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"If we are to teach real peace in the world, we shall have to begin with the children." Mahatma Gandi

12/24/2018

As Christmas eve a-lights the waters of the globe
And half the world rejoices in the tidal ebbs of celebration
Sorrow still bleeds from my thoughts
As a child cries out in hunger
A woman suffers in squalor
A man dies from the brutal hand of another
And the world is not at peace

Who will buy me an orange? Whispers the child
Who will sweeten my cup with clean water?
"The Little Match Girl" lives on
She haunts the street doorways
Peering in through our windows
Lit from the inside with starry lights
Illuminating frivolity and plenty
Who will save my starving baby brother?
With his swollen belly and sticks for legs

The refugees with half sunken eyes and agonized disbelief
Turned from our gates
Just as Freedom flaunts her hem
She pulls away her hand and turns her back
Abandoning their pleas

Meanwhile the Taliban claims another life
A family drowns as their frail boat sinks
A Syrian child chokes on the fumes of poison
While we prefer not to see
The girl with a pencil writes her name in secret
Lest her Father breaks the lead

A young woman wrapped in her veiled cage
Walks escorted through the streets
Pressed in the arms of silence and repression
Like a bird without a song

As a wall is steadily built along the boundary
Between freedom and persecution
And Liberty’s torch is extinguished
By selfish and hateful leaders
As if God in his lofty wisdom would condone

The Madonna shakes her head
Her eyes spill tears of blood

When the true Christmas spirit rises in each of our hearts
And we teach our children
to remove the barriers of blind dogma and blind prejudice
Then the Angel of Peace will wake and descend
Dressed in grey humility
And she will knock upon the bones of the earth
And she will break open her breast of comfort
Spilling the blood of compassion from her ribs

Only then will the river of hope flow with good tidings
Her reflection of love
Mirroring respect, light and acceptance from coast to coast
As a full moon waxes
Whelping her offspring
And the Earth is reborn once again

by Susan Golden

"A small body of determined spirits fired by an unquenchable faith in their mission can alter the course of history."
Mahatma Gandi

Wishing you the gift of love
The power of thoughtfulness
The Strength to stand up for what is right
The ability to act no-matter how small your contribution
And a sense of peace in your hearts

Have a happy and peaceful Christmas
From Womensvoice1

Then a well-meaning warbler let Tweet from his tongue, " The Cuckoo was witnessed molesting its' young...."

9/11/2018

“In her voyage across the ocean of this world, the Church is like a great ship being pounded by the waves of life’s different stresses. Our duty is not to abandon ship but to keep her on her course.”
Saint Boniface

The recent and shocking exposure of sexual abuse of children and its deliberate cover-up at high levels within the Catholic Church is not only abhorrent, but an apocalyptic betrayal of trust by priests towards the most unsuspecting and the most vulnerable.
It is not new news however, and neither is it limited to Philadelphia.
As the investigation unfurls, and new victims come forward, it is apparent that this has occurred in many states here, in the UK, in Ireland, in South America and even in Australia. It is seemingly a universal problem. Indeed, the reputation of many priests as sexual perpetrators has become such common knowledge in Italy, as to cause Italian Mothers to warn their children not to be left alone with the clergy.
It seems to me that a “Man of God” that rapes children and succumbs to evil temptation can no longer be practicing the teachings of Christ, and should be defrocked, and dare I say, excommunicated.
Excommunication after all, to a devout Christian, would be the ultimate penalty ...

"The beginning of all temptation lies in a wavering mind and little trust in God, for as a rudderless ship is driven hither and yon by waves, so a careless and irresolute man is tempted in many ways."
THOMAS A KEMPIS, The Imitation of Christ

I think the whole notion of chastity as a major or sole pathway to godliness or spirituality is based on a mistaken notion, and it is obvious, as evidenced by the behavior of priests throughout the centuries. Even as far back as the Borgias, there is documented evidence of pedophilia, debauchery, and deviant sexual indulgence within the Catholic Church.

“Sipe called the priesthood a “homosocial culture. All the values within the culture are male, and the reason there has been such a tolerance across the board of sexual activity by priests or bishops is that there is a boys-will-be-boys atmosphere. It’s kind of a spiritual fraternity—like a college fraternity, but with a spiritual aura around it.”
― The Boston Globe, Betrayal: The Crisis in the Catholic Church

What makes the whole matter worse is that at the beginning of his papacy, Pope Francis knew about the widespread problem, but he failed to act quickly enough.
A report released by a former Vatican ambassador to the United States charges that Pope Francis knew about sexual abuse by former Cardinal Theodore McCarrick, removed a suspension placed on him by Pope Benedict, and then proceeded to make him one of his most trusted advisors.
Earlier this year, Pope Francis defended a bishop who covered up for a pedophile priest in Chile. The pope ignored complaints about the bishop before promoting him in 2015
Despite the victims’ advocates calling for an extension of the statute of limitations for prosecution, the Vatican has proposed to put new limits on the statute, thereby limiting the time span during which priests can be held accountable.
Pope Francis’s liberal views have brought about many positive changes within the Catholic Church since his election, but his “blind eye“ towards evidenced based accusations in Chile, has cast serious doubts on his ability to fulfill his promise to root out the “ scourge “ of sex abuse. Since then, he has created a Vatican tribunal to judge clergy of such crimes, but now the Vatican’s appeal to limit the statute of limitations puts the seriousness of demanding accountability into question.
Not that I blame the Pope for the crimes of his clergy, I believe that he is a good man; but as the captain of his ship, one asks, " Should he be held accountable?"

So, it is time for a quick sequel to The Pope and the Cardinal, poem...

But first, for those of you who have never read my original poem, (published in 2014), I enclose it here, together with the original illustrations...
It is written in the style of Edward Lear and Lewis Carol, and mimics the stanza of "The Owl and the Pussycat"....

Poem and illustrations copyright Womensvoice 1 2014
(I recite the whole poem in my audio book version. )

Pope Francis's journey deserves retrospection
Whilst sailing his course in a "different' direction
Inherited problems insight recollection
A scourge in the pulpit suggests an infection...
The wide spread corruption is causing disruption
His hoodwinked perspective augments the defective
Despite liberal thinking
His vessel is sinking..

To the Catholic believer,
I mean no disrespect
But this culture of abuse one has to reject
No man of honor could ever conceive
No man or woman could ever believe
Preying on the children who suffer to come
Instead of praying with those who repent one by one …
Tis the devil who chooses to prey on the young

But now they are trying to narrow the time
a perpetrator be accountable for his foul crime
I don't have the answers, I have no control
But you my dear reader, you cannot condole
The cancerous growth on the Face of religion
In my opinion should be headed for prison
The ultimate betrayal of Jesus's teaching
Against all he stands for, against all his preaching..

One asks should Pope Francis be blamed for his flock?
Should he float? should he sink? should he anchor and dock?
"Watch this space", said the Fox, as he broadcast this story
Will Francis preserve the Church in its' Glory ?

So here ends the tale of Pope Francis and co
what transpires directly we All soon will know!

“I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.” Mary Oliver

7/10/2018

“The fact that we cannot see our friends or communicate with them after the transformation which we call death is no proof that they cease to exist." –Walter Dudley Cavert,

The evening light suddenly burst through the window and beamed rainbow prisms on the opposite wall, making me look up. An astonishing golden glow lit up the leaves in the trees outside which became quite transformed into vivid greens and yellows. I walked out into the back yard to be enveloped in the blanket glow, the cicadas loudly vibrating their hypnotic crescendo , singing their rhythmic percussion. As if on cue, three large yellow dragonflies made their dramatic entry into the immersive stage, dancing and pirouetting, swooping in formation through the garden, as if they were communicating glad tidings in a strange and wonderful ballet.
As I watched, mesmerized, I felt it was an omen.
Today, we had put our beloved dog, Poubelle to sleep. She was old and tired, and had stopped eating. She had been the sweetest pet, a loving and grateful soul. I was grieving.

Last Christmas, we had lost Mum, and my ongoing grief for her was compounded still by yet another loss. Even though one cannot begin to compare the loss of a Mother to the loss of a pet, Poubelle was still part of our family.
And so, I was ready for an omen, or a hidden message to ease my grief.
After the light faded, and the dance was over, I rushed back into the house to #google the symbolism of dragonflies.
According to www.californiapsychics.com, “our loved ones who have crossed over can often send bugs, birds, and small animals as messengers to let the living know that they are okay on the other side, the dragonfly can often show up as a spiritual messenger. Spirit often uses vehicles that are small, unique, and bright in color, and the dragonfly is thought to be a traveler of dimensions and realities, making him the perfect candidate.”

The dragonfly-site.com tells us that “The eyes of the dragonfly are one of the most amazing and awe inspiring sights. Given almost 80% of the insect’s brain power is dedicated to its sight and the fact that it can see in all 360 degrees around it, it symbolizes the uninhibited vision of the mind and the ability to see beyond the limitations of the human self. “

Their sheer agility, speed and their ability to maneuver each wing independently would be an engineering feat for any earthly invention, and their iridescence lends a heavenly disguise creating illusions and a sense of change and transformation.
It is a fanciful and comforting thought that dragonflies and butterflies could convey a message from the spirit world, but it is a lovely magical thought.

