Poets For Peace, Zine #2: Poems For Resilience

Both #PoetsForPeace zines are available to order. $15-25 suggested donation. All proceeds benefit BIPOC organizations. Print & Digital copies available. Click here to grab a zine today: http://www.marshalljameskavanaugh.com/poets-for-peace—zine.html

From Jay Morris on this new collection of poems:
As a follow-up to Vol. 1: Poems for Resistance, we felt called to shift our focus to the importance of resilience to grow through the burdens that weigh us down. For that reason we chose to articulate resilience through the symbolic language of flowers. What we know of flowers is that they transcend the burdens of burial to arise in light and thrive in their ultimate beauty. Consider the lotus and the common weed; one a symbol of inner peace and enlightenment, the other a reminder that we all carry the gift of breaking ground to claim our space in the world.

Volume 2 features writing by: Javan Howard, Quentin The Poet, Lindo Yes, and Cashmere Harper
allied voices include: Ludlow, Valore, and Marian McLaughlin
infographic about POLICE BRUTALITY + RACIAL TRAUMA by Jay Morris
cover designed by Lawson Chambers

I hope that you consider getting a copy today! All proceeds from the zines go to support BIPOC organizations. These orgs provide a platform to fight systemic racism and offer various forms of mutual aid to at-risk groups throughout the region and across the country. Submit your order and I’ll mail you the zines by the end of the week!

Poets For Peace, Zine #2: Poems For Resilience

Columbus and Other Cannibals…


It seems fitting that there are hundreds of Wetikos armed with baseball bats, hammers, and other instruments of recreational violence hanging around the Christopher Columbus statue in South Philadelphia. Wetiko, an Algonquin term that quite literally means cannibal, was recoined by the AIM activist and poet Jack D. Forbes to describe the mentality that Western settlers brought to Turtle Island when they stole it and then began consuming everything around them.

It seems fitting that these self-described South Philly Italians are showing up to defend this statue of their patron saint to imperialism and thus becoming inhabited by the spirit of violence he propagated during his time alive. This is a person who put the Taino people in bondage, chopped off the men’s limbs, fed women and children to wild dogs, and committed other atrocities that are well documented by his peers at the time. He is a Wetiko on a pedestal that still holds a powerful place in history that continues to shape our society today. Check out Jack D. Forbes’ book, Columbus And Other Cannibals to better understand these terms and ideas.

The reason this is especially dangerous is that a Wetiko is contagious. It is no joke when people compare racism to a pandemic. The Wetiko is the very first virus of our minds. Their rage fuels an echo of rage in those they oppress. You cannot fight a Wetiko. Not head on, at least. They will cough on you and you will get sick. To fight them, is to succumb to the spirit of violence that they propagate. You cannot stand by and peacefully let them conquer you either. They will take whatever you allow them to take.

The approach to reclaim your own body and a collective autonomy on your surroundings, must be a balanced and grounded one. It must seek to subvert the pain and violence that the Wetiko wishes to exert on those around it.

There is an easy antidote to cure yourself. John Trudell, another indigenous poet and songwriter of our time, suggests finding a peace of land and becoming a steward to its existence. The hippy generation suggests making love. Both are active ingredients to separating you from the control of the Wetiko.

But how do you spread this grounded peace to cure the Wetiko?

It takes a level head. It takes a big heart. Perhaps an energetic shield and something carried to ground the activist’s spirit. A handful of seeds? Maybe a flower. There are words that can be spoken that will spread like wild fire. A proper cleanse. So that the land within him will be chased by Fireweed, Fire Poppies, and Whispering Bells.

Kill the Man, Save The Wilderness Within.

Pull down Columbus and plant a tree instead.

Columbus and Other Cannibals…

The Momentum Continues Forward

(Scenes From The Protests At The DNC)

The protest starts at home. Quickly gaining momentum on the streets in front of our houses. Gathering community as the sun beats down heavy from above.

Someone writes “the reason we stop traffic is to share the collective experience that every person of color faces in this country. A roadblock at every turn peaking the drivers’ anxiety. Lack of control. Lack of mobility.”

Another spray paints a wall, “These are the fears we must set free.”

