Tuesday, December 18, 2012

I wrote a version of this on my cell phone this evening and posted it on facebook.

I'm bringing it over here so I can make changes and store it where I can find it.


It needs to be said - A poem for people who get annoyed at me when I want to talk about children whose lives are not valued...

There are so many murdered children,

collectively eliminated human invalids
who have died amidst
the abuse and suffering
inflicted by those who clearly hold
their own children,
no longer alive yet still,
photogenic media darlings 
more dear.

We are ALL family

All descended from the
exact same migrating, evolving root.

When we forget this

primal genetic truth
we learn to remember some children
but not others.

We teach our children

to treat those with power
and their pawns
and the privileged children
of those pawns
as somehow more worthy,
more precious...
Than other people's children...?

I have been crying

for many people's babies
for many years.
I think it's becoming a parent
That stripped away the veils.

In between bouts of impotent rage,
I am asked to notice and mourn
the children of those who dominate.

I can't.

Any tears I could have spent

flow in rivers and streams
towards areas and people who are
clearly unknown by CNN or FOX.

My teeth have been gnashed

to fragments,
scattered like cremated dust
in memory of the suffering
inflicted on the children of the dominated.


Your children were not innocents.

They just did not know

that their school was a place of indoctrination
where they were most likely
not being taught about the society
that birthed them,
sheltered them,
fed them and their families
denial and misinformation,
enough to make them them
dangerous future
armed international terrorist threats.


I have no sadness to offer you.

I am dry, brittle and bitter.

I am wordless.


I have not even a small amount of pure grief unadulterated by howling, outraged, merciless consciousness to offer your little ones.

I know your people and their war machine too well.

I have not looked on your deceased children's photos.

I cannot see them.

My eyes...
buried under piles of rubble,
nostrils filled with dirt,
lips turned blue,
not able to be resuscitated,
wrapped in white,
carried by shrieking, shocked, terrified family members
through ruined streets...
these eyes are forever tattooed
with the memory of what I have seen.
seared, stuffed to the brim
with pictures of defenseless planetary peers.

My plaintive wounded animal,
womb ripped open,
hemorrhaging mother's sobs
have already been drafted into resistance triage
on behalf of those who need them more.

I have nothing.

Nothing to willingly offer you, connecticut
that has not already been spoken for,
and sacrificed on the funerary pyres
of childhood mutilated

beyond recognition.

copyright December 2012. T.J. Bryan

if what you're reading here grips you, holds you, fascinates you, provokes you, emboldens you, pushes you, galvanizes you, discomfits you, tickles you, enrages you so much that you find yourself returning again and again...then link me.


sia japera said...

This doesn't necessarily have to be published, I just wanted to pass this group on since a few of your posts have been instrumental in my understanding of myself as colonized and settler at the same time as a descendant of the Middle Passage. Have you heard of Idle No More?



Jane Hathaway said...

That's really good, and too appropriate to be heard by very many, at least for now.