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Was Rossetti referencing the string theory?
Ha! I think not, but it makes you wonder. Are we all connected in some way, even after we cease to exist in this realm?

https://www.forbes.com/sites/startswithabang/2016/11/25/what-every-layperson-should-know-about-string-theory/#1de6363a5a53

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound,
the lights around the shore. ...

You have been mine before,
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turned so
Some veil did fall -
I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Mary Oliver, poet laureate, wrote,
“Poetry is prayer, it is passion and music, it is beauty, comfort, it is agitation, declaration, it is thanksgiving…Often poetry is the gate to a new life…It brings new thoughts or welcome remembrance of old ones. It offers simple pleasure, complicated joy, and even, at times, healing.”

When Mum was very ill, I had written a poem for both her and Dad called,
“Come dance with me one more time.”
I gave it to Dad after Mum died, and he loved it so much, he decided to put it to music. He wanted to channel his love and grief into creating a memorial to Mum. Since then, he has written their life story, and I have helped him to put his words into poetry, and my sister, Bid, has facilitated the music, both harp and violin parts.
The result has been a very unique cantata, not for every ear; but a personal pilgrimage in musical form expressing a lifetime of devotion to the Love of his life.
It has been a wonderful way for Dad to deal with Mum’s passing, combining their common love of music, and our ability as family to cooperatively help him express his ultimate tribute.
I feel honored to have helped, and it has allowed me to grieve in a healthy way too.

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
Anne Lamott

When death comes, it reminds us that we should live life to the fullest. That doesn’t mean to be fool hardy, and not plan, or do responsible things, but it does mean to savor the moments. To remember that we are not here forever, and to cherish our loved ones. Mum and Dad loved to the fullest. They devoted their entire lives to each other, through thick and thin, and I can look back and say that they truly loved. Dad is now learning to dance with a limp, carrying Mum’s love with him each step of the way. They have not simply visited this world, they both have lived within it, and left a footprint that will live forever. Grandchildren, great grandchildren and wonderful memories will live on.

When Death Comes

When death comes
Like the hungry bear in autumn,
When death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

To buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
When death comes like the measle pox;

When death comes
Like an iceburg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
What is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it is over I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made my life something particular and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
–Mary Oliver

And so my friends
My thoughts have wondered yet again
Across the clouds of yonder hill
Into the brilliant evening light of make believe
Can I touch the web of silken steel that grips us all so lightly ?
Yet I feel the wisp of wind that carries the dandelion
gently bringing me to rest like a seed on dusty ground
How can the dragonfly turn and twist through invisibility
maneuvering through dimensions hidden from our sight?
What can they see through their eyes?
My vulnerable seed is lifted briefly
only to catch the wing of a passing sparrow
searching for food
I doubt if I will find the answers
even if they are blowing in the wind

Susan Golden, Womensvoice1

The dead are always looking down on us they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats
of heaven as they row through eternity.
They watch the top of our heads moving on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them.
Which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait like parents for us to close our eyes.

Billy Collins

Robert Mueller I asked a Burmese man why Women, after centuries of following their men, now walk ahead. He said, "There were many unexploded land mines since the war.”

3/27/2018

Because the time is ripe, the age is ready,
Because the world her woman's help demands,
Out of the long subjection and seclusion
Come to our field of warfare and confusion
The mother's heart and hands

Long has she stood aside, endured and waited,
While man swung forward, toiling on alone;
Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated,
Now, for the world for which she was created,
Comes woman to her own.

From Suffrage Songs and Verses, by CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN 1911

”There'll be differences of opinion in just about every intelligence analysis that you make.
I asked a Burmese man why women, after centuries of following their men, now walk ahead. He said there were many unexploded land mines since the war.”
Robert Mueller

There are huge numbers of women running for political office this year, and this number has significantly increased over the last 2-3 years. I think it is safe to say that it is because women globally are beginning to realize that if they want change, they need to take control. Just like the suffragettes in Victorian times, women have rebelled yet again to take ultimate control of their lives, their careers, their environment and in government. It’s not just the abortion- rights activists or the “hard core feminists", or the “Right or Left wing activists”, it’s every day women from all walks of life who are fed up with the status quo.

The Metoo movement has helped to spear-head this surge forward, as women address, head on, the sexual abuse they have experienced while on the job, in social settings and even within families and the church.
Tarana Burke, who founded the #METOO movement said,
“We need a complete cultural transformation if we are to eradicate sexual assault in our lifetimes. It means we must build our families differently, engage our communities and confront some of our long-held assumptions about ourselves.”
(www.metoomvmt.org )
It seems that since the founding of the Metoo Movement, there has been a domino effect, and women have become emboldened to come forward about their abuse, and that we are fast approaching a cultural reckoning unlike anything we have experienced before in Western society. Not that sexual harassment is limited to men against women; but it is true to say that for long standing cultural reasons, women have not come forward for fear of retribution; losing their promotion, being ridiculed, being fired, being bullied. As a cumulative result of the Metoo movement, other social media initiatives, the internet, and better education, women are finding their voice and speaking up.
It is also true to say that there are other cultures, other societies, where women continue to be undervalued, regarded by "patriarchal" societies as inferior, and by default, are more susceptible to sexual abuse.
Throughout history men in society have gone to great lengths to exclude women from public life, to strip her of her power, and to undermine her identity. Women have been, (and in some cultures still are,) identified only by their heritage, their home making capabilities, or by to-whom they are married. In many cultures, even her sexuality is held hostage, either by enforced dress, by female genital mutilation, or by strict and cruel punishment, ( like stoning).
Women have been in a state of unrest for many years, and some men have made light of our aspirations to be respected and valued, as illustrated in this tongue in cheek excerpt by Edgar Guest:

Here’s to the men! Since Adam’s time
      They’ve always been the same;
Whenever anything goes wrong,
      The woman is to blame.
From early morn to late at night,
      The men fault-finders are;
They blame us if they oversleep,
      Or if they miss a car.
They blame us if, beneath the bed,
      Their collar buttons roll;
They blame us if the fire is out
      Or if there is no coal.
They blame us if they cut themselves
      While shaving, and they swear
That we’re to blame if they decide
      To go upon a tear.

Edgar Guest

So we have a great wave of enlightenment happening; a great wave of assertion against sexual misconduct, an exposure of our inappropriate behavior as humans towards each other.
In the last two years, recent headlines have reported over 70 allegations of sexual harassment by Hollywood, sports stars and TV celebrities.
In early October 2017, movie mogul Harvey Weinstein allegedly sexually harassed or assaulted multiple women over decades. Paul Haggis, 64, the Oscar-winning filmmaker who wrote "Million Dollar Baby" and directed "Crash," has been accused of sexual misconduct by at least five women. Garrison Keillor, the former host and creator of "A Prairie Home Companion," was fired by Minnesota Public Radio over "allegations of his inappropriate behavior “, Matt Lauer, Charlie Rose, Kevin Spacey, Jeremy Piven, Dustin Hoffman, George HW Bush, James Toback, are just a handful of names recently accused of sexual misconduct.

During the 2018 Oscars, many of our favorite stars, men and women, wore black to support the Time’s up movement, to support equality in the work place, to decry sexual harassment, and to bring attention to a new level of solidarity in Hollywood. Opportunities for more female producers, more minority actors and actresses, not just “token” representation, were addressed.
Even our own president is not above suspicion..
“It is hard to reconcile that Harvey Weinstein could be brought down with this, and yet President Trump just continues to be the Teflon Don,”
said Jessica Leeds, who claims she was groped 30 years ago on a plane by the man whose presence she cannot escape now that he sits in the Oval Office.”
#WASHINGTON POST

Monica Lewinsky recently admitted in an interview with #Vanity Fair that despite bravely taking some responsibility for her role in the relationship with Bill Clinton, it was a “Gross abuse of Power” which contributed to the entire scandal; one born of power -play and her own vulnerability at age19.

Until men are willing to discuss what has been considered to be “locker room Banter and behavior“ and address it head on, we are not there yet.
Even the Catholic church is still struggling with accusations of sexual abuse. Pope Francis recently sent an envoy to Chile to investigate a priest who has allegedly been practicing pedophilia. Despite his apparent blind spot to this particular offender, it is troublesome to learn that it is common practice for Mothers in Italy to warn their children never to be alone with a Priest. In fact, over the years, the Catholic church has denied and disguised abuse, and managed to whitewash even the smelliest of their laundry.

