Oh Death, What is Your Victory over Haiti Worth?

Death, What Are You Worth?
by Joseph J. Charles (nothingbutshopping@gmail.com)

Why did you decide to visit Haiti?

Why did you decide to fly over Port au Prince, Leogane, Grand Goave, and Petit Goave?

Why did you send your angel of death to Carrefour?

Why did you claim the young, the innocents and educated few of Haiti?

Why did you cause so much pain in so many families?

Why did you uncover and reveal our poverty to the world?

Why? Why? Why? I am asking

Why so many bodies? Why did you claim so many children? Why?


What is the true value of your victory in such a poor country?

Why do you shed so much blood in so few seconds?

You shook our soul and buried our brightest and young as well as old

Death, angel of death, can you give me an answer?

Why do you fill up our morgues and cemeteries?

Why do you bury us under tons of rubbles?

Death, your victory is insignificant

You only cause our collective souls to galvanize

You can not stop the solidarity of our fellow men and women

You can not stop the Haitian survivors from digging for their loved ones

With their bare hands and amidst all the chaos that surrounds them

Death, you can not stop the resolution and determination

Of the International Community

Death, you show your true face. We know you by your work

The rebuilding and the flight to the future you can not stop

Haitians can be twisted by the tectonic plates, but they will not give up

In the end, all of them will triumph over your temporary gain

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Find Out How You Can Help Haiti Rebuild!

Obon Odori by Diana Martinez

Obon Odori
by Diana Martinez

She holds the brightly colored fan
The silvery white cranes
spread between her fingers.
The long brown wooden ribs
attached to the paper,
as if it were webbing,
Holds it all together.


Her nimble fingers
spinning the fan into the air,
small feet tapping
to the beat of the Roiko drums.
Her tightly wrapped kimono spacing her steps.
The red paper lanterns boxing the wind.

For the Obon Odori, she would forget farm work for a day,
forget the dark wash
soaking in the round wooden tub,
nor would she be concerned about the money
she would spend
eating sweet mochi
in pastel paper cups.

The Obon Odori
festival for the dead
would end
the summer of rehearsals in the hall,
of dropping the fans,
trying to keep time with the children,
sweat dropping off the faces as they practiced.

The older women seemed oblivious
to the movement of the children,
They were caught up in their own music,
wrapped up in their memories of practice,
Arms swaying graciously in time,
with drums beating,
faces with no expression.

Late Summer Nights by Diana Martinez

Late Summer Nights.
by Diana Martinez

The late summer wind would
rattle the wooden doors
Latch hook over the steel eye,
keeping the strangers out as well.
The worn wooden screen
at uneven tilt showing the crookedness
of its frame, allowing the flies
to filter in.

We would run back and forth between the outside,
slamming the door behind us
with mud covering our legs and feet.
Hot summer day with the dust flying in swirls.
Laughing and playing in between the white sheets on the lines
we would leave handprints unknowingly.

Mom would just fold the sheets anyway with
the smell of the outside crisply tucked in each fold.
Mom would work long hours in the summer
at the packing house with boxes on long conveyor belts.
Picking large white nectarines with pink stones for their seeds,
yellow peaches, soft to the touch with peach fuzz,
and deep purple plums
whose tartness would never cease.
Finally at the end of summer, deep violet grapes
that hid black widows in their clumps.
She slid them into the wooden boxes.
Mom said I could never work there as I talked too much
and would give her a bad name.
But my older sister would soon go.
She always did what I could not do.

Morning Glories by Diana Martinez

Morning Glories
by Diana Martinez

The purple morning glories with its yellow star
Climbed the black wire fence.
The black wire fence that was dumped
in the alley way where my father found it
and nailed it to front of the house.
It was framed by the thick green leaves
and purplish flowers that closed at night.

Each night, the fragrance of the morning glories would come and scent the air.
It wasn't sweet like the star jasmine on the other side of the house.
Or as lovely as the white delicate magnolia blossoms
whose petals would brown at the slightest touch .

But the morning glories did their own dance.
It would twist itself to sleep, closing its soft purple petals
Into a tight spiral, keeping out the night.
Before I could wake the next morning
and see them unfurl their purple petals,
they would open
as if they were never closed.

On the Occasion of the 7.0 Haiti Quake (1-12-2010): Resilience

The Haitian Grandmother
jjc
(Find out more about the 2010 Haiti Quake's Devastation by clicking here


Dizzy and covered with dirt and sweat,
The Haitian grandmother does not give up
Au contraire, she is thinking about her next move
She wants to dig with her bare hands
She wants to cry, but there is no time
There is so much work to be done
Her neighbors are still entombed in their own homes

The Haitian grandmother is thinking about her grandchildren
Some of them are beneath her feet
She has to summon her courage to cry for help and rescue
Other grandkids are far away.
The Haitian grandma is like a bamboo flattened by the monsoons
She is like a coconut tree whose trunk is bent by the hurricane forces
She gets twisted by life's ups and lows,
Yet she recovers and is full of joy again
Haiti's history flashes back in her memory
The Haitian grandma survived Papa Doc, Baby Doc and the Tonton Macoutes
She survived the Zenglendo and the fast and furious gang members


Surrounded by devastation, the Haitian grandma will rise again
She will look for her family members just like a mother hen, her chicks
Scared by the nearby hawks of tumultuous weather patterns
A witness to history, she is the queen of the Haitian household
Her gaze will motivate all of us to focus on the future and rebuilding.

