I Will Raise My Voice

I Will Raise My Voice (My first poem every publish by Tim Hall of Struggle Magazine)

 

David Smith he was a good friend of mine

He worked next to me on the assembly line

He said his goal was to set man free

I won’t sell my soul to the factory

Oh yes my name is David Smith

I’ll give my life if it comes down to it

 

And as we worked all day long

He would softly sing this song

I will raise my voice until they hear

I will raise my voice I’ll have no fear

I will raise my voice both day and night

I will raise my voice till they see the light

 

After work sometimes we would go to the café

Dave would speak wonders of a better day

Capitalism is crazy with greed insane

The rich get richer the poor get pain

But the workers one day will unite

And the workers will make it right

 

And between drinks of domestic beer

A soft song I would hear clear

I will raise my voice until they hear

I will raise my voice I’ll have no fear

I will raise my voice both day and night

I will raise my voice till they see the light

 

Well Dave hated the union he hated the job

He hated the rich and he hated the mob

I don’t know who but some one did poor Dave in

When I heard I cursed and said what a sin

And when I was at the grave saying goodbye

I just couldn’t help but to cry

 

And as they lowered him in the ground

The wind blew a familiar sound

I will raise my voice until they hear

I will raise my voice I’ll have no fear

I will raise my voice both day and night

I will raise my voice till they see the light 

GREAT BOOK OF SONG LYRICS

The Big Book Of Song Lyrics, Check It Out!!

Barry No Moore

Barry No Moore

 

School boy infatuation

Lost over a Richard M. Nixon rubber mask

Stretching the prominent nose

Flabbergasted at the elastic recoil upon release

A metaphor on life

Norma called

In a round about diplomacy she declared

Our comrade Barry is dead

He’s better off was the diagnosis

WTF?

Was Kissinger correct in his fascist arrogance?

Masturbating in lustful ego and influence

Time Magazine stained in the White House bathroom

Tricky Dick and Sticky Dick

Here’s a suggestion in memory of our dearly love departed

Herd together the entire collection of despots

And their spineless cohorts whispering sweet nothings of vile

No true warrior celebrates glory in death

Unless their humanity has been X’d

Like John Chivington and his cousin in killing Custard

Take a group Polaroid

After it is fully developed in techno color

Strike a match and set it ablaze

Just cause you can

Use claws of justice to shred the smug mocking mask

Of the sinister superior Nietzsche charged super man

Observe a tormented toddler

Wounded beyond point of view

Never to comprehend

The most precious words

I love you

Like Barry would pronounce

But no longer

He is fading fast into forgetfulness

Unless in irony in future days of radiant glory

Inquiring minds come across this pome

English a vanquished dead language

Babylon banished

Tyre toppled

And all the proponents of genocide meager ashes

The darkening of the face of humanity washed clean

As we pronounce bold words in caution

We walked the winding way once before

Of whom Barry was one

Demand in meekness

No more

May all wars cease

Then Barry

You may rest in peace

One you participated to create

Where Love rules over hate  

POLISHED FRAGMENTS

Poet To The Poor

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A Hurt Lover’s Lonesome Night

 A Hurt Lover’s Lonesome Night

 

Late night hush

Silence transcends to heavenly stars

Eternal lights never knowing sleep

Countless secrets they keep

No horoscope, no divination could give insight

And Allmighty God chose not to speak that night

Just like yesterday

Or the day before

And before and before and before

But one day, some day, we hope for more

 

Ten thousand agonies of a heart broken

Emotions overflowing yet nothing spoken

Except for the screaming of her misty tears

And the sounds of creations that have been echoing for years

It is not that there is no voice

It is that we refuse to hear

And that is by choice

 

Who has not known woe?

Or felt the bitter pain?

That nobody could know

Let alone explain

 

And so she remains in her solitude

Cept for the infinite stars above

And thus we conclude

Keeping in tact the mystery known as Love

POLISHED FRAGMENTS

Poet To The Poor

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Guard Dragons In My Garden

 Guard Dragons In My Garden

 

Guard Dragons in my garden

I beg your pardon?

What are you growing that you need,

Guard Dragons in your garden

A whole host of weed?

Or perhaps something stranger indeed?

Maybe because

Despite the appropriate laws

In that fenced in acre and a half

Behind your home

You have the rarest gnome

The one that can always make you laugh

You know the tiny imp colored green

The one wearing shades at every scene

Whether twilight or midnight

And pray tell what do your dragons eat?

Delicious licorice?

Or perhaps something more sinisterly sweet?

