As you’ve probably gathered over the years, I, like a lot of
people, harbor some activist inclinations.
Now, I’m not one to go out and protest, at least not unless there’s a
tailgating opportunity. What I do is
formulate an argument (or rebuttal to another argument), write it up and post
it here. On occasion, I’ll write in to
the local paper.
I come by this inclination honestly, having learned from my
parents, my mom in particular. While
she’s also written tons of Letters to the Editor over the years, she doesn’t
write a blog. She makes poems instead.
Recently, poets in Pensacola took part in the “100 Thousand
Poets for Change” event. No, “Poets for
Change” is not a panhandling scheme, although I bet it would be more effective
than the usual “hard luck” story. It’s
a nationwide series of readings where local poets gather to read their work and
inspire positive change. (At least 50
cents worth.)
Mom took to the mic and read her poem, “Gunsmoke.” Given the Deep South locale, I imagine it was a pretty tough
sell, but it seemed to go over well.
I’m guessing she had a wooden spoon in her back pocket. No one crosses a lil Italian mother with a
wooden spoon.
The best part of the event is that they filmed all the
readers and posted the videos on YouTube, so that people like me, who live 5
states away, can see the readings. And
it gives me the opportunity to relay it for you, wherever you are.
So with that, may I present, MC Lil Mother!
I don’t know how she arranged for the bells to toll at the
end. Age and treachery, I suppose.
To me, the only thing missing would be for her to drop the
mic at the end, and shuffle off the stage.
9 comments:
Next year, I will drop the mike and shuffle off the stage. (Thought I did that this year).
Bells were a gift. I was more worried about motorcycles at the intersection.
Its pretty obvious where your writing talents come from, well done MOM.
Make sure you hold it out before dropping it. Oh, and try to drop it on something soft.
No question. I totally get my sense of word usage from Mom.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Re-open the fucking government.
(drops mic and walks off)
Boom! Whoop! whoop!
Rosws are gone.
Violets depart.
Government wind isn't worth a good fart.
itizens cry.
Lobbyists moan.
Our new fallen dead are left all alone.
We rage
and we grumle.
Our plight is absurd.
Talking heads ramble
without a sound word.
Leaders who dither
firm in their stand
will find nothing remains
of our sad, betrayed land.
(Three bells toll)
Typos abound. Wanted: a keen eyed editor.
The Darwinfish Community: Providing inspiration since 2009.
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