Soon the police mobilize and provide a backdrop to what is basically a neighborhood gathering in the streets. The protest has all of the elements of a block party. Music. Festivity. Speakers stand on the back of pickup trucks delivering words of engagement. Piecing together separate experiences into a unified narrative.

As the march begins to move, the surrounding neighborhoods add into the flow. The numbers continue to grow. Diverse faces dominate the scene. Each with their own unique identity. Voices carry the waves of celebration. This is what democracy looks like.

At another intersection, the ranks come to a halt. Helicopters circle above. No news station. Only surveillance. We hold space for the over 600 murders by police that have been committed this year. 600 seconds for each and every human life that was lost. Chants echo up the walls of city projects and university housing. Passionate speeches rise above the general celebration.

Protesters sweat tears in the hot sun. Everyone is anxious to keep moving. 

Three brothers walk among the lines and take quick snapshots of people’s faces. College students, community members, peaceful folk come together to promote a better life. Something the government doesn’t want to allow to walk free. One wears a hat from a local precinct and is constantly on his cell phone reporting back to HQ, taking orders. They all wear earpieces. 

A large group carries the coffin of the DNC. Painted red, white, and blue it signifies an end to ignorance. The scene reminds one of photos from the funerals happening daily in the middle east. Huge processions in towns across Syria, marching with their dead. Out in the open. Risking attack by suicide bombers or drones controlled by pilots in Washington. 

A sister holds a microphone and delivers a vindictive speech to the police. She calls for reorganization and people led watch groups. She calls for justice. She calls for increased accountability.

A brother selling water senses urgency from the growing traffic jam. So far everyone has been patient letting people have their peace. He helps guide these trapped cars down another direction. The order of anarchy taking over the streets.

Further South, another protest is going on. Twenty hate-filled bible thumpers are outside a trans health clinic holding signs that say “God hates fags”. Surrounding them are a group of fifty angels spreading their wings to block their message. Around them are another four hundred protesters shouting and singing and dancing, carrying flags full of sarcasm and parody. Full of jubilance and love. The initial ugliness of the spectacle has been transformed into something of peace and wonder.

Again up north, the march begins to move. A poet is overwhelmed with men with livestreams wanting an interview. What is he protesting? What is his message? He tells them there are better people here for them to question. This is a protest for the welfare of black lives, so perhaps their focus should be giving black voices a right to speak. To be represented. He thinks to himself, people who look like him have already spoken enough throughout history. It’s time new voices get to be heard. It’s time to start listening. 

He directs the interviewers to the brothers and sisters carrying the coffin. He directs them to the sister carrying a cardboard sign with the fist of activism. He points them to the older woman walking behind the group talking to a police sergeant, asking him civil questions directed by the larger community. The poet steps aside and watches them interview an older brother who says he was out here on these same streets as a young man in the 1960s. He says he doesn’t understand why he still has to be out here fighting for the same thing.

The signs read “Black Lives Matter”. “Jail Killer Cops”. “Stop Racism”. They read “End the Prison/Military Industrial Complex”. There’s a sign with the frowning face of Hillary Clinton that reads “White Lies Matter”. There are the faces of Malcolm X and MLK. There’s the faces of Maya Angelou and Muhammed Ali. There’s the words of Claudine Rankine and Michelle Alexander and James Baldwin and Nelson Mandela. The signs read “Free Mumia”. “Free the Move 5”. “Free Hugs”. “Free Water”.

A medic bikes through the lines handing out water bottles. Another bikes through with homemade sandwiches and bags of trail mix. A third bikes through with a trash bag, collecting people’s bottles and other throwaways. A medic treats a protester with a skinned knee. Another makes sure no one is feeling light headed or other symptoms of heat stroke.

A sister who is legally blind is marching with us. She’s got a beautiful smile and she says she doesn’t need her eyes to see through the bullshit. Blind since her youth, her family is still here with her now supporting her through her fifties. She says her family is everyone in this parade, giving her a helping hand, and fighting for salvation.

Things reach a peak around route 76. Hundreds of police in riot gear hidden a block or two over in each direction, just in case the protesters try to take their march onto a highway. On Broad Street there suddenly forms lines of uniformed police to provide force without too much of the militarized image of fear present a few blocks away. Or maybe Philly just ran out of money to buy more riot suits.

