A Folk Music Concert.

I was asked to share a stage with Suzi Wood for Lettersong’s live radio show on Crescent Hill Radio. My performance is first and then …

Suzi Wood takes the stage!

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Who?

1.

Who do you think

all this is for?

This careful talking,

pleading.

Who glances into the river

only to turn a blind eye?

Is it that something,

just beyond

the image,

deep surrounded

in murky

darkness?

2.

Quietly,

as so it seems!

There are angels

and demons at play.

Purposely serving

two masters.

Cutting underbrush

with blood dripping

down my ankles!

Sweat, running

down my brow.

Burning piles of

old growth

nothingness,

away.

Laughing nervously.

Crying out in vain!

Peacefully sleeping

in a work felt rest.

3.

Dying.

Yes, everyday as if

this death practice,

in the waking –

is for real.

Liken the thought

of your radiance,

life is the sweetness.

Reality comes

and goes.

I can’t stop the sun

from setting.

I can only turn

away for so long –

before succumbing

dark and soulless.

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A transcendentalists worst nightmare!

This morning and coffee, blind tightly shut.

Home away from home.

I try to embrace reality, in kind. Settle down,

breathe. Enjoy the cool fresh spring air.

A family waits for me at the other end of this L&N.

Thoughts have replaced song.

Worries soothed by experience.

Long stare, looking to nothing.

Thinking, mourning, dreaming.

Thinking about my father, step father, mother.

An upbringing, theirs.

An awesome task, responsibility to a son and wife.

Facts, equations, works.

Draw a solid line under all the fulfillment of life.

Like a prayer. A mandala of me like the last grain

of sand from a monk’s artful creation blown away.

Collected and thrown into today and tomorrows.

There is a new moment out there past closed hotel windows.

I have not seen it yet. This plastic room, nothing here

is real. I have no want to be exposed to foreign light.

Television, Mode of operation, Facebook, Twitter.

All this is for folly! The worried words of so called

friends. Their worry. I know just a drop of his story,

her want. Vanity glaring on pixel glass’ reflection.

An unreachable solidarity. Knowing of pain.

Of no relief or an outlet. Sharing a tremendous burden.

Like nothing we have never experienced.

I fancy that poets of old like us meet.

Dreamers of dreams. Scribes of time and place.

A mirror for some. The melody of life of

dissonance and harmony metaphorically tricking

an orchestra into laying down their instruments

and dancing with the audience.

This morning and coffee after a short rest.

These words are for anyone who has time.

I take time. Like that time, as a child I stole

some gum from the little mom and pop up the street.

I have reasoning and excuses

that afford me that sort of favor!

Mine! All this is ours anyway!

This. Some seem to be praying for an end.

I know how to make it all stop.

Power is a button I know how to push.

Revolt, revolution, revolving.

A love supreme in action and in thought.

A pursuance of Psalms, a wisdom of history.

Holding sympathetic breath screaming.

We do need each other. Duality.

A transcendentalists worst nightmare!

My Mother Was A Teacher! #120strong

My mother at a late age
decided to go back to college.
To become a teacher!
She was my Cub Scout den mother,
we saved stamps for Bangladesh.

And after we filled gallon ice cream buckets
with stamps, thousands of used stamps to
be matched face value, the Boy Scouts of
America put us on the front page of Boy’s Life!
They didn’t like our activism at first.

Bangladesh? Where is that? Many people
would ask, and us kids had just learned
ourselves, about poverty and working conditions.
We were doing something, just a little something
to help, my mother leading us by heart and action.

In college, she helped to fight Apartheid.
I learned to get up stand up, stand up for
your rights. I lived in fear my mom would be
arrested. I did my homework, with her new
college buddies at Denny’s – organizing.

After divestment, and graduation, she left
her activism to teach, “I took my activism to the
classroom” – she said many times. I remember
her first days, nervous and scared – the little
mixed girl from east Jefferson St. Mother of three.

Her first classroom was as small as a closet.
Her children labeled behavior problems.
She said frequently her kids were the poorest
of the poor white, and the poorest of the poor
black, Lake Dreamland and Cotterhomes.

Her children. She told stories of home visits
with kids who had dirt floors, and issues
because of where they were living.
She made a thousand excuses for them
because they were the ones left behind.

“Poverty knows no color”, I remember her saying.
I remember hours around the kitchen table
she worked at home grading papers.
Calls to parents, worrying about her kids.
Wondering if they would make it to school.

When the school system wanted to label me –
she let me quit school at the age of sixteen.
She knew i was special, her lessons deep
with moral, her life was lesson enough –
the youngest of many, an immigrants kid.

Raised in the Jim Crow south – her country
white Baptist mother and her accent –
her brown Lebanese father, afraid to teach his kids
their language because he didn’t want his
children to be made fun of. Singled out.

The underdog was who my teacher mother
fought for! Her kids, the ones who chemicals
had infected, music had exploited – parents
had abandoned, boys with no fathers, girls
with no roll models, families struggling to live.

If my mother could see what is going on now –
she would be another voice in the sea of red.
The teachers chanting “we’re not gonna take it!”
And it is a shame that these people who we all
have to thank, are having to take a day off.

