For further information please go to www.centerfor9/11justice.org William Veale describes the Center for 9/11 Justice, his representation of April Gallop and their lawsuit against Donald Rumsfeld, Dick Cheney and General Richard Myers. For further information please go to www.centerfor9/11justice.org http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLvzvUpik50
Center for 9/11 Justice sues Donald Rumsfeld, Dick Cheney and General Richard Myers
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Three Political Poems by Corinne
"They"
What makes them so particular, They're nothing more than we, They cannot heal the sick, the lame, Or make the blind to see.
I'd like to show them just one time And put them in their place; Show them they're no good, Not of a superior race.
Waiting for the light to come, Just for men to see, They don't work any miracles; They're nothing more than we.
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"To the Ones In Charge"
The hurricane struck with vengeance And so many were left to die, I know; you were taken by surprise, Do I see a tear in your eye?
Telephones and cameras , Are just devices used to spy, They're not tools for safety, Do I see a tear in your eye?
False war, thousands are no more, 'Cause of a political lie, And all for democracy's oil, Do I see a tear in your eye?
Killing boys, homeless, elderly With bullets or GM crops, They're no tears in your eye: Bottled natural tears drops.
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"Life on the Farm"
I now live on an animal farm: As the alarm clock rings, I can be seein' the cackling Rhode Island Reds In the Chicken Representative hen house, Laying their infertile red eggs. There or in the Rat-Infested Senate building, Nothing ever will be born. And there's the rooster at days' break; Crowing from his soap box in the rose garden. There are grunts from the pigs on the hill, Donkeys bray from their cabinet....noise with no sense. Oh, no sense noisy place! I can't understand a single thing! The silent sheep and rabbits watch and listen To all this farm show when I arrive outside to work. When the mornings sky is just barely lit; You'll find me out there shovlin' the sh!t.
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I have been known to write poetry. I am a person who equally appreciates poems in English and Spanish. I heard this tonight, Tuesday, February 27, 2007 on www.novamradio.com and had to share it with you. It's chilling.
"The Box"
Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye, Around about the wondrous days of yore, They came across a kind of box Bound up with chains and locked with locks And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war." A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before. Don't fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks. And please don't ever play about with war. The children understood. Children happen to be good And they were just as good around the time of yore. They didn't try to pick the locksOr break into that deadly box. They never tried to play about with war. Mommies didn't either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither 'Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty In those wondrous days of yore. Well, very much the same as now, And not the ones to blame somehow For opening up that deadly box of war. But someone did. Someone battered in the lid And spilled the insides out across the floor. A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war. It bounced right out and went bashing all about, Bumping into everything in store.And what was sad and most unfair Was that it didn't really seem to care Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for. It bumped the children mainly. And I'll tell you this quite plainly, It bumps them every day and more, and more, And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying Thousands of them sick and crying. 'Cause when it bumps, it's really very sore. Now there's a way to stop the ball. It isn't difficult at all. All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure That we can get it back into the box,And bind the chains, and lock the locks. But no one seems to want to save the children anymore. Well, that's the way it all appears, 'cause it's been bouncing round for years and years In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore And the time they came across the box, Bound up with chains and locked with locks, And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."
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Let me live in the house by the side of the road where the race of men go by; The men who are good and the men who are bad, as good and as bad as I; I would not sit in the scorner's seat, or hurl the cynic's ban; Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man. -- Sam Walter Foss