| Our Voices Raised |
| Poetry and Art |
| Another Woman Today another woman died and not on a foreign field and not with a rifle strapped to her back, and not with a large defense of tanks rumbling and rolling behind her. She died without CNN covering her war. She died without talk of intelligent bombs and strategic targets. The target was simply her face,her back her pregnant belly. The target was her precious flesh that was once composed like music in her mother's belly and sung in the anthem of birth. The target was this life that had lived it's own dear wildness, had been loved and not loved, had danced and not danced. A life like yours or mine that had stumbled up from a beginning and had learned to walk and had learned to read and had learned to sing. Another woman died today not far from where you live; Just there,next door where the tall light falls across the pavement. Just there, a few steps away where you've often heard shouting, another woman died today. She was the same girl her mother used to kiss; the same child you dreamed beside in school. The same baby her parents walked in the night with and listened and listened for her cries even while they slept. And someone has confused his rage with this woman's only life. -Carol Geneya Kaplan |
 |
| i |
 |
| Sleeping Beauty: The Other One I was sleeping and my life was unremarkable so I thought,having trained myself not to think about it While i'm asleep the facts of my life go unnoticed that black eye, now...that was something or nothing or something anyhow when I'm awake but see,I'm sleeping. Shhh. I find it's easy to sleep and hard to be awake because when I'm awake I know I have to do something about this. This Bruise. This Blood. This This... This... Shhhhhhh. ...Sleeping... So sleeping beauty(the other one),I heard she ate a poisoned apple. I wonder Na`ape G. |
 |
All of us are travelers lost, our tickets arranged at a cost unknown but beyond our means. This odd itinerary of scenes --enigmatic, strange, unreal-- leaves us unsure how to feel. No postmortem journey is rife with more mystery than life. Tremulous skeins of destiny flutter so ethereally around me--but then I feel its embrace is that of steel. On the road that I have taken, one day, walking, I awaken, amazed to see where I have come, where I'm going, where I'm from. This is not the path I thought. This is not the place I sought. This is not the dream I bought, just a fever of fate I've caught. I'll change highways in a while, at the crossroads, one more mile. My path is lit by my own fire. I'm going only where I desire. On the road that I have taken, one day, walking, I awaken. One day, walking, I awaken, on the road that I have taken. From: The Book Of Counted Sorrows Dean Koontz |
 |
| Back to Home Page |
| If you would like to submit an original poem for Our Voices Raised Art Page please email me by clicking on the mailbox on the Home Page |