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Tinderbox | Hiram Larew

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No no no
The meek aren’t weak
Don’t ever make that mistake
or think such foolish foolish things
Trust me on this
the meek aren’t weak

Yes, they may ask permission when others don’t
And they’ll put up with much more guff
than others do

But here’s the point —
The meek will take only so much
Yes up to a point they may be soap-suds mild or terribly shy
They may smile a bit or stand aside
But they have their limits
Cross their line
Push too far or rile them
And see what happens

In fact if you light their fuse
then it’s best to stand way back because
When the meek finally go off
It’s galactic
Come too close or god forbid
be the cause of their upset
and you’ll be seeing stars in the heavens

This isn’t a riddle of some kind or a joke
It’s a warning plain and simple to whoever’s listening

There comes a time when the meek have had it
They stop begging your pardon
or being sweetness and light
And when that switch gets flicked
Oh my
About the only thing to do is duck

So for your own good
Learn this please and don’t be surprised —
Deep down and at their core
The meek my friend aren’t weak

More at http://www.poetryxhunger.com/.

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Tears of My Ancestors | James Gregory Paul Sr.

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a tear fell that day
from the coast of ivory
for the souls of juillet, jimi,
babet and bambara

and landed in washington dc

a tear fell that day
from a plantation in mississippi
for jude, whipped and smoked
cealy, leashed and yoked
phoebe, tarred and feathered
jupiter, penned and tortured

and landed in washington dc

a tear fell that day
from a tree in lynchburg
an unmarked grave in baton rouge
a baptist church in alabama
a bloody balcony in tennessee

and landed in washington dc

a tear fell that day
from the joy of my ancestors
for barack hussein obama

the first black president of the u.s.a.

More at http://www.jamesgpaulsr.com.

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The Role of a Hyena | Alexandre Bartolo Knabah Júnior

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My notepad
is full of grammatical deviations
delivered by the hyena with a lion’s mane.
She now fights against her own
paws, looking for some water,
in the immensity of catch phrases.
She hopes no one will interrupt her,
no one will mock her yellow wig,
no one will stamp her face in camaraderie media.
—–
Alexandre Bartolo is a Brazilian student who thrives, reads, and doesn’t understand anything at all.

Best Poetry Online-A Poetry Website Featuring Poems by 21st Century Poets

The Possibility | Alexandre Bartolo

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Imagine the sparkling possibility
that women could have a mammogram, or
a gynecologist test them for the possibility
of cervical cancer developed after a
an XY being has pressed them to do
anything without proper protection.
Imagine this possibility tripled,
without some man of faith blowing up a
women’s health clinic because they only perform abortions,
and the doctors mix the fetuses with cola and then we buy soda.
Imagine now the remote powerful possibility of
living without any human interfering in their
ability to choose.
Imagine, please, the possibility.

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A Death Scene | Hadrian Hazlitt

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An old woman is
dying on her bed.
Her husband is sitting
by her side, clasping
her hand with his wrinkled
hands and through the open
window a breeze slinks in
and embraces
the couple as the
day is dying fast.
But neither of them
notices these. It isn’t
worth admiring the
beauty of sunset
nor grumble to the
cold embrace of the
wind—not this time though.
The old woman smiles.
To her husband,
As if she’s not going
To die. Just having
a deep slumber. “Do you
You think we’ll meet again?”
She asks. “In an afterlife,
I mean.” He nods and
says “Yes, we will,” not
because he’s certain.
But it’s kind of a good
prospect to hear.
“Don’t forget me darling,”
she says and shuts her eyes,
and there are tears sliding
Down her cheeks. The husband
waits, though he knows she won’t
wake up again. “I
won’t forget you, my love.”
He bends and kisses
his wife. He barely
notices the tears on
his cheeks. Now he
just has to wait.
He only wishes the waiting
won’t be long.

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The Thirteenth Hour | Dan Tindall

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These elderly invaders
Have long since gone
Native on the poor rocky
Soil and ancient drainage
Where Bold Kevin
His chainsaw
And his musical ear defenders
Cut logs for fuel from
The fallen corpses left by
Unexpected storms
Business has no place here
In the shadow of fierce uplands
Where desperation breeds resignation
Just at the moment
When cooperation should
Confront change
And so wrap its many selves
In a warm layer of
Birdsong and light
The blue plume of the two-stroke
Lingers and seems
For a second to
Look west
Then is dispersed
Conveniently forgotten
Amongst the restless pollen clouds

More at http://www.dantindall.com.

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