Then a well-meaning Warbler let Tweet from his tongue,
“The Cuckoo was witnessed molesting its’ young”
The flock it fell silent, and surrounded the fowl,
Who showed no remorse, with a sulk and a scowl,
They disguised him in feathers to look like a Pheasant,
and he skulked away,
Smelling clean, and quite pleasant.
From The Pope and the Cardinal, WomensVoice1 2013

Screen shot from my audio visual poetry book, The Moon of Compassion

How sick we are, despite our so-called evolutionary abilities.

In a recent Tweet, the eloquent Jacqueline E. Lawton, poet, writer, Playwright, heralded the Metoo movement with a short, but poignant poem beginning: ( I quote,)

“There is a song of Me Too,
Being heralded across the land
Truths laid bare
A battle cry fit for a nation”

We have come a long way, but we still have a long way to go.
My own unfortunate experience with sexual abuse as a child by a Fireman have plagued me for years, and there is no denying that I have been effected in my relationships as an adult. And so I echo“ Metoo”, to all the women out there. When I was a child I was terrified to question an adult’s behavior, because I was taught to respect, and to a degree, fear authority.
The perpetrator is dead now, but looking back, I should have fought back a long time ago.
In 2013 surgery kept me at home for three months. During that time I wrote a lot of poetry dedicated to social change, decrying terrorism, bullying, and sexual abuse, and other issues surrounding social change. It was poetry meant to be spoken out loud, produced along with audio recordings and illustrations.

I quote now from one of my older poems entitled,
The time is near;

Anoint the nourishment men take
Do it now
For mankind's sake
Can you see?
Can you hear?
A gentle rumble drawing near
No longer is it "Eye for eye"
"Change your world"
Your battle cry!

Excerpt from Time is near, by Womensvoice1, 2013

You only have to Google #METOO , and the number of evocative poems spewing from the lips of women owning their anger about their experiences with abuse will hit you in the face from #YouTube;
recordings from SLAM poetry competitions and open Mic nights.

As Cecelia Doe tweeted in her recent #Metoo“ thread,
“It’s a sad thought;
I’d be more surprised to see
Someone write,
“NOT ME “

Too often over the years, women have blamed themselves for their own victimization, because they have been taught to feel shame by societal norms, church teachings or their family. Amy Grant turns that shame around in her song about a sexually abused child..

Where did He go in the middle of her shame? I see her as a little girl
Hiding in her room
She takes another bath
And she sprays her mama's perfume
To try to wipe away
The scent he left behind
But it haunts her mind

You see, she's his little rag
Nothing more than just a waif
And he's mopping up his need
She is tired and afraid
Maybe she'll find a way
Through these awful years
To disappear

Ask me if I think there's a God up in the Heaven
I see no mercy, and no one down here's naming names
Nobody's naming names
Amy Grant

In her song “Quarterback”, Kira Isabella, a Canadian country singer, brings to light the all too familiar tale of rape on campus, especially during Freshman years and hazing rituals.

It was Friday night and the lights were shinning
Everyone was sitting in the stands
He was being scouted by a big time college
She played trumpet in the marching band
In the parking lot, when the game was over
She had a bus to ride
When he pulled up in his buddy's truck
And the door swung open wide
He was the quarterback
Smile at her, imagine that
How do you explain the star of the game
And the no name girl from the freshman class
She got out at a bonfire party
Never had a drink before
But he held it to her lips and she took her first sip
And before she knew it, she had three more
She always heard that a girls first time,
Is a memory she'll never forget
She found out the hard way about love
When she saw those pictures on the internet
He was the quarterback
Smile at her, imagine that
Who you gonna blame the star of the game
Or the no name girl in the freshman class
He was the quarterback
Smile at her, imagine that
Who you gonna blame, the star of the game
Or the no name girl in the marching band

Kira Isabella - Quarterback – YouTube

In her song, “Sullen Girl”, Fiona Apple describes the inner feelings of a young woman who cannot disguise her depression and feelings of loss after rape and abuse.

Is that why they call me a sullen girl, sullen girl
They don't know I used to sail the deep and tranquil sea
But he washed me 'shore
And he took my pearl
And left an empty shell of me

And there's too much going on
But it's calm under the waves
In the blue of my oblivion
Under the waves
In the blue of my oblivion
Under the waves
In the blue of my oblivion
It's calm under the waves
In the blue of my oblivion

And Rhiannon Gidden's evocative lyrics to At the Puchaser’s option, proudly declares:

I've got a body dark and strong
I was young but not for long
You took me to bed a little girl
Left me in a woman's world

You can take my body
You can take my bones
You can take my blood
But not my soul

My newest poem, written this year is dedicated to all those who have fallen victim to the gross abuse of power, no matter when, in their lives.

“Me too” as she whispered the gross abuse of power
In the hour
Before the promotion
The leading part
Consideration for a position
A Freshman, a hazing
A brave admission
A revelation of truth
The record label or
The Olympic training
Women are re-appraising their past

I get the notion of a Domino effect
As we straighten tall with new self-respect
And rip the blinkers from our eyes
We realize the lies and neglect of truth
Often waking in the presence of a perpetrator from our youth
Or a haunting that effects our relationship with sex

For years the putrid stew has simmered
And now builds a bubbling cultural crescendo
Rumbling like thunder, gathering strength and becoming
A lightening cry
No longer an innuendo

“Me too”!
travels across the sky
As we unify
And claim our absolute touch down
”Me too” ,
“Time’s up!”
No longer a whisper
No longer a missed goal
““Me too ! “ becomes a leveling reality
From which we can own change
Enough is enough!

During the Womens March 2018
Halsey read her powerful poem from her iphone to the hungry crowd of listeners.
So powerful it was that it could be THE Metoo poem of all time.
Take your time to #google the link and watch her read it.

From “ A story like mine”

"What do you mean, this happened to me?
I'm supposed to be safe now.
I earned it. It's 2018,
and I've realized that nobody is safe 'long as she is alive,
and every friend that I know has a story like mine,
and the world tells me we should take it as a compliment.

It's Olympians and a medical resident and not one f*cking word from the man who is president.
It's about closed doors and secrets and legs and stilettos,
from the Hollywood Hills to the projects and ghettos …
Listen, and then yell at the top of your lungs.
Be a voice for all those who have prisoner tongues."

Halsey 2018

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKddxONWn78

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I haven’t posted in a while.
Mum died just before Christmas
I had been in England taking care of her and Dad for a good six weeks prior, and had left to come back to the States, feeling that she was doing well.
Unfortunately she died suddenly after a brief hospital admission, and I returned for her Memorial service in January of this year.
I have been uninspired and my creativity flattened by my grief and sorrow, and so it has taken some time to regain a momentum of sorts.
I offer this to you as an excuse for my silence, and to wish you all the strength to love yourselves and your loved ones, moving forward in a healthier world.

In the words of Annie Lennox,
Hold your head up movin' on, keep your head up movin' on
Hold your head up movin' on, keep your head up

Quien su no conoce su historia esta condenado a repetirla. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. George Santayana.

11/23/2017

“A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.”
― Leonardo da Vinci

I began this particular blog, just after the earthquake in Mexico, and am only just now finishing it, almost three months down the line. I have been in England, taking care of my elderly parents while my Mum was hospitalized with yet another life changing challenge. She is finally home, and I am happy to say, making progress, and so I am now able to finish this chapter.
So please forgive the tardy feel as news and natural disasters befall faster than I can possibly keep up….…

These roads will take you into your own country.
Seasons and maps coming where this road comes
into a landscape mirrored in these men.

Past all your influences, your home river,
constellations of cities, mottoes of childhood,
parents and easy cures, war, all evasion’s wishes.

Half-memories absorb us, and our ritual world
carries its history in familiar eyes,
planted in flesh it signifies its music

in minds which turn to sleep and memory,
in music knowing all the shimmering names,
the spear, the castle, and the rose.

But planted in our flesh these valleys stand,
everywhere we begin to know the illness,
are forced up, and our times confirm us all.

You standing over gorges, surveyors and planners,
you workers and hope of countries, first among powers;
you who give peace and bodily repose,

opening landscapes by grace, giving the marvel lowlands
physical peace, flooding old battlefields
with general brilliance, who best love your lives;

and you young, you who finishing the poem
wish new perfection and begin to make;
you men of fact, measure our times again.

These are our strength, who strike against history.
These whose corrupt cells owe their new styles of weakness
              to our diseases;

these carrying light for safety on their foreheads
descended deeper for richer faults of ore,
              drilling their death.

Carry abroad the urgent need, the scene,
to photograph and to extend the voice,
              to speak this meaning.

Voices to speak to us directly.     As we move.
As we enrich, growing in larger motion,
              this word, this power.

Excerpts from The Book of the Dead: The Book of the Dead
BY MURIEL RUKEYSER

It took an earthquake to ground me enough to finally choose a subject for my blog.
I have been behind in my creative thinking in the last couple of months, muted by the never ending violence, catastrophes and in embarrassment for the juvenile and impulsive example set by the so-called “"Leader of the free world “. Even top government officials and members of the United Nations are cringing at Trump’s lack of self control and apparent inability to demonstrate presidential demeanor.