Some of them read back out loud the signs in front of them. “Justice for Sandra Bland”. “Stop killing us”. “Poets for Peace”.

The line swells around the convention center where delegates and public officials meet to decide future policy that will affect all the folks out on the streets. They’re so afraid of the people they represent they have to hire hundreds of armed guards to form a barrier around them. Faces in the windows stare down in momentary silence.

A brother drags the American flag behind him. It is withered and burned. Defaced by years of oppression. The toll of oppressing those that everyone who is not white, straight, male, or rich. New flags are being carried to replace it.

The march hits City Hall and combines with other parades. There are Bernie or Busters and folks with huge green flags fighting to save the environment. There are rainbow flags and signs supporting equal rights to everyone. The backdrop of the city echoes with the growing group’s chants. All of these issues coming together under one unified voice. 

Words of peace and community are delivered from the pick up trucks. Words of anger and disgust. They come from sisters who have lost brothers and fathers. Gunned down in the streets for merely walking. 

A twelve year old brother climbs a street light and waves his banner. “Resistance is Justified”. A photo of Trayvon Martin. A photo of a young man not much older than himself. This is his first protest. It won’t be his last. 

Brothers and sisters towards the back take a break from the sun. They sit in circles discussing their futures, shaded by skyscrapers. They hold space for all of the unnecessary life that has been lost around the world in the name of the country they call their home.

Above a sun dog appears in the clouds. The sun is reaching its westerly horizon. Rainbows in the clouds. It seems to be heaven’s blessing for the peace that is being reached by all the colors of the rainbow represented in the faces below.

The march has already walked five miles over four hours. The march continues the next five walking towards the DNC where decisions are being made without the ratification of the people who actually live out here in the real world. 

A son gets a text from his mother, “Give them hell! Keep them honest!”

A daughter gets a text that says, “Stay true to your heart. Love is all around!”

A sister with crystals boldly talks to the various bike officers patrolling and barricading the march onto the street. She reminds them to keep things peaceful as the crowd chants behind her, “Fuck the Police!”

They don’t need reminding. They’re greatly outnumbered and perhaps somewhat intentionally. They’re sweating and have no foreseeable relief coming their way. Their only choice is to not antagonize the crowd. To de-escalate by not being. Perhaps returning to an ideal form of policing called peacekeeping.

Some members from the march ask them questions. “Who do you protect? Who do you serve?” Some ask them questions that can actually be answered. There is the beginning of what seems like a communal dialogue amidst all of this tension. Police recognizing the folks they are supposed to protect. Recognizing the family out here today in solidarity. Brothers and sisters addressing them and trying to get them to evolve. 

One officer says to the brother behind him, “I just like talking to people”. His calm smile has been attracting all sorts of conversations. Community policing as opposed to militarized riot patrol.

The sun begins to dip. Pink skies take over. Everyone is battered and tired. Fire hydrants have been set off by the city to keep folks cool as the heat starts to get to them. Jazz bands play in parking lots and other outdoor spaces with tents and amplification providing cultural ambiance to the situation. 

A brother that looks like Allen Ginsberg carries a huge bag of anti-war pins. A sister asks if he needs help carrying it. No, he’s too set on making it all the way to the end, but they strike up a conversation about an end to war. A call for world peace. 

Several clowns, faces painted with smiles join the parade. They march on stilts ten or twelve feet tall. Their signs elevated above everything else, so even the helicopters can see what this is all about.

Behind him Vermin Supreme carries a boot on his head and says absolute absurdities over his handheld loudspeaker. Brothers and sisters laugh and take photos with him. He’s a little national icon of how we can choose to rise above some of the very real injustices our country serves us. He inspires so many smiles with simple gestures. A break from the heartbreak.

Almost there, the parade collides with another marching north. There are ten thousand people on the streets. The sound of it is empowering. People holding hands. People shouting cheers of self awareness. Power is in the hands of the people. Someone says, “it only takes seventeen people to flip a barricade”. Someone else lights an American flag on fire. Several other bonfires begin. Large groups forming prayer circles around all of this havoc. Songs of a return to humanity. 

