooden plank
up on river
up on its way to freedom

But life is a chess game of compromises
and freedom towns were built
under strict military supervision.
No one can go in, only a few come out
but quickly they return through a closed bridge
back where freedom gets displayed
back on the road to freedom

If you get past the twenty thousand mines
If you can get a freedom pass
for thirty minutes or two hours
there’s an amusement park on the edge of the world
waiting for a shilling and a months rent
welcoming you to freedom

The irony doesn’t escape me…
The men in guns keep watch
with specialty patches black belt 2 inches wide
What can you do when you’ve reached that joyous ferris wheel,
the merry go round with hundreds of soft yellow bulbs
And that pretty hot pink pony with a golden saddle,
Whose mane seems to be eternally gliding in the wind
and it’s perfect white teeth smiling at you…
or laughing with you,
along the road to freedom…