As we move into survival mode after Harvey, Irma and Maria, and the citizens of Mayanmar are struggling against ethnic cleansing, the last thing the world needs is the threat of nuclear war, precipitated by two world leaders, neither of whom has the global safety of the world’s people at heart, and neither of whom has the self control to restrain their dangerously shortsighted impulses.

I was in Mexico when the 7.1 earthquake hit. We were about to climb the Temple of the Moon at Teotihuacan when we heard the news. My friend Cynthia felt the earth move slightly, and I tripped, thinking that it was my shoe. It was not until they closed the pyramids to climbers that we realized it had been severe, and then later in the day, when we were within wifi range did we discover the damage in Mexico City and surrounding areas.
Ironically, earlier that morning we had been instructed that there would be an earthquake drill at the hotel, and this was a city wide exercise. It was the anniversary of the Great earthquake 32 years ago, when thousands of people died. Since then, regular drills have been diligently held, and this day, September 19th , was the exact same day as the previous earthquake!

In a world where “God” is represented in so many ways, and cultures are steeped in a mixture of conditioning and rigid indigenous beliefs that cause so much strife, it is truly remarkable how we can pull together in such solidarity when faced with natural disasters. We have seen it recently in Houston, after Harvey, in Florida and the Caribbean, how those whom we have stereotyped have risen to forget their differences, and fight for the common good of humanity.
Now would be a good time for Trump to at least partially redeem himself, and use the money for his “Wall” on more humanitarian measures. America could become “Great again” if her immense wealth was sent to help those countries in desperate need instead of proliferating war by supplying arms, and her president tweeting inflammatory insults about other countries and world leaders, and insulting the families of fallen serviceman.

Within hours, stations were set up all over Mexico City for disaster relief. Teams were stationed at check points ready to receive and package with military precision. Cleaners were out in the streets sweeping up debris, and damaged buildings were cordoned off with a police officer posted to warn. Indeed, I had already been heartened and impressed upon arrival, when we saw vast stores of Harvey and Irma relief packages under the eves of the Zocalo Grand government building. Neatly packaged and stacked compilations of toiletries, diapers, blankets and clothing, were all ready for dispatch. Now they were already organized for the Mexico earthquake disaster relief.
We had been uncertain whether we would be able to get back to our hotel safely, but were reassured by our guide and the driver that they had already been in touch with our hotels, and informed us that we would be OK . ….
As we approached the Zocalo where we were staying, there were clouds of smoke rising in the air, and rubble cordoned off by barriers. Streets were closed, and traffic diverted. We were dropped off down the street from our hotel because our road was impassable. My heart leapt as we passed the unusually unlit doors of the Grand Hotel de Ciudad de Mexico, with its fine glittering crystal chandeliers and gold canary cages, hoping that the exquisite, enormous, receded art nouveau ceiling would be still intact. Balconies were askew and there were new, precarious cracks in masonry. The fabulous Spanish colonial buildings, and predominantly sixteenth century churches surrounding us must have weathered many earthquakes; but for some, this one was the last straw.
We did not learn until later that a school building close to us had collapsed, burying classrooms of children, and how many people Death had already claimed in the city. All museums and public buildings were closed, and three days of mourning were immediately declared, and efforts to dig out survivors were already in progress. Armies of civilians with buckets had emerged from their homes and were organized in human chains to gently and religiously hand pick through the rubble with the intention of avoiding further injury to those buried. Police and Rescuers were there in seconds. Silence was declared in the streets as commuters and tourists passed by collapsed buildings, not just out of respect, but to listen for cries of help.
I wanted to cry, but that was not helpful. Instead I loved the ones I was with even more, and felt so lucky to have escaped unscathed. And I loved the staff at the hotel, who stoically smiled and reassured guests, internally aching to go home to find out the damage at their own homes. Some of them came to work the next day with tales of no electricity, no water, and had had to travel on foot or bicycle because the roads were not negotiable.
“"We love this city” they said, “ We love Mexico. This is Nature. We cannot control Nature; we must live along side her. “

The people of Mexico celebrate the souls of the dead during El dia de los Muertos, “The day of the dead”. It is a time when friends and family are remembered in prayers, and by gifts of flowers and the departed’s favorite foods on graves and commemorative alters. The holiday has been traced back to an indigenous Aztec festival dedicated to the Goddess Mictecacihuatl, and has been amalgamated over time into the Catholic tradition of All Saints day. The Mexican government made it a national holiday in the 1960’s as a way of unifying indigenous traditions with elements of Catholicism, from an educational perspective. The official holiday is Nov 2nd.
Artwork dedicated to El Dia de los Muertos is everywhere in the city of Mexico, and in the villages and towns. Skeleton figurines dressed in traditional colorful costumes pose in vignettes representing everything from marriage, to the last supper. Often, there is a playful approach to the figurines who might be portrayed sitting on the toilet, or in amusingly compromising positions.
Highly colorful and stylized, and perhaps a little foreign to other cultures , skulls adorn garage doors and stare down from restaurant walls, or skeletons greet visitors in shop doorways. Death is part of life, and beloved souls are conjured up to share in the revelry of life.

“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.”
- Stella Adler

Along with the folk art of El Dia de los Muertos, there is infinite art in Mexico City. From the fabulous 15th and 16th century Spanish colonial buildings, to art nouveau shops and hotels. Statues adorn the parks, and fountains spout from deities such as Zeus and Neptune. Many precolonial figures are represented, and many pre and post revolutionary heroes populate monuments and botanical gardens.

“Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.”
― Pablo Picasso

Each era of human history leaves footprints behind in the form of art; be it sculpture, paintings or murals, architecture or monuments, music, poetry, or manuscripts. Not all are politically or culturally favorable to all observers, because there are always at least two sides to every status quo. For example, in Mexico, the conquistadors, who invaded in the early sixteenth century were ruthless and cruel to the indigenous Mexican Indians. They flogged them and hung them if they did not denounce their pagan beliefs and convert to Catholicism. They were persecuted and tortured, given no mercy. Yet, there are hundreds of Spanish colonial churches and chapels still standing in Mexico, brimming with ornate rood screen carvings, gold laden statues and fabulous paintings, their great domes rising above the horizons, and their bells peeling the praises of the still predominant faith.
No one would suggest that we knock down or remove these symbols of a once cruel and barbarously hypocritical and oppressive occupant.

”Evil exists to glorify the good. Evil is negative good. It is a relative term. Evil can be transmuted into good. What is evil to one at one time, becomes good at another time to somebody else. “
Mencius - From the Goodness category:
372 BC -289 BC...

Equally, in Europe, People have been persecuted for their faith over the millennia. Catholics against protestants, and vice verse, Muslims against Christians and Hindus, and now Buddhists against Muslims. The symbols of faith in the form of tangible art remain and survive, others are destroyed in war, or sadly defaced , such as during the dissolution of the monasteries in England under Henry Xlll

During the civil wars of both England and America, man was pitched against man, families against families, the most bitter fights were fought over principles that each side believed were right, and commemorative statues were erected, portraits painted, poetry written.
There is much poetry written about Hitler, by followers who believed in his dream; who idolized him in prose.

   Adolf Hitler
Two men are joined as one in you:
One seems cold and hard,
One who achieves his goals.
Another is tender and kind,
He forgets not even the poorest.
He feels for the least of us.
Two streams owe their strength to you.
You are the sap rising from each root,
The seed that gives them birth --
A new spirit rose from you,
That forged us together as a nation
And dwells in us forever!
Anon

Even music was composed for individual Kings and Queens and dictators that commemorate an era or an event that may now be considered unsavory or a humanitarian crime. During the rise of the third Reich, music was composed for the occasions of Nazi pageantries, rallies, and conventions. Composers dedicated so called 'consecration fanfares,' inaugurations fanfares and flag songs to the Fuhrer.
There are war memorials all over Europe that represent the victors or the victims of war. There are statues erected to the now controversial Boor war , and of course, to Vietnam. The self erected statue of Saddam Hussein was ceremoniously torn down after he was executed in Iraq after Desert storm.  In Mexico, there are still statues erected by Cortez, and numerous artifacts produced during his reign.
Most recently, ISIS has destroyed countless precious artifacts in the Middle East, because they disagree fundamentally with the creation of any art form that might be construed as personifying Mohammad, and therefore blasphemous.
We live in a so called age of change and enlightenment where we now question the morality of certain wars or political action in our lifetimes. We frown on and reject slavery as it was for African Americans. Yet we fail to learn from our mistakes and often history repeats itself. Slavery still exists. Prejudice still exists. Child exploitation still exists. Female trafficking still exists. We ignore the evidence and buy blue jeans from companies that run sweat shops and buy diamonds mined by exploitation. We ignore famine in the third world, and are unaffected by ethnic cleansing happening in Syria, Somalia and Myanmar

Question.
Does tearing down statues of confederate soldiers really change the way we think?
Does defacing a statue or a lifetime work of art change our behavior?
Does blowing up a Mosque like al-NUri in Mosul change the way a Muslim feels about their chosen faith?
Should we systematically destroy all works of art that now represent something distasteful or unpalatable in retrospect?
That would have to include, perhaps, the carved Tombs of Henry Xlll, or Oliver Cromwell, relics of the Spanish Inquisition, portraits of Conquistadors, Art work from the Russian revolution, the statue of Colonel Custer ….
Do we pull down the old plantations of the South?
Should we tear down Auschwitz, or keep it to ever remind us of the terrifying death camp hell that it represents ?
The list goes on…
”Life is the art of drawing without an eraser “
-John W Gardner

I have never been to Charlestown South Carolina, but from what I understand, the town was founded on, and survived around slavery. The gardens and the galleries are full of artwork that evolved as a result of the slave trade. I do not believe we can escape our ugly truth by tearing down the past.
I do believe that we should show accountability and educate ourselves in retrospect.