Lake a damsel in distress

Wearing a pink cotton candy dress

Oh I can guess

Why there are Guard Dragons in your garden

In the morning I hear them roar

In the evening I hear them snore

To them life must be one great bore

For all the champions of the sword

Have joined together in one accord

To flagrantly ignore

Your Guard Dragons in the garden

These knights their hearts did harden

And they have forsaken all nobility

And chivalry

And function simply as roughnecks

Having lost all the ladies respect

Except those seeking a cheap thrill

But alas such a lass

Always will

Sell out cheap and lose no sleep

But my mind ponders and wonders

What happened to the heroes of the downtrodden?

 Despite being highly paid

They are all afraid

Of Guard Dragons in the garden 

 POLISHED FRAGMENTS

Poet To The Poor

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Cathy at the Texaco Station

 Cathy at the Texaco Station

 

Cathy

Pumping gas to truck and car

With a uniform red and a white star

The gas ain’t free

Everyone has to pay

The oil is bought

By wars fought

And Cathy’s uniform all red

Resemble many shot dead

Solders, women, children too

Very sad but very true

 

Somewhere an oil CEO

Is snorting his blow

Trying not to care

But all the while aware

In his wicked soul

As his conscience takes its toll

 

And Cathy

Needs to buy food to sup

So she says happily

Fill her up?

Poet To The Poor

Four Men from the Hay Market

Four Men from the Hay Market

May 4, 1886: Haymarket Tragedy

 

Four men

Who defied unjust laws

Four men

Who fought for our cause

Four men

Condemned to die

The damning testimony

From witnesses being paid to lie

 

Four men

Hoods over their head

Four men

Soon to be dead

Four men

From the gallows an angry word

If your listen real hard

Their voices can be heard

 

Albert Parsons

August Spies

Adolph Fischer

George Engel

 

Four men like you and I

Truth be said

The rich men are glad they are dead

As is the state

Full of contempt and hate

But that truth I deny

 

George Engel

Adolph Fischer

August Spies

Albert Parsons

 

Four men

They are alive and well

Four men their story we tell

Four men

Slaughtered in an angry rage

Will live into every age

They are alive upon this page

 

The battle for a just Earth

The fight for what is right

No matter how we suffer or hurt

We won’t bow down to their might

 

I curse you cowards hiding behind a wall

I curse you cowards seeking to take it all

Your evil dreams and wicked schemes

Are not as powerful as it seems

For men will fight be they great or small

And we shall answer

To those four men who still call

 

This is the message that we hear

Resonating eternally clear

We are not slaves but forever free

And we have a right to live decently

 

Four men who fought for all men

Let the battle rage once again

What do we have to lose but our pain

And everything to gain 

Poet To The Poor

Poet to the Poor

 Poet to the Poor

 

Who will be the poet to the poor

For the abused, used, confused

Who aren't even aware

They have a hope and a prayer

Who will be the poet to the poor

Rich man's writer is but a whore

Producing propaganda for war

Or marketing merchandise to sell more

Who will be the poet to the poor

It's what these words are for

Poet To The Poor

Buddha

 Buddha

 

Buddha was a merry old fellow

His skin and teeth the same shade of yellow

The fat old man was thought to be wise

And the words he taught opened many eyes

Though some contend they were all lies

 

Statues of Buddha now abound

In some he’s thin and in others round

They are supposed to be a good luck charm

But I feel in fact that they do harm

 

For statues of stone or gold or tin

When they are worshipped it is a sin

Buddha in his glory may sit on many a throne

But for me I’ll leave Buddha alone

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Riding For Freedom

Riding For Freedom

 

Living in a one-room shack with a bathroom out back

The world was divided between white and black

It seemed forever we were under attack

Living in a one-room shack with a bathroom out back

 

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

What else was there to do?

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

All I could do was think about you

 

Lead Belly sung the blues about Mississippi Rivers

One too many martyrs I’m missing Medgar Evers

Freedom is easy to say but it’s bought with blood

One day good sir these rivers are going to flood

 

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

What else was there to do?

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

All I could do was think about you

 

The good die young unless God got a special plan

Children can’t help to grow into a woman or man

Why do they always forget the life of the young?

Like signing a song forgetting the verses sung

 

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

What else was there to do?

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

All I could do was think about you

 

We fell in love against impossible odds

They’ll never make it so said the gods

But Love has a mind of its own

And Love is the finest thing known

 

So here the story ends but there’s much more to write

One day the darkness will be turned into light

Jesus was crucified but the tomb is empty today

I’m still riding and I’ll be riding no matter what they say

 

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

What else was there to do?