Teaching is a calling, I saw it call my mother
to a life of struggle. Struggle like a mother
does when her children are sick. Or when her
classroom got too big for her to take care of
them individually. Or struggle with a Principal.

Who saw teaching like a business. Was more
worried about numbers than souls. Put their
politics before children. And it is sad that today
we are in this position. Our Teachers are begging
a government that has been raided by thieves –

for the right to do what they have been called
to do and for the pension and a retirement
that we all benefit from. This is a deep issue.
and if you think a bad teacher is hard to fire …
You really need to learn a serious life lesson.

Anyone can memorize talking points made
by the privitizers. The corporate lackies who
see children as products – say words like
productivity and profit. We as a people are
morally bankrupt, if we can’t stand up for teachers!

 

Schoolidarity Forever #120strong #kyunion


Schoolidarity Forever

When the union’s inspiration through the worker’s blood shall run.

There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun.

For what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one?

For the union makes us strong!

We are public educators and we’re here to take a stand!

This is not the lesson we asked for, this is a fight the politicians planned!

And we’ll stand up for our pensions and we’ll do it hand in hand!

For the union makes us strong!

Every school the board’s sabotage is ours and ours alone!

Every student, parent, worker every brick and every stone!

They are ours, not to languish in, but to thrive in and to own.

For the union makes us strong!

The politicians stole our pensions, and now they want our schools!

They tell us, “it’s just how things are,” and they play us for fools.

But we know that they rigged the game and we won’t obey their rules!

The union makes us strong!

They say “there’s no alternative,” they say it but they’re wrong!

There stealing from our children and they’ve done it for too long!

So join us in our picket lines and join us in our song,

For union makes us strong!

They have taken untold billions, that never toiled to earn!

But without our brains and muscles not a single kid can learn!

We can break their haughty power, gain our freedom when we learn!

That the union makes us strong!

In our homes and in our classrooms, in the banks and in the street,

our united people’s movement is a force that they can’t beat!

We are here to take back every Board of Education Seat!

And the union makes us strong!

In our hands is placed a power greater than their horded gold.

Greater than the might of armies magnified a thousand fold!

We can bring to birth a new world, from the ashes of the old!

For the union makes us strong.

Solidarity Forever!

Schoolidarity Forever!

Solidarity Forever!

For the union makes us strong!

Re-write 2018 – John Paul Wright – www.railroadmusic.org

Chicago Teachers – 2016 – Ralph Chaplin 1915 – I.W.W


 

Hey Glenda Mellick! Today is International Women’s Day!

Hey Glenda Mellick!

Today is International Women’s Day!
You for me, was the one who –
when i was a kid, made sure I read
Our Bodies Ourselves!
You strong woman! You!

And when i was a kid,
You were the only one
who could get a fire going
at the cub scout gathering.
And they made fun of me
for you being our den mother!

And how you used to console
me because I was fat and four
eyes, you said they were jealous!
Of what? I would ask …
and you just had a way with the
answer.

And your big activist mouth
got us kids in trouble,
because you saw hypocrisy
and just had to not stand
idle. You mother!
You wife! You waitress –
You teacher!
Your my International
Women’s Day winner!

And when you came out
of the closet, late in life
and became a mother to
others in your community
who were being disowned –
labeled, cut out of wills –
like your young friend
Joseph, his father threw
him out, and he came over
and broke down into your arms.

I was listening! Our house
was open, and free!
You mom! Wild womyn!
At the Women’s festival
running around half naked,
volunteering for the garbage
patrol all so you could meet
Holly Near. Speaking
at the U.N. on divestment
of South African Apartheid!

And then my little sister
Katie and Mel! Your loving
partner and what that meant
to the community. A community
I saw struggling to find a place
in a mean society! I miss
you, and I know, wherever
you are, the angels are
laughing, listening to
you tell stories about
the ones you loved!

Happy International Women’s Day!
YOU WON!

Johnny

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Dear America,

America’s myths are
being exposed and run
through the ringer
of public discourse.
Dear America,
Keep trying to explain
your way out of this.
The more you talk,
the more you expose
your weakness.
You know you lied!
You snuck out
of the house.
Got drunk.
Wrecked the car.
Date raped the country
and someone caught
you on video.
You know slavery was
an evil and not to mention
a labor policy called
human trafficking.
A slave is:
a slave
is a slave.
Like the workers
who make your shirt!
Pick the apples
for your pie.
Like the
wage slave
at a for – profit or
501 c whatever –
who is expected
to trade
love for labor,
because they are
part of
“the team.”
Like the military protecting
“our”
oil interests in the region.
So,
keep talking.
Your children are
getting the picture.
You can’t blame this
on commies and reds.
You cant blame this
on the media.
The issue is –
you lied about
what you did.
So, fess up.
America …
the more you try
to lie and make
excuses –
the more you
dig your own grave.
The founding fathers
were just men.
Like all other.
They were
just men, protecting
their own ass.
They wanted
power, land
and money.
They made selfies
called dollars.
They enslaved
women, children.
Nothing was
sacred unless
they owned it.
They prayed
to God that trust
wouldn’t find them
delusional.
Now,
they
are being
crucified
by their own
children.
Melted away
in a pot of
their own
creation.
John Paul

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