Quien su no conoce su historia esta condenado a repetirla
George Santayana. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

This website is about poetry and art for social change. Moving forward we have many new artistic opportunities.

    To the Moon
Sail on, as tirelessly as ever,
Above an earth obscured by clouds,
And with your shining glow of silver
Dispel the fog that now abounds.

With languor, bend your lovely neck,
Lean down to earth with tender smile.
Sing lullabies to Mount Kazbek,
Whose glaciers reach for you on high.

But know for certain, he who had
Once been oppressed and cast below,
Can scale the heights of Mount Mtatsminda,
Exalted by undying hope.

Shine on, up in the darkened sky,
Frolic and play with pallid rays,
And, as before, with even light,
Illuminate my fatherland.

I’ll bare my breast to you, extend
My arm in joyous greeting, too.
My spirit trembling, once again
I’ll glimpse before me the bright moon.

Iveria, No. 123 (1895) Joseph Stalin (!)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oliver Cromwell is buried and dead.
There grew an old apple tree over his head.
The apples were ripe and ready to fall.
There came an old woman and gathered them all
Oliver rose and gave her a clop.
Which made the old woman go hippity-hop.
Saddle and bridle they hang on the shelf,
If you want any more you must make it yourself!

ANON

"No heirloom of humankind captures the past as do art and language." Theodore Bikel

8/3/2017

The English dictionary defines an Heirloom as something of special value handed down from one generation to another.

"Our most treasured family heirlooms are our sweet family memories. The past is never dead, it is not even past."
William Faulkner

I love to go garage sale-ing, or estate sale-ing…( sailing, for short), on the weekends. I often find jewelry, books and treasured items that surely have a story to tell; souvenirs or gifts of love, or memorabilia left suddenly exposed to the raw reality of abandonment. In some ways it is sad. I feel like a vulture honing in on the pickings, and yet Vultures have their value too, in the chain of life. My prizes gain new life, either on my own shelves or as gifts to other people. Sometimes they become my most favorite tool or article of clothing. Others hang proudly in my living room, swelling with new found pride in their existence, and breathing new life into my surroundings.
My parents, the generation that lived through the Second World War, and the Great Depression never threw anything away. I have been accused of similar crimes by my darling daughter who is much more of a minimalist than I. However, she belongs to a younger generation who does not want their grandmother’s furniture, doesn’t want the clutter, or the old lace curtains. Even I am beginning to downsize, although part of my rationale for “collecting “ in the first place was that it somehow would increase in value as time goes on. In reality, it NOT the case.
Old brown furniture is not popular any more. Antiques that were valuable when we were kids have lost their popularity and declined in value. Large pieces of furniture, like Armoires become a burden to a fast moving, Ikea-raised society who can purchase a whole bedroom suite at huge retail outlets for no money down and no interest for 4 years! Small apartments and Lofts do not have a lot of storage space and ornamental clutter becomes a burden.
Even as our parents die, our children do not want a lot of the old belongings and ‘Stuff” , and they certainly don’t have the emotional connection to things that we once did. I remember keeping little bits of wrapping paper that I received when I was a child, (when wrapping paper first became decorative. ) It used to be plain brown paper, or newspaper when I was growing up, and the first real wrapping paper I saw was thrilling to me! It was blue, and had white elephants on it! ( Kind of ironic in a way…J
By the time most baby boomers lose their parents, they are already established, and don’t need or want their parent’s stuff, save perhaps for a few select heirlooms. (Maybe.)

“ I don't know the first thing about holding together a family, especially one that resembles an heirloom vase, shattered but glued back together for its beauty, and no one mentions that you can see the cracks as plain as day.”
Jodi Picoult

HEIRLOOM
A.M. Klein
From: A.M. Klein: Complete Poems (I & 2). ed. Zailig Pollock. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1990. I.298.

My father bequeathed me no wide estates;
No keys and ledgers were my heritage;
Only some holy books with yahrzeit dates
Writ mournfully upon a blank front page --

Books of the Baal Shem Tov, and of his wonders;
Pamphlets upon the devil and his crew;
Prayers against road demons, witches, thunders;
And sundry other tomes for a good Jew.

Beautiful: though no pictures on them, save
The scorpion crawling on a printed track;
The Virgin floating on a scriptural wave,
Square letters twinkling in the Zodiac.

The snuff left on this page, now brown and old,
The tallow stains of midnight liturgy --
These are my coat of arms, and these unfold
My noble lineage, my proud ancestry!

And my tears, too, have stained this heirloomed ground,
When reading in these treatises some weird
Miracle, I turned a leaf and found
A white hair fallen from my father's beard.

Back when the Jews were escaping Nazi Germany, many women sewed rings and jewelry into the hems of their skirts and petticoats to transport their valuable heirlooms. Protection of family bibles, musical instruments and paintings was common during political and religious wars, in order to save them from being burned or destroyed. Throughout history in Europe, Asia and the Middle East; the practice of destroying cultural or ideological icons with the hope of annihilating a belief system was common, and is still going on. Isis has successfully destroyed so many archeological heirlooms, not just belonging to Muslims, but belonging to Humanity.

In her book, Heirlooms, Rachael Hall pieces together several war- linked stories gleaned from four generations of family Heirlooms.
“Author and essayist Rachel Hall, who grew up in Columbia, Missouri, won the Sharat Chandra prize for her publication of “Heirlooms,” a story collection based on her family’s history.
“Heirlooms” begins in the French seaside city of Saint-Malo in 1939 and ends in the American Midwest in 1989.
In these linked stories, the war reverberates through four generations of a Jewish family. Hall’s French mother and grandparents survived the Holocaust in hiding, and her family’s wartime papers and photographs, the inspiration for these stories, were recently donated to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. “Heirlooms” explores assumptions about love, duty, memory and truth. “
Washington post.

Wikipedia has an entire chapter dedicated to Heirloom treasures that have been lost or stolen during war time . Some of those items include:

Scepter of Dragobert 1795

Originally part of the French Regalia, sometimes considered its oldest part, dating from the7th century, it was stored in the treasure of the Basilica of St Denis (also known as Basilique royale de Saint-Denis) until 1795, when it disappeared, probably stolen.

Crown Jewels of Ireland 1907

Heavily jeweled insignia of the “Most Illustrious Order of St Patrick”. Stolen from Dublin Castle in 1907.

Florentine Diamond 1914

Huge, priceless lost yellow diamond of Indian origin

Lost Imperial Faberge eggs

1922 or later
Seven eggs in the Imperial series are missing:[7]

1886 – The Hen with Sapphire Pendant egg
1888 – The Cherub with Chariot egg
1889 – The Nécessaire egg
1897 – The Mauve egg
1902 – The Empire Nephrite egg
1903 – The Royal Danish egg

1909 – The Alexander III Commemorative egg

Royal Casket 1939

Memorial containing 73 precious relics that had once belonged to polish royalty. Looted during World War II.
See also:
Art theft and looting during World War II

I cannot possibly list all the lost heirlooms of the world. Many of them are still hiding somewhere, and every now and then may be discovered in someone’s loft, or exposed from under another painting, or hidden behind a stucco wall. But some may never be found or seen again. Some have been destroyed by bigotry and hate.
What is left behind, we should cherish, and look for the story, the message , the history and the strength.

Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
(William Wordsworth)

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind

I take pictures wherever I go. In fact photography is one of my most favorite hobbies.
Yet most of my pictures remain in a Cloud, or on my computer. I used to print them up, but have become lazy.
One of my most cherished pass times when I go home to my parents is to dig out the old photographs from the loft. Piece by piece we go through them, guessing who this baby is, and that Grand Father was, and trying to put names to faces. We are not so enamored by landscape pictures, or by the Still Life. It is the people that are important; the names of the family members, where they fit in the family tree.
We need to start printing pictures again.. In a hundred years, who knows if the “Cloud “ will still be there… or if there will be an interface to read your thumbnail.
We need HARD copies buried in that Time capsule. We need something that tells their story like the old portrait paintings, drawings and etchings.
I wonder if my daughter will ever have that special drawer with old pictures of me?
I wonder if my old pictures of my parents and grandparents will survive?
Or will I be sold off in a box of old unwanted photographs at an Estate sale down the road, or worse, end up in a rubbish heap?