The Descent by Diana Martinez

The descent
by Diana Martinez

The descent into madness
always began with the frying
of doughnuts.

Classical music would resonate in the air
with the banging of kettle drums;
the sharp staccato of violin strings.

The descent would come
in the darkness of the morning hours
long before the sun would rise.

He would sit in his chair,
holding his head in his hands.
His eyes would be swollen and red from the weeping.


As small children,we would get up
to sneak around the wall to see him.
This man whose hands held the belt
that beat upon his eldest son.

The death threats that he made that
he failed to make them come to pass.
My brother curled up on the ground in fetal position.
This man who would flail his son's body
on the ground.

We watched as small children, not able to move to protect,
not able to do anything except watch.
This man whose hands made the sweet doughnuts
and cooked pot roast in the chef's pan.

He would soon leave our home as he did each winter.
Mother would sign the papers .
We knew he was gone for a season.

The winters were warmer then.
This man would come back in the spring
calmer-no longer weeping.

Father would be able to laugh with us again.
We would climb on to his lap to watch old movies on the black and white tv.
The descent into madness stopped for this season.


Notes:
Diana Martinez is a Central Valley poet. She also runs a poetry group.

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Hard Times Poetry Wanted: Submit your poems to help our Readers Cope with Hard times

Are you a poet whose work is never published? It does not matter if you are a published poet.

We want to invite you to submit your hard times poetry to be published on this blog.

Submit to nothingbutshopping at gmail.com


First Book of Poetry of Hope in Hard Times Published Here

Listen To This Free Sample:

Reflection and Meditation Poem for Hard Times

Life's a Dot
by Joseph J Charles

I only barely exist between the day I was born
And the time, hour, minute or second I will die
How much I have achieved depends
On how I sum up all the little parts and moments in between
How many times have I forgotten to enjoy life's small things?
Life is only a dot. A line would be too long

I did not know when I was born
Nor will I know when I die
In this vacuum, all men and women equally co-exist
We count time by the number of breaths we take
By the uplifting moments, failure as well as success
One day, we are happy. The next day, our hearts sink

On this beautiful morning, I see the hawk diving for a squirrel
It resurfaces with empty beaks and claws. Life is about triumphs and setbacks
On a cold bench, I sit down to enjoy the timid sunshine on a crispy Winter day
The stomping feet of children, joggers, and runners can be heard at the park
The hawk is calmly perched now. A photographer approaches with a camera
We are all interdependent species. Yet, we live as if there is no tomorrow


(Poem written to sympathize with the sudden illness of a co-worker and after enjoying Woodwark Park or the Great Outdoors. I was looking at Children's Hospital Central California's building..)

Poetry Lost a Good Friend, a Benefactor in Ruth Lilly

Here is how Poetryfoundation.org staff put it. The organization is stable for some time. It would not hurt to have a new benefactor. This way, more poetry can be published. More young poets can be discovered, nurtured and sent into the world to help others.

"The Poetry Foundation is grateful for Ruth Lilly’s extraordinary generosity and kindness. The staff and trustees of the Poetry Foundation are greatly saddened by Ms. Lilly’s death and extend their condolences to her family. Thanks to Ms. Lilly’s munificence, the programs of the Poetry Foundation bring poems to 19 million Americans who would not otherwise read or hear them. From the annual $100,000 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize honoring a contemporary poet’s lifetime accomplishment, to five Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowships that go to aspiring poets, to ensuring Poetry magazine continues publishing in perpetuity, to a host of new programs and prizes established by the Poetry Foundation since receiving the bequest, Ruth Lilly’s legacy will allow millions of readers to discover the great magic of poetry for generations to come.

“Poetry has no greater friend than Ruth Lilly,” said Poetry Foundation John Barr. “Her historic gift is notable not only for its size—that part of her largesse is known to every corner of the poetry world—but also because it was made with no conditions or restrictions of any kind as to how it should be used for the benefit of poetry. In that, it was the purest expression of her love for the art that meant so much to her as poet herself, and as benefactor.”

The Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine and one of the largest literary organizations in the world, exists to discover and celebrate the best poetry and to place it before the largest possible audience. The Poetry Foundation seeks to be a leader in shaping a receptive climate for poetry by developing new audiences, creating new avenues for delivery, and encouraging new kinds of poetry through innovative literary prizes and programs......"