I was heading for Jackson riding for freedom

All I could do was think about you

 POET TO THE POOR, REVOLUTIONARY POETRY

Paid Poetry

I’m a poet. Thus, I am an artist. This is simple log like X+y+z=33/2.54 Now that’s complex!

 

I’m gong to offer poets everything I want in a poetry magazine and I’m going to ask everything I want for a poetry magazine.

 

Pay $10 to $100. I will publish one poem a month God willing. I will offer feedback. If your poem sucks, I will tell you so. Hopefully there will be something redeemable to mention. The sliding scale of pay will reflect the quality of the poem.

 

Now what do I want? As far as poetry well check out the blog and check out my poetry books. It is my desire that my art be spread to the whole world.

 

Details.

 

B. You must follow my blog.

C. The poem must be unpublished and your own work. If you plagiarize and I find out I will try to destroy your career and reputation. Yes, Facebook or other social media constitutes being published.

C1. One poem a month. Violate the rule and you're banned for life.

D. I love poetic techniques.

E. Try to rhyme.

F. If your free verse isn’t like Robert Hayden’s Middle Passage, think twice.

F. I will delete any email with an attachment, put the poem in the body of the email.

G. No cover letters. Nothing but the poem and your name.

H. Payment by PayPal

 

Submit here.

peacepoems@mail.com

Alpha -Footnote. I would only attempt to destroy your career over plagiarism. That is if you steal a poem and claim it as your own. 

In Our Land Of Oz by John Kaniecki

In Our Land of Oz

By John Kaniecki

Tin Man leads Scarecrow

On the Yellow Brick Road

Strolling, rolling always on the go

Dorothy in the sweetness of her teens

Oh if only you could know

What lurks between the obscenes

Tin Man cruel and vile

Scarecrow in constant denial

As the vibrant, virgin whore

Poses for a camera flash

Rolling Stone defines the score

And they pay you off in cash

On the Yellow Brick Road

Tin Man calculates psychological illusion

Scarecrow charges blindly as he pathetically screams

As Dorothy, she softly dreams

For some way out of innocent confusion

And Lions in Masses abound

Quiet as cowardly mice making no sound

As Oz sits upon the throne

And my has apathy grown

And Scarecrow is clinically insane

Intoxicating using anything for the pain

On the Yellow Brick Road

Oz’ voice thunders above the crowd

Who cares what he says it’s plenty loud

Tin Man silently, privately laments

Depraved darkness with vampiric desire

No heart, no soul, to kindle any fire

A strict rule, nobody repents

On the Yellow Brick Road

Ruby Red Slippers click, click, click, three times

If you’re the Law you can commit no crimes

And Chief Joseph laughs in most bitter tears

Oz is far worse than any of his fears

Dorothy lip syncs and gets the lyrics wrong

While Hopi dance singing tomorrow’s song

Ask Langston Hughes when it will explode

On the Yellow Brick Road

From Poet To The Poor. Check it out!!!

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A Very Important Question

I have something very important to say today. We are all involved in a struggle. Some of us suffer more than others. As one who suffers from mental illness, I am acutely aware of the challenges of everyday life. I have done years of ministerial work trying to help all people including the downtrodden.

I was searching for something to post today and I came across this poem. 

In The Sight Of The Lord

Hustling home in frosty rain

On the street I gaze upon a woman

Huddled over a grate

Seeking warmth to comfort

Her weary soul, her tired body

As drops of water drip down her gray hair, she shudders

Rain falling echoes in my ear

As the words of the Lord ring loud and clear

"Whatever ye have done unto least of them"

"You have done unto me"

This woman, this stranger

Somebody’s daughter, perhaps a mother

In most desperate need

Beloved in the sight

Of the Lord

The question I ask you

What are we to do?

It is a poem that I wrote six years ago that was part of a submission to be rejected. I wanted something to say and I stumbled across it. Perhaps some of you have never experienced New York City. If you haven’t let me assure you that the scene you see in the poem is real.

In Manhattan, some of the richest people in the world will walk by some of the poorest. The richest pay millions of dollars for their penthouse with a view, while the poorest have only the clothes on their back and the scant possessions they can carry. The poem ends with a call to action.

There are no easy answers but a step towards kindness to one another is an obvious and easy first step. “Do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

Please share this post if it has meaning to you.