Food for thought in these troubled times.

Treasures in a Box
(© 1997 Pamela Harazim)
Come, look with me inside this drawer,
In this box I've often seen,
At the pictures, black and white,
Faces proud, still, serene.
I wish I knew the people;
These strangers in the box,
Their names and all their memories
Are lost among my socks.
I wonder what their lives were like.
How did they spend their days?
What about their special times?
I'll never know their ways.
If only someone had taken time
To tell who, what, where, when,
These faces of my heritage
Would come to life again.
Could this become the fate
Of the pictures we take today?
The faces and the memories
Someday to be tossed away?
Make time to save your pictures,
Seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours could be
The strangers in the box.

"Always remember you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think and twice as beautiful as you'd ever imagined. Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself " Rumi

6/18/2017

I am frustrated!
It seems that I cannot decide on a blog topic for this month, despite several aborted attempts, a lost document, and a struggle finding available dedicated time.
I have tried to avoid feeding into the emotional roller coaster offered daily by the political stage, both here and in Great Britain.
Then, after the stabbing on London bridge and the bombing in Manchester, I became numb and despondent; the horror brought back memories of the 1970’s and the Provisional IRA bombings in Belfast, London, Guilford,to name a few…, and a friend who was killed by a bomb blast in Harrods, bringing the reality of terrorism up close and personal.
And the killing continues.
This year alone there have been umpteen terror attacks killing innocent men, women and children all over the world. The car bomb in Aleppo killing 126 people, 60 of them children; the Camp Shaheen attack by the Taliban killing 256; the car bombing in Kabul, killing 150 and injuring 413.
Now the shooting in Alexandria…its all terrorism to me.
Killing for political or ideological reasons. An attempt to bully and use fear to change the freedom of thought, the freedom to believe what we believe in.
Yesterday, the comatose and broken body of a student sent home from North Korea, brutalized and brain damaged from anoxia. A victim of barbaric, draconian punishment.

We cannot escape this agonizing truth that humankind is capable of such evil.

“Sometimes I think,
I need a spare heart to feel
all the things I feel.”

― Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingos

I often turn to poetry to quench my thirst for something meaningful to express the way I feel. I write. I dream. Sometimes I am obsessed with certain thoughts until they spill out on paper.
Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night with a line of a poem, or a thought for a blog subject, and it churns, over and over. Cerebral rumination.
With my photography I enjoy seeing things that perhaps others will not immediately see. But I have to turn off the outside world and point my heart in the right direction.
Feeding my creativity is not always easy.
I work. I have responsibilities. I have obligations. Never enough time.
I have to steal the time.
Get up too early on a weekend, and sit, with a cup of tea. Read. Search. Look at #Instagram at my favorite photographers, and find my muse.
That is what I have done today.. stirring from my bed to let the dogs out, and wrap up in a warm blanket on the couch. Stealing time like a naughty girl, feeling guilty about leaving my partner in bed. He is still snoring.
Gathering my thoughts as I begin to wake up, it is easy to get distracted, to surf away into loose associations.
In order to blog effectively, I have to consciously focus and decide on a subject that excites me, or I feel passionate about. But this month it has been difficult. I feel like I have been kicked in the solar plexus and had the wind knocked out of me.
I feel dried up.

So I turn to poetry :

“Words
are powerful
forces of nature.

they are destruction.
they are nourishment.
they are flesh.
they are water.
they are flowers
and bone.

they burn. they cleanse
they erase. they etch.

they can either
leave you
feeling
homeless

or brimming
with home.”
― Sanober Khan

Poetry feeds the soul more than fear.
Fear eats the soul.

The daily acts of violence and terror in the world are a heavy reminder that our path feels out of our control. Some people turn to religion, and assume that because they are safe, it has something to do with God. But what if you become a victim of violence, or terrorism, or crime?
Is that something to do with God, or are you going to blame it on the “Devil’s work”?
People tend to think within the “"world view” of their cultural upbringing, and within the bubble of their belief system.

I tend to think that the Human race is like a great collective organism. Within that organism there can be self destructive traits and disease. It can effect one person, or it can effect many.
I also believe that if we harness the power of LOVE, whether through Christ or through Buddha’s teaching, or any moral framework, compassion and caring will prevail, and we shall eventually find peace.
But it is a long journey, and I do not think it will happen in my life time.
The general tone of rhetoric amongst our fellow man must be healed before we can even think about influencing the kinds of draconian regimes like North Korea.
We have to recognize the “"mote in our own eye” before we can bring about change in other people, let alone other countries.
Think about the election, and the disrespectful and hostile tone between Trump supporters, and Clinton supporters. Think about the ways Obama was treated by the congress, and how uncooperative and downright obstructive Republicans were to the legislative process.
Think about the tweets and jibes by our President, who is supposed to represent the voice of the American people. How do we look to others in the world?
Do we rule by example?
Every time I hear a Trump spokesperson defend a faux pas or deliberate insult made by President Trump, I think of the tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes.
As the Emperor strode down the parade, wearing his “ new and wonderful “garments made by the Taylor, (at great expense), everyone can see he is completely naked, but are afraid to say, lest they lose their own head.
It takes a little child in the crowd to innocently cry out…
“"Look! He doesn't have any clothes on! “ for the people to hear the truth!
As Donald Trump parades in front of the crowds he says extraordinary things. He contradicts himself. He acts like a bully. But his admirers say,
“Isn’t he wonderful! He didn't mean this,....he meant that! “
So in my mind, I suddenly have appreciation on an old tale, that meant nothing to me as a child.

Changing myself, working on my own questions about life, and carving out the time to stop, think, listen and learn is something that I am having to learn all over again.
Since I was 18, I have worked, slept, travelled, married, had children, divorced, rediscovered love, and continued to work. It was not until I had back surgery a few years ago, at age 60, I was forced to get off the life train, and rediscovered my love of poetry. I was filled with the passion of creativity, and wrote my audio book with illustrations using my photography and clip art. I embraced relatively new technology to help me with recording my poems, and composing background music etc., using nothing but my iPad, my computer, and #Book creator.
For me it was cathartic. I realized that I had something that stirred inside; something that had nothing to do with my career as a nurse, nothing to do with my everyday life.
I discovered a part of me that had been percolating for a long time.
I realized that despite my codependency, despite previous abusive relationships, I had control. I was the master of my soul.

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
      I am the captain of my soul.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

As I watch the world's stage unfurl, I am reminded of the serenity prayer...
"The Power to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.".
I am the captain of my soul, and so are YOU !

“...so i will greet you
in a way
all loved things
are meant to be greeted

with a tear in my heart
and a poem in my eye.”
― Sanober Khan, Turquoise Silence

“Whatever you get out of poetry - take it. take it. take it.
Words are better off felt than understood.”
― Sanober Khan

Arise, then, women of this day! Arise all women who have hearts, whether our baptism be that of water or of fears! Julia Ward Howe

5/14/2017

Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise all women who have hearts,
whether our baptism be that of water or of fears!

Say firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies.
Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking
with carnage, for caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country
to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs.
From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own.
It says "Disarm, Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."

Blood does not wipe our dishonor nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plow and the anvil at the summons of war, let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women,
to bewail and commemorate the dead.

Let them then solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, each bearing after their own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.

In the name of womanhood and of humanity, I earnestly ask that a general congress of women without limit of nationality may be appointed and held at some place deemed most convenient and at
the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of Peace

Julia Ward Howe
Boston in 1870

Mother's Day in America was originally started as a holiday that commemorated women's public activism, not so much as a celebration of maternal love and devotion.
The idea of an annual celebration of all Mothers was originally suggested by Julia Ward Howe, an activist, writer and poet who wrote the Battle Hymn of the Republic, “ Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. “
Julia suggested that the second Sunday in June be celebrated as Mothers Day and should be dedicated to peace. During the Civil War, as a protest to all the carnage in the name of justice, she delivered her famous passionate proclamation aimed towards women who had lost their sons in battle. She wrote an extraordinarily brave and progressive speech for the time, imploring all women, no matter what nationality or culture to join together for peace.
She tirelessly held meetings every year in the name of peaceful activism, and lobbied for a national Mother’s Peace day.

'We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country
to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs.
From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own.
It says "Disarm, Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice!'

The earliest history of Mothers Day dates back to the ancient Romans and Greeks who dedicated spring to maternal goddesses well before Christ was born. The Greeks honored Rhea, wife of Cronus, and the Ancient Romans celebrated Cybele, the mother goddess. In Rome, the Ides of March became three days of celebration dedicated to Cybele, during which there were street dancing, masquerades and offerings in the Temple of Cybele.
In the 1600’s in England,Christians dedicated the fourth Sunday in Lent to the Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ), and the celebration evolved to include all mothers.It became known as Mothering Sunday,
In the United Kingdom and in other European countries, Mothering Sunday is a time when Mothers are honored by the congregation.Many churches send small bouquets of flowers home with the children for their Mothers, and special prayers are dedicated to the Virgin Mary, considered in the Catholic church to be Mother of all men.

