Collective Unrest

 

god != Freedom

December 28, 2018

One chain remains
-wrapped around our throats,
Slinking into our mouths.
Syrup sweet brightness filling the void
With every link.
To hide the taste of blood-metal.
Coiling our brain,
Laying roots.
Toiling fields in
Our frontal lobe. that grow blessings
from cotton seeds.
The chain comes out,
Of our ears.
sheathing our eyes,
Until all we see is the silver promise
Of Mercy.
All we hear is the eternal whisper;
“Free at last,
Free at last,”
They always say freedom isn’t free.

 

 

Eloise Brown is a Michigan native. When she’s not writing or reading she can probably be found cooking and then putting pictures of her food on Instagram.

Please follow and like us:
In category:
Newer Post

complacency

Is telling the age of silent film to keep tongue-tied at the rise of the talkies. Is expecting a shining staple not to resist the fanged dentition of the remover. Is demanding a rainbow not to mourn the movement of…
Read
Older Post

Slow Information

*Previously published in Alligator Jupiter, Fall 2002, and Poets Against the War, March 2003 You decide to paint something, a portrait, say, of Hitler reclining. Grove of red roses. Blue sky padded with glowing white cumuli. Your daughter’s doll between…
Read
Random Post

Knight of Arcadia, Ch. 1

'Humanity First,’ the sign held by the well-dressed activist read. Bruce swerved the car to avoid the man and the crowd in which he stood. Hundreds of people were crowding the street and holding signs with similar slogans. Some signs…
Read
Random Post

The Boys of Nine

The child in Yemen was 12-3; the same gilded age of brilliance and fight my son will be in 4+5 years. A tender yet defiant age of nine years, (10 summers) - aptly filled with friends and fears, bullies and…
Read
Random Post

Bleeding Out

This is how the rich abandon the poor we forget them because we can, over and over again           Don’t you see? This is how the poor stay voiceless common slaves to our dictates, they cannot hold us to account           Do…
Read
Random Post

In the wake, so intimate, There is

The following pieces, "In the wake," "so intimate," and "There is," by J.I. Kleinberg are visual poems from an ongoing series of collages built from phrases created unintentionally through the accident of magazine page design.       Artist, poet,…
Read