Please check out my book. "Poet To The Poor"  

"Mulatto Queen" by John Kaniecki

Mulatto Queen

by John Kaniecki

Loveliest thing you've ever seen

Sweet, sweet mulatto queen

A woman caught in between

In a harsh solitary scene

For she is far from white

A disgrace in proper society's sight

Nor is she kin

To those of darker skin

For though she is a slave as well

She is favored, all can tell

Master with his lustful ways

Lavishes her with endless praise

Her teary blue eyes

Always tell

The living hell

When she is made to compromise

Life is a complicated

Never loved, constantly hated

Unsure where to dwell

Always made to sell

If she refuses to stay in line

Master will retaliate

If she makes things fine

It is something she does hate

A mistress to a married man

Without a voice

Without a choice

She does the best she can

Only happy when she's in a dream

Mulatto queen

See more socially conscious poetry in "Poet To The Poor, Poems Of Hope For The Bottom One Percent" 

Dreaming Big Publications- A Publisher Focusing On Mental Health

If you're going to dream you might as well be dreaming big!

Dreaming Big Publications is a small independent publisher which has a focus on publishing books on mental illness. They certainly don't limit themselves to this type but it is their preference. The owner of Dreaming Big, Kristi Morgan, has a bachelor's degree in psychology and a master's degree in social work. She is also a very nice person and good to work with!

Here is a link to their site.  http://www.dreamingbigpublications.com

Advantages of a small publisher-

• Far easy to get accepted. A traditional editor requires an agent and an agent desires a manuscript edited almost to perfection.
• Personal attention. I can text my publisher any time I want and will get a prompt response and work things out to my satisfaction.
• Relaxed atmosphere. Business is about making money. Small publishers want to make money but it isn't priority number one.
• Greater control over contest. I've heard stories where traditional publishers highly edit content.

Advantages of Dreaming Big-

• Dreaming Big gets a lot of reviews for their books. Some small publishing companies publish a lot of books hoping to make a little of a lot. Dreaming Big publishes less and invests time and effort to make every book successful.
• Dreaming Big has a large staff that can help you in many ways. For example for my book "Poet To The Poor" they created a video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiVmcJ_tBjg&t=35s
• Dreaming Big has a family feel where the authors support one another.
• Dreaming Big has an active website which attracts traffic, including an active blog.

So if you have a finished manuscript that is polished as best you can please send it to them, especially if it is in the field of mental health. You really have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Make sure that you follow all their instructions.

Reality Check-

If your ambition is to make lots of money Dreaming Big is not the route for you. If you are an unpublished author and you expect to publish a book to make a lot of money, I have to say that's an unrealistic goal. The best way to write a book and get it published to make money is to go through the traditional route. That is to write it and send it to an agent. In fact you cannot even directly approach a major publishing house without the aid of an agent. There is always the miraculous chance that you will be extraordinarily successful and make enough money to retire, and then again they sell lottery tickets as well. If you are not published by a major publisher your book won't get into book stores, which makes selling them all the more harder.

Dreaming Big is a good starting point. I hope one day to be a very successful author. I like to think with every poem published, with each book released, with each story I put out there, that I am building up a resume.

Check out Dreaming Big. Look for the call for stories and feel free to submit a poem or story for their blog. And please tell them John Kaniecki sent you their way.

Here are my three books from Dreaming Big Publications. 

Click here

Click here

Click here

https://blogs.psychcentral.com/fragments/2017/10/dreaming-big-a-focused-publisher/

"You Saw the Ocean (Dedicated to Derek Walcott)" by John Kaniecki

I remember exploring Grenada with my wife Sylvia. We came upon a book store. There I found a book by Derek Walcott. I was unfamiliar with him as an author but I associated him with the Caribbean. After reading his work I was greatly disappointed.

I am not saying Derek Walcott is not talented; he is to a certain measure. In Mathew 25, there is the parable of the talents. To every man talents are given. The reality is not in how much talent one receives but in what one does with their talents. Here are my poetic words for Mr. Walcott, a man whose absence of words speak louder than what he wrote.

You Saw the Ocean (Dedicated to Derek Walcott)

By John Kaniecki

You saw the ocean

Blue, green, white capped waves in motion

You learned stories of the educated

Sons of the slave masters you hated

I have walked barefoot upon Caribbean hot white sands

I have talked to the people of your islands

I know their names and have heard their story

We shared our Love with all our glory

Also I am intimate with your time

Where you choose free verse over rhyme

An endless war raged in futility

Your own kinsmen struggled to rise from humility

Crucifying every human emotion

You saw the ocean

Where was your cry for justice?

Passionate pleas persuading righteousness

Instead in an alabaster tower

You gazed out the window hour after hour

Life roared crashing on the beach loud as thunder

For you not to hear the oppressed, how I wonder?

A pretty, nice, sentimental notion

You saw the ocean

Poems like this can be found in my book “Poet To The Poor, Poems Of Hope For The Bottom One Percent”