Anna Jarvis Reeves is generally recognized as the founders of modern day Mothers Day in US. In 1858 she started organizing Mother’s work days in West Virginia with the initial goal of improving sanitation conditions in the Appalachian communities.
During the Civil War, she concentrated her efforts on soliciting women away from their families to care for the wounded on both sides of the fight. After the civil war she was active in persuading men on both sides to lay aside their hostilities.
Anna Jarvis Reeves was not herself a Mother, but as an activist and social worker she pioneered her own Mother’s idea that someday, people should honor all Mothers, living and dead, and pay homage to their Motherhood. Incensed by a trend of growing indifference and disrespect towards Mothers, Anna began her own tradition of sending Carnations to her church in Grafton, to honor her own mother. Carnations were her mother’s favorite flower, and Anna felt that they symbolized a Mother’s pure love and devotion. She began lobbying for a dedicated Mother’s day, and eventually her tireless efforts paid off.
In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson designated the second Sunday in May to be the official Mother’s day.

Today, we celebrate Mother’s day all over the world, although the dates are not the same in Europe, and the etiology is quite different.
Despite the commercialism, which sadly disillusioned Anna Jarvis Reeves, Mother’s day is when we commonly honor, recognize and remember our own Mothers.
However, I would like to draw your attention again to the words of Julia Ward Howe, and encourage you to think how much power women have to change the way the world thinks and behaves.

“Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise all women who have hearts,
whether our baptism be that of water or of fears!
In the name of womanhood and of humanity, I earnestly ask that a general congress of women without limit of nationality may be appointed and held at some place deemed most convenient and at
the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of Peace “

May you have a wonderful Mother’s Day, enjoy your family, and feel special. May the force of Motherhood and female strength be with you, and may you focus the love and devotion towards your family and your fellow man.

To My Mother

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you--
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

To my Mother

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.

Christina Rossetti

Mother o’ Mine
Rudyard Kipling, 1865 - 1936
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

Rock Me to Sleep

BY ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Happy Mother"s Day to my darling, ever-loving, wonderful 90 year old Mum, who I love dearly. She has taught me to love unconditionally, and will forever be a fierce spark in my heart. I love you Mum xxx

“I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.” (Death) Markus Zusah, The Book Thief

4/18/2017

“I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.”
(Death)
Markus Zusah, The Book Thief

This Easter finds me back in Cornwall with my elderly parents and siblings, who travelled as far as Australia to gather together. Spring is in full magnificence here with bluebells and wild primroses adorning the hedgerows, and campions spearheading through the glorious golden gorse.
I arrived shortly before the “Pink moon”, which I watched rise in full haloed glory over the coast above Rame Head, Cornwall. As the moon rose, and shone its silvery light across the calm sea, I wondered at how stunning the world is, yet how vulnerable we all are.
I thought about who might have their finger on the nuclear button.
I am unable to comprehend the unfathomable evil the human race is capable of, yet they have such capacity for limitless kindness and endless love.

Easter taps into my childhood memories bringing visions of primrose processions into church, and hymns of paschal joy and hallelujahs. But in my adult years,it represents to me change and rebirth, the miracle of nature, bringing gardens and the countryside to life after a long winter’s sleep.
I went to church with my parents partly out of respect for them, and partly because I enjoy the Easter tradition, celebrating in the beautiful setting of St John’s church, built in 1605.
I also decided what better time to pray for redemption in the light of the current political climate.
However, the sermon was unexpectedly different from the traditional Easter story, and it validated my own ruminating thoughts.
The local Vicar used to be a Naval man, and he delivered a sermon unlike any I have heard before. He expressed grave concern for the state of the world, and the recent dire threat of nuclear war. He labelled behaviors of both leaders of North Korea and of America as narcissistic, and egotistical, and prayed that they would back down from their lethal posturing, and provocative bullying. He criticized imperialism and the proliferation of hatred. He said that no matter what religion or tradition or culture a human being belongs to, war is not the answer. Only the practice of Love can bring about world peace.
I looked down at my Hymnal, and these words jumped out at me from one of the Easter hymns...
My flesh in hope shall rest,
and for the season slumber,
Till Trump from east to west,
shall wake the dead in number.

A chilling reminder of the current state of affairs...

I remembered a poem that I wrote two years ago, and decided to introduce it here.
I am talking to the world, like it is an old man, wondering how come we never learn from our mistakes, how it seems our religions cannot save us from ourselves….
I will end this short blog entry with pictures of beautiful England, and reminders of the kinder side of the human condition.

My poem is titled,
Precious World
(You can listen to my rendition on sound cloud here…
https://soundcloud.com/susan-golden/singaling-precious-world)

Precious world, are you so old
that memory begins to fail you?
As news unfurls, and stories told
let testimony blackmail you ?

For centuries man repeats his crimes
against himself and those who follow
Have you not learned from all those times
the poison you've been forced to swallow?

Oh sweet earth, oh gentle soil
the sun drenched land of Allah blessed
Embrace those blood soaked souls who spoil
the land with their murderous quest

And Yahweh, where are you my friend?
While Drones take flight in hidden guise
The Western hemisphere defends
by spying and striking through Hawk's eyes

The Buddha sits, but still as stone
gazing on through World's own eyes
One with all, and all with one,
Yet powerless 'mongst bloodthirsty cries

And Jesus, did you die for naught?
What say you, to this violence?
Suffer your children to be taught
yet sacrifice their innocence?

Precious World, have you not learned
The folly of an eye for eye?
Have you not learned from your mistakes
That suffer millions to die?

Is the Revelation come?
to cleanse our sins and bring new Grace
Instead of, "to a Creed succumb”?
Let's idolize ONE HUMAN RACE.

One human race for compassion
One human race ! Take up the fight!
Let us rise up with common passion
and fight for love and joy and light

No Gods, no dogma, let's say “Amen”
The power of Peace amongst ALL men

( I am cutting this blog short because I have had the worst technical difficulties posting for two weeks. I will post some pictures to demonstrate the beauty of this world and push the publish button. ...
I apologize for not being able to finish this as I had wanted, but I have struggled with it long enough. I hope you had a wonderful Easter, and am hoping and praying for a peaceful solution to the world's conflicts. )

“Life throws challenges and every challenge comes with rainbows and lights to conquer it.”
― Amit Ray, World Peace: The Voice of a Mountain Bird

Every six minutes, a child goes missing in India. Most May Never Be Found.

3/18/2017

Dearest Mommy and Daddy
Author unknown

When you wonder the meaning of life and love
Know that I am with you
Close your eyes and feel me kissing you in the gentle breeze across your cheek
When you begin to doubt that you shall never see me again
Quiet your mind and hear me
I am in the whisper of the heavens
Speaking of your love.
When you lose your identity
when you question who you are, where you are going;
Open your heart and see me.
I am the twinkle in the stars, smiling down upon you.
Lighting the path of your journey
When you awaken each morning, not remembering your dreams but feeling content and serene,
Know that I was with you, filling your night with thoughts of me.
When you linger in the remnant pain, wholeness seeming so unfamiliar, think of me.
Know that I am with you, touching you through the shared tears of a gentle friend easing the pain.
As the sunrise illuminates the desert sky; as that breathtaking brilliance awakens your spirit, think of our time together-all to brief but ever brilliant.
When you were certain of us together, when you were certain of your destiny, know that God created that moment in time just for us.
I am with you always……

Once upon a time, in 1986, there was a young boy named Saroo, who lived with his Mother and fatherless family in a small village in rural India. His impoverished Mother worked in a stone quarry, and Saroo often accompanied his idolized older brother as he scrounged for coins, coal and food in the nearby railway terminal. One day, he fell asleep in an empty train carriage, and ended hundreds of miles away from home, in Calcutta. He was only five years old.
The movie, Lion is the incredible true story about an Asian Indian child whose life is changed after being separated from his idolized older brother. He narrowly escapes being captured and sold into the sex trade, and from being forced into labor farms. Unable to remember where he is from, and failing all attempts to locate his home, he ends up in an orphanage. From there he is adopted into a benevolent Australian family who love him as their own, and who successfully raise Saroo into adulthood.
Some twenty years later, and sparked by a cultural gastronomical memory, Saroo becomes obsessed with finding his old home and birth Mother, using #Google Earth. He eventually finds his home town and is miraculously reunited with his birth Mother.
In his memoir, A Long Journey, Saroo Brierley chronicles his long ordeal, and now his story has now been made into an amazing film called Lion.
The film Lion is a beautiful example of a true story, fantastic photography, and exceptional acting that will wrench your emotions, and leave you in floods of tears.
But in addition to being a wonderful story, the movie raises awareness of a much more important issue. It illustrates of how easily children become lost, or kidnapped in India, and how desperate the issue of missing children has become..............

