'Nobody's Queen'

Kors Collaborations - Claiborne Swanson Frank

mother t

i left this piece of metal art that i made on a street in Portland Oregon

the only thing i kept of it was this picture i took

i wonder if anyone has it now

Light.

Photograph Taken By Nick Gibson

Shot While Taking A Walk With My Mister In Forest Park, Portland Oregon.

New York Times Archive

I had read a New York Times article back in November of 2005.
The article inspired my poem 'Volume No. 53,4111' which I wrote shortly after reading it.
I had misplaced the article years ago, and just now, almost seven years later, found it in the archives of New York Times.
It is a story that definitly pulled my heart strings then, and still does today.

Here is the link to the New York Times Article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/27/international/africa/27malawi.html?scp=14&sq=africa%2C+child+sold&st=nyt">

POEM

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2005

volume no. 53,4111
november 27th, 2005
New York Times.
African Times.

there is a push
pull
try to keep up with the times
try to keep our cultural lines
some things aren’t meant to last
some traditions don’t stand a chance
when are we going to speak up
start raising our intellect
if you listen to an anthropologist
he’ll show you a view beyond your own mind
but tell me how can a baby be sold still
the value of a girl child
compare to food on the kitchen stove
debt unpaid
your son with his own wife
the sorrow in her eyes
when you tell her
she is your bride child daughter
to a man with seventy years
paying your going rate of 16 dollars
the price of your adolescence
taken away
by your parents own blessing
did you know then
you were the sacrifice
the lamb upon the alter
its been happening since bible times
told you to consider it an honor
but you child are a child
the lamb was just a lamb
there is a push
pull
on demand
come with me now
let me show you
how we disregard
societies lower rungs
so we lower the sins
for the guilt of our own stakes
resist the efforts of change
divide our sanity in desperation within
to think it’s okay
to mutilate
and mutate
fight the laws
that govern land
sell the soil
with our own plans
give away our righteous daughters
with attempt to believe
they are our own rightful martyrs
to keep lineage
right
and good
with who lives in new money
who lives in old money
who lives with no money
and lets keep it this way
who would want to divide up the profits
the rich look richer
richer with goodness
to give their portions to the poor
to the needy
to the cause
but the tax dollars
get bent
and they get relieved
by there own reductions
so they can sleep at night
but there is a push
pull
and I am not sleeping
cant sleep
because I am middle class
middle street
twenty four
and still im coming home
still blessed to speak my mind
to say what is so
of my belief
to write these lines
and scream with rage
to find food
rotting in the cans
below the sink
because water still runs clear
on this share of land
and I look away
turn the blind eye
but today new york times
haunts me
with Africa front page
center stage
because this is our world
yours and mine
food enough to go around
airplanes to travel the time
but how can things still be so harsh
just another 12 hours away
how do the streets stay so full
and the homes live so empty
the doctors told me of my dis ease
but blood is thicker then water
more knowledgeable then eyes
today I was granted with the gift to be humble
and still spared my own purity
but there are so many
mis fortuned
layers
to unfold
overlapping
the how
and why
and who would
when
you could
but never did
and we have not be honest
with our intentions
not been honest
with what really lives beneath our surface
viruses and bacteria and little bugs that manifest on the flesh
this is how we live
an epidemic
of tribulations
there are so many ways
to look
and point the finger
to many ways to tell a story
into believing it’s a piece of fiction
a world to far
gone away
to believe
and to regard
because even our families
even our bodies
even our own souls
get looked over
denied
into caring
because it is easier to numb pain
take the vice
find the muse
and write about the tragic occurrence in the mind
what does it take
to share the burden of the soul
to reach out
and be the needy one
and still find that steady hand
there is a push
pull
and here I stand divided
here I am broken
how many volumes of new york times
does it take to feel your heart strings felt
how many children have to be sold
how many viruses must be spread
how many victims of hunger have to die
how many human beings must be prisoned
how many words must be written
how many people must lose their way
until we find solutions
does it have to reach into your home
drag you out of your warm bed
shake you down to core
push you until you are pulled
how do we fight without the rage
how do we find a new way
because we keep on repeat
the past becomes the
future becomes the past
and we keep on repeat
there is a push
pull
the past becomes the
future becomes the past
and we keep on repeat