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Posts Tagged ‘personal growth’

Absolutely beautiful poem about freedom, hope and the anxiety we all succumb to when our world fails us.

TIBET, ACTIVISM AND INFORMATION

Sheng Xue, Prominent Activist For A Free ChinaImage: SFT Canada/Edited @tibettruth

Sheng Xue a respected and renowned activist for human rights and freedom presented recently a poem she composed titled ‘Light Me Up’ dedicated to those brave Tibetans who sacrifice their lives to demand national freedom for Tibet.

I opened my eyes in the morning
The room is dark.
I opened the window to welcome the gentle wind
The sky is dark.
I opened the door to greet the wild wood
The mountain is dark.
My heart opens to embrace freedom,
in a world dark and hard.

I didn’t want much,
to hope the yak in the mountains can freely run.
That the eagle can crown the turqoise sky,
to hear the monks chanting in the temple.
I just want to see His Holiness at least once in my life time.
I keep them as dreams in my heart, I don’t dare to ask.

But there is…

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My last night at home was
The last night of my home.
I ran down scarlet streets
To the cacophony of death
As shell after shell ripped the earth.
My mothers eyes ran red
As her body watched me leave.
My fathers entrails,
All that was left behind
To wave me off.

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True there is no “I” in poetry
But there is heart.
There are souls
From time immemorial
With secrets yet to share,
Seductions to be finished
And tears yet to shed.

All of our souls and dreams,
Our entire collective unconscious
Drawn like beads on a tight string
Along the necklace of words.

There is Handsome Johnny and Joe Hill
All those heroes who never died,
All those who never survived
All those we never knew

There are cars we never drove,
Flights we never took
Oceans we never swam in

All the faces we never met and
There is You, and all the girls
On the corner under the streetlight
Watching all the boys
And the parents stressed beyond measure,

There are roses and a
Kiss for when the thorns prick,
And there is then
And there is now
And what if,
What, why, when, where,  who
And again, there is You
And there is us
And there is I,
So maybe there is an “I” in poetry after all.

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Source: He Groused About The Meek

He groused about the meek
“They inherit nothing,
Not the wind,
Not the grain,
Not the shirts on their backs.”

I was five years old.
My brothers coat, five button holes, three buttons
Shoe laces broken
Tied in many places to hold them together,
The streets were my playground,
Fire hydrants were bears,
Passersby were Indians,
We shot at them with imaginary guns,

Turning and walking away,
Leading me by hand, without a word
Down streets of jailhouses
Prisons of thought,
Of carelessness
Of lives abandoned

My father teaches me of the rich
Of the bitterness of long sleepless nights
The way of life of the working stiffs

Merrily the children run down the shaded lane
Trees meeting in the middle
Branches kissing each other in the sun
While under their splendour
Life prepares the sinkholes

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Your men are cascading,
Oh widows of war,
Cascading away from you and
Out of your arms and your lives

They are left alone drowning in the streets
With the blood of our sins on their hands
Your sons and brothers,
Are merely the dead without names
Soulless wanderers through our memories minefields

We write now not of our loves but our flaws
Our losses our pain
Our unfulfillable longing our fears
We write of the wars we will never win

We write for the days when
There’s nothing we can do
But watch our sons die in fields we’ve never seen
We write as the sadness overwhelms us with
A deadly grip on our convictions

We write of words that have no meaning
Of leaders with no sense of truth
We write of the best of men
and the worst of lies

We write of the cascade of lives
The constant avoidable mixing of our morality
into the cesspool of inhumanity
Your men are cascading,
Oh widows of war
We write because we can no longer
Suffer your sorrows in silence.

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He ran from the Cross that chased him,
Afraid of the impending combination
When the wooden slabs mix with the living skin
Burning its way into its own eternity.
The permanence seared into his consciousness
Face white as a ghost, unrecognizable,
His wife would say she “had no idea who he was”

The onlookers hid behind the altar,
The tombstones in the churchyard were
Reminders of their failures.
Too terrified of their own original sins
They had no clue how to react, unable or unwilling,
Stuck to the pews, their skirts barely caused a rustle.

His face pressed against the church windows,
His fear expressed something they don’t dare talk about,
They fell to their knees and whipped themselves
In silent moans that speak of their undying emptiness.
Glad for their sins and their shame,
Their only true feelings,
They prayed in self-effacing earnestness
Gratitude to an invisible God
They marveled at how it can make them feel alive

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there is no them, there is only us.

 

 

I tried to walk on the earth

In a place where it did not ache

Find that spot where

My bare feet might not do damage

But its pain was all-encompassing.

With every step I felt it cry.

With no place left to go

I cut off my feet.

 

I tried to find a field

that didn’t know of hunger

Where the crops could feed the multitudes

But the corn was crying

Its husks were brown and its heart broken.

I felt so insufficient

I couldn’t find crops enough

So i starved myself.

 

I searched the borders for refugees

That felt safe and welcome

But the children were starving

And the parents frightened

I tried to speak but no one spoke my language

I tried to open my nations borders

To harbor those who flee

But many who were inside

Turned violent,

Terrified by what they didn’t know or understand.

I turned their water to wine

Their swords to plowshares

But still they wouldn’t share.

 

I tried to find a song

That all could sing and feel inspired

But no one grasped the meaning

I cried and became mute.

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