The burning flags wave above it, casting away a system that does not work for anyone, but the rich and privileged. The people finding each other now in the dark. Together they give birth to a new, truer democracy.

The march nears another highway. Here there are garbage trucks blocking the on-ramps. Enough disruption so again the parade can’t shut down anything but what’s intended. The highway is shut down anyway by the police. 

Underneath the overpass the march reaches new volumes. Everyone looks around realizing how many are out on the streets with them. Their own voices echoing back to them. A choir of animal sounds, bird calls, hoots and hollers. “These are the voices of the disenfranchised”, they say. It sounds like people finding their woods and celebrating their humanity. “We ain’t taking anymore of this bullshit. People are dying and time is running out.”

Provocateurs run rampant. Red-black flags carried by faces hidden behind bandanas and Guy Fawkes masks. The march starts to break up into smaller factions, each holding round circles around fires and chants for peace.

Awaiting the march are several buses full of riot police, almost inconspicuous in the shadows, except this same tactic has been seen at other large gatherings. The initial gang of bike police that have marched all this way are relieved and form a barricade that flanks the parade. Legal observers, in yellow shirts, line the sidewalk, chattering anxiously, waiting for all hell to break lose. It seems like this is the end of the line. The police are preparing to cage the protestors in and beat the shit out of them.

But somehow everyone remains civil on both sides. The fifteen foot tall fences around the Wells Fargo center are rattled by masked protesters jeering at the the riot cops that stand in full kevlar behind them. But behind those provocateurs are circles of hippies humming, playing guitar and holding hands chanting magic just like what’s been seen during the day. 

A new offshoot mobilizes and marches through Roosevelt park to rally all the people camping in their tents and sharing Food Not Bombs. A kind of symbolic sentiment, with this Obamaville growing revelrous in a park commemorating the father of the New Deal policies that over the last 70 years have rapidly been stripped away piece by piece, leaving the poor poorer than they’ve ever been. 

That same group fighting for Bernie Sanders, a candidate who promised to do nothing more than reinstate and expand those policies that were so normal over, half a century ago. And seemingly with no repeat of internment camps for refugees or other forms of racist othering like what was found during FDR’s presidency.

The People shout, “This is what Democracy looks like!” They shout, “Another world is possible!”

Things begin to subside. Both police and protesters begin to go home. News spreads that the roll call has been called. Hillary reeps victory. Bernie symbolically bows out, right before the final delegates place their votes. There’s rumors that the roll call was staged for TV, as it probably always is. Delegates already cast their votes in the morning at breakfast. Twice. Enough time to bully people around. Enough time to guilt trip them into changing their votes.

At the convention, hundreds of Bernie delegates walk out as a form of protest. Some of them join us waiting outside. The TV fails to show any of this, except for later they show the empty seats. The commentators talk of the Bernie or Bust folks, as childish. They expect everyone to bow down and accept this corporate bought reality. They call for unity. 

They forget that not too long ago in this country’s history, conventions were a scene of strong-armed brawls between the separate opposing factions within the larger two political parties. They forget this country began with revolution.

Outside the people haven’t forgotten. But they all question why there aren’t more of them. They each expected the millions that voted for Bernie to be out here with them fighting for the right to exist. They forget that the system we all participate in has been working to weigh down all of our lives over the centuries. People stuck at jobs. Struggling to raise their families. Fighting every single day in their normal lives. Stuck in the machinery. No time or energy left to fight back at the end of the day. 

At the end of the day there are all kinds of protest and this is only one form of it. Walking from one end of a city to another is no different from raising garden beds on abandoned lots or becoming a teacher in the inner city. It’s no different from making time in the day to celebrate living or organizing alternative communities. At the end of the day, a whole generation is emerging that opposes the last one, and the dregs left over from the one before it. 

With the momentum of the front lines. With people engaging in their civil liberties. With folks from similar and separate backgrounds finding common stories in the streets. The momentum continues forward.

(photos are of artworks and installations at the Truth To Power exhibition on display in Philadelphia, as well as scenes from the protests against the Democratic National Committee.)