Every six minutes, a child goes missing in India. Most May Never Be Found.
Globally, trafficking of children for forced labor and sexual exploitation remains a “largely hidden crime,” says the International Labor Organization, with no reliable data even existing on the scale of the problem.
“A couple of decades ago, there was no understanding of the issue of missing children or trafficking for forced labor — child labor was not even considered a crime,” said Bhuwan Ribhu, an activist for the children’s rights group.
Kidnapping represents just the tip of the iceberg of a vast child-trafficking industry in India. Many young children are sold by their parents or enticed from them with the promise that they will be looked after and be able to send money home. Never registered as missing, many simply lose touch with their parents, working long hours in garment factories or making cheap jewelry.
As a conservative estimate 5.5 million children are trapped in forced labor, but in India alone, the government estimates between 5 and 12 million children are forced to work.

The Global Missing Children's Network is a multilingual database featuring photos of and information about missing children from around the world. It was launched in 1998 as a joint program of the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children® and International Centre for Missing & Exploited Children®. http://www.missingkids.com/GMCN

There are 25 participating countries in the Global Missing Children's Network; interestingly, India is not among the participants.
“Child Labor is the practice of having children engages in economic activity, on a part- or full-time basis. The practice deprives children of their childhood, and is harmful to their physical and mental development. Poverty, lack of good schools and the growth of the informal economy are considered to be the key causes of child labor in India.”
(Wikipedia.com)

In the late 1700's and early 1800's, power-driven machines replaced hand labor for making most manufactured items. Factories began to spring up everywhere, first in England and then in the United States. The factory owners found a new source of labor to run their machines — children. Operating the power-driven machines did not require adult strength, and children could be hired more cheaply than adults. By the mid-1800's, child labor was a major problem.
http://www.historyplace.com/unitedstates/childlabor/
https://www.scholastic.com/teachers/articles/teaching-content/history-child-labor/

In her article entitled, “Sacrificial Lambs of Globalization: Child Labor in the Twenty-First Century”, Panjabi, Ranee Khooshie Lal, wrote in the Denver Journal of International Law and Policy:

Economic "progress" has been largely at the expense of the most vulnerable elements of almost every society. Those elements, the poor, the illiterate, and particularly the children of the poor have paid a terrible price so that we in the richer countries might enjoy an orgy of consumerism at reasonable prices. Our need to buy and consume, but always at very low prices, has required that food and manufactured goods be produced to sell inexpensively but still provide sufficient profit. One methodology to achieve this aim is to utilize either very cheap labor--hence the export of manufacturing from the West to the developing world-or worse, much worse, to use slavery and child labor, and pay almost nothing to those who make our goods and harvest our food.

https://www.questia.com/read/1G1-206110327/sacrificial-lambs-of-globalization-child-labor-in

According to a Guardian newspaper article in 2007,
Child workers, some as young as 10, have been found working in a textile factory in conditions close to slavery to produce clothes that appear destined for Gap Kids, one of the most successful arms of the high street giant.
Speaking to The Observer, the children described long hours of unwaged work, as well as threats and beatings.
According to one estimate, more than 20 per cent of India's economy is dependent on children, the equivalent of 55 million youngsters under 14.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2007/oct/28/ethicalbusiness.retail

In his fantastic photographic photo-blog which I encourage you to read,
Tanmoy Bhaduri documents examples of child exploitation in the brick kilns of Bengal.
Children are often forced to sleep in the scorching sun. Even basic education and medical treatment is a distant dream in these brick kilns.
Article: http://www.huffingtonpost.in/tanmoy-bhaduri/photoblog-the-brick-kiln-kids-of-bengal/

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Child Labour by Mehreen Mujeeb        (English spelling of Labor.)

Why should we suffer?
Why should we pay?
Why should we do this every day?
We are tired of doing this everyday
Stop child labour

It’s like they don’t know how we feel
Because our age doesn’t seem that real
But we feel more pain than they do
And for what they’re doing
They should be sued
We are sick of doing this everyday
Stop child labour

Our cuts and bruises aren’t healing
As we do this day by day
It’s like they feel, but have no feelings
And aren’t bothered of what we have to say
We are tired of doing this everyday
Stop child labour

They get paid with the tears we shed
We get no love or a bed
We need some help
So someone help us please
Help us get some dignity
Have the courage to raise your voice
To help those in need
Those whose voices are so shattered
And whose lungs cannot breathe
We are sick of doing this everyday
Stop child labour

Our sunken eyes are tired of crying
Our hearts are sick of dying
Just remember
You were a child once too
We deserve a life
A life where we have no work to do
We are tired of doing this everyday
Stop child labour

So what we’re saying is not just noise
If you had a heart
You’d hear a voice
And stop child labour

Mehreen Mujeeb
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/child-labour-4/
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In 1863, Charles Kingsley wrote his famous novel, The Water Babies.
It is the story of a young chimney sweep named Tom, who is chased out of a house after meeting an upper-class girl named Ellie.
While running away, he falls into a river, where he drowns, and is transformed into a Water Baby. Instructed by a Caddisfly, an insect that sheds its’ skin, he begins his moral education.
The story is predominantly a conduit for preaching Victorian moralistic virtues and Christian redemption, but it also includes a political element. It includes a storyline critical of child labor, particularly that of child chimney sweeps. In fact, one year after the book was published, the Chimney Sweepers Regulation Act of 1864 was passed, prohibiting the use of minors as chimney sweeps in the UK.

Another contemporary book which addresses the issue of child labor is
Boys Without Names
by Kashmira Sheth

“For eleven-year-old Gopal and his family, life in their rural Indian village is over: We stay, we starve, his baba has warned. So they must flee to the big city of Mumbai in hopes of finding work and a brighter future. Gopal is eager to help support his struggling family until school starts, so when a stranger approaches him with the promise of a factory job, he jumps at the offer.

But Gopal has been deceived. There is no factory but, instead, a small, stuffy sweatshop, where he and five other boys are forced to make beaded frames for no money and little food. The boys are forbidden to talk or even to call one another by their real names. In this atmosphere of distrust and isolation, locked in a rundown building in an unknown part of the city, Gopal despairs of ever seeing his family again.”
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6580712-boys-without-names

And now for my own poem, written for a young girl called Senna. I composed this after watching the film, Girl’s Rising.
I found it a powerful and moving documentary about contemporary young girls who are striving to become free of the bondages of poverty or the cultural shackles, of forced labor, to become educated and self-actualized…

For Senna, by Womensvoice1

Trudging through toxic mud
that sludges over frozen rock
jagged with the dark grey mountainside
burdened with muted pain
She tumbles into mud holes filled with the poorest but bravest hearts
Her father slowly gasping his last breath
midst eighty thousand swarming bodies in the mines
Sweat soaked
for one small fleck of golden glitter
The black heralds of death fold their wings around
and suck him under the mountain
leaving her stranded
Stunned
unable to move
Slowly
she reaches deep down into her own heart
to discover a cache of buried gems
Pearls of poetic expression
Citrines of courage
Diamonds of determination
Her tongue becomes a sword of tempered words
Sparked by the blow of the pick axe on hard rock
Cutting like finest steel through the railway tracks
to switch the course of life and join the education train
I can do this!
I WILL rise, she cries!

Child of the dump
Hunting in the rot
Daydreaming of the alphabet
Blooming like a flower without water
in a sea of dry sand
Skipping through life
Holding on to hope
Images in her head
of wonder
what could be
Her future painted with colors
festooning  grey skies

Another unlucky girl
bonded to her master
begins to sing
so that others can break loose
the bonds of slavery
Cycling to break the cycle
Turning heads to turn tradition
A new perspective
New angles in a Yang dominated world
Breaking their ride at each domicile
The power of educated persuasion
over blind belief

An early morning marriage
Aged 13
Trapped in a blue embroidered cage
Forcibly split by the heavy piston of penetrating dogma
Fearing for her life
yet fueling the force of change
like a thousand rivers birthing through her womb
turning ugliness into art
darkness into light
fear into will
until that shroud of blue
once masked and muted
begins to break song
like a nightingale for all to hear
a song that pierces the darkest night
and wakens the deepest sleep
I know I can
I know I can rise!
She hears the rhythm of the train
As it gathers momentum
And the roar of the train becomes deafening and irresistible
Education becomes her POWER
The train picks up speed
POWER can change the world.
I will Rise
She will rise
They WILL rise!

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Child labor remains one of the biggest issues of our time. While international humanitarian companies may be doing their best to improve things, many companies continue to fund cheap labor and sweatshops in the production of their goods. While amnesty groups expose the very worst cases, there is still an alarming incidence of child exploitation. If we really want to make a change, we should pay attention to the products we buy, and the factories we fund as a result.

other refs:
http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/columns/A-law-that-allows-child-labour/article14560563.ece

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We live in the house we all build. By Vita Pascone. www.vitalifestyledesign.com