The Momentum Continues Forward

The Ruins of Ireland

As I walk in the ruins of Vikings, Druids, Celts, and early Christians, my mind is in bits at how frequent this green land was attacked and often conquered. Yet all of this history still remains perfectly intact. A little worn by the weather, but otherwise mostly untouched. 

It seems surreal that so many folks came after this emerald jewel in the sea. A country with no physical borders, no unfriendly neighbors except for the clans within. No real resources beyond rocks, potatoes, rain, and abundance of green grass. And far away from all the action going on back in Europe. It’s hard to see what the practical attraction must’ve been all the way back then.

And yet, there’s a special magic that floats free in the rolling green hills of Ireland. Maybe that’s what those ancient conquerors were after all along. A spell cast by the goddess or the kiss of some ancient fairy maiden. And the new that came and replaced the old, often carried with them even more radical superstitions than those that had preceded them.

We can thank this type of superstition for the preservation of ancient ring forts from 3000 or 5000 BC and the old Druid faerie rings teaming with the human sacrifices of prehistoric times and the early celtic burial mounds complete with the head stone still standing where a shaman once stood and conducted the sun to rise and even the thousand year old Celtic crosses and earlier Celtic grave markers spread all across the land with no special distinction, sometimes penned in with a farmer’s sheep, or other times left at the center of an expansive castle garden, or other times in a well-cared for grove of Willow trees just on the edge of town, or perhaps the whole town just laid out later to surround these ruins in an effort to leave them undisturbed.

Even at the medieval cathedrals you’ll often find the ruins of the early Christian church that preceded it, and sometimes, you’ll even find a beehive monastery built by early Celtic monks that preceded that. All of them the most insane rock balances you’ve ever even imagined.
It’s interesting to think what the US would look like today if its first settlers had paid heed to a similar kind of special attention deserved by an indigineous burial ground or the ancient monuments and natural formations that must’ve dominated the landscape before we were there. If only those early invaders had actually paid attention to the curses cast by disruption suggested by the tribes who spent millenia cultivating these sacred places. 

Instead of fearing faeries or a witch’s spell as the Irish often did, these first Puritans used whatever was in their capacity to bulldoze through history. The same has stayed true in the country as it has planned its cities and engaged in suburban development, for the better part of the last four centuries.

The US is a young country, as a result, and the idea of preservation there is less than a hundred years old. “Historical societies” have only started gaining a buzz in the last half century. Sure, we hold onto a bell that’s got a crack in it from 1812 and a yellowed piece of paper that supposedly signed our freedom from a little while longer, but otherwise for some reason we’ve decided it’s smarter to tear things down before building new ones. That lack of respect for time and growth ripples on down through the rest of our society.

I mean, what’s the oldest thing you’ve ever seen in the states? I’ve been to cave dwellings that were built sometime around 1000 AD. The only reason they’re still there is they’re in the middle of the desert and hard to get to. Meanwhile since they’ve become more accessible, folks started right away with the graffiti and defacement of a child with a crayon and a clean white wall. 

I don’t understand the type of mind that would carve their name directly into a thousands year old petroglyph of a bear chased by a hunter, but I’ve seen it. Didn’t that idiot think about how by carving directly into an ancient image, their stupidity is on display for all to see for the rest of time, and with their name, no less! Thanks Mark of 1996.

I’ve been to the mountains and rivers and forests and plains that surround these sacred places and they face no greater a fate. Places that have taken eons to form are completely deforested and strip-mined for the sake of a quick “profit”. Things going to hell, thanks to the bastards in a matter of years long before I lived. All of these hills and mountains and southwestern deserts and temperate rain forests are scarred with a ghost town industry. 

As soon as coal, oil, precious metals, or lumber is found, whatever corporation steps right in with no regard for the land or the people that have lived there almost as long as the land, leaving toxic sludge and other refuse in their wake. And what’s not taken by the corporate interests is nicked later by random visitors. Folks who like pretty stones or petrified wood or artifacts from prehistoric times. I can only guess how shortly lived a ring fort discovered in the suburbs of New Jersey would be. Folks would be showing up at all hours of the night removing each and every stone for their private collection.

All of this is clearly obvious to everyone, and yet it continues. A nation of useless waste and self involvement.

Based on this I wouldn’t say it’s a long shot, that we got the current political predicament. The current social strife. We’re a nation that can’t even keep track of what short history we have. We bulldoze right over it every time. Of course, it’s going to repeat itself. We don’t have anything concrete to use to teach our youth about which paths have already been tried and been proven not beneficial to anyone. Racism, financial collapse, and Donald Trump are still a thing because no one alive seems to remember the civil rights movement, the Great Depression, or World War 2. Most folks don’t even understand that we’re all immigrants there. They forget that we all sailed in on a boat not long ago.

The Celts and Native Americans were able to remember their entire origins to this day through an oral tradition and ritualization of their ancestors, and yet we can’t even remember that racists, bankers, and Nazis are not only bastards, but they were already defeated, only a few decades ago.

All of it is just really full of perspective out here in this land of revelry. 10,000 years or more of invaders and yet the things from then that have disappeared went away mostly on their own accord. 
Rock does eventually erode. Wood disintegrates.

There’s a big difference there compared to a corporation bulldozing it all to make way for a parking lot or mini mall or a highway. Here in Ireland, they mostly just build around it or add to it. Or if it’s a ring fort they might just build a castle garden on top of it, where the rock circles become the foundation for flower beds.

The old Celts buried below must be rolling in their graves tickled with floral jubilee.

I’m not going to say it’s better here (though the grass IS greener). It’s still the Western world. There’s war. There’s poverty. There’s even a stronger Christian right wing here than in the US, successfully stripping away a woman’s right to choose. But shite, at least they have their roots.

The Ruins of Ireland

I Watched the Sun Set on America


The sun has just set on America
I watched it
from the furthest point west
that I could bike to
in San Francisco.

Today, another black man’s killer
has been set free
with no criminal charges
commended for his actions
by the fraternal order of police.
There’s an energy in the air
that’s full of empathy
for all the oppressed people
like Eric Garner or Michael Brown or Trayvon Martin or Tamir Rice or Oscar Grant or Rodney King
(or the long list of young people of color
who have died at the hands of police
during the 27 years I have been alive
that just goes on and on and on)
and lose their lives
for no reason
in this supposedly democratic society.

Tonight, the streets of Oakland
will be filled with protestors
who set fires, smash the banks, and take the highways.
This is a generation
that has grown up
during a silent revolution
that can’t remain quiet any longer.

The people cry,
“No justice, no peace.”
And they ask,
“Why are we still having to fight against this?
“Don’t people understand black lives matter?”
Their parents ask, “Yeah, what about the 60s?”
But Haight Street is quiet tonight
Its history of civil disobedience
and cultural creativity
has been replaced by retail stores
and overpriced rent fees.
Instead the protests
will be on the streets
of the disenfranchised
the desolate
the starving
the noble underbelly
that just can’t take it any longer.

They ask,
“Isn’t it time we ended this institutionalized racism?
“These hate crimes?
“These steps backwards in history?
“Isn’t it time we ended this brutality?”

The police feign fear
They are trained to be scared of the people
that they “serve and protect”
the people of color
the people that are “different”
scared of college students and working men and women
of fathers, husbands, wives, and mothers
of sons and daughters, brothers and sisters.
They are conditioned to believe that every person secretly carries a gun
when in fact the only people
who control the weapons
are the police themselves.

The protestors, they ask for accountability
for the same law to be held for every citizen
They want these hired brutes
to recognize
their abuses of power
will be taken no longer
The people have had enough
It’s time for change
Take the guns out of the pigs’ hands
teach them how to use their words instead
These “keepers of the peace”
need to learn to de-escalate a situation
and not be so trigger happy
If any one of them steps over the line
Fire them,
lock them up,
at the very least
they’ve committed manslaughter
and they should stand a fair trial
like anyone else would in this land

Our civilization relies on the courts
upkeeping the laws we all live by
Until these demands of fairness are met,
there will continue to be unrest on the streets.
End the drug war!
End police brutality!
End the war on the people you’re supposed to serve!


I Watched the Sun Set on America