A Walk in the Woods
for Mahmoud Darwish
There comes a point
when you have to step
out of the ether,
to walk and get
back to nature,
to listen to the birds sing,
to breathe and write
about beautiful things
before being drawn right
back into Gaza.
And how privileged
I am to be able to stop,
to step back and walk away,
to take a breath, a sip of water,
to think about evergreens today
beside a lake, far from cannon fodder
and dead children, the cries of mothers,
somewhere peaceful and full of bird chatter,
when from above an engine roars, cutting
through the sky, to once again shatter
that moment of peace, with eyes shutting,
as you wait for the next bomb to drop.
Yet, the only thing falling
on me is a rusty leaf,
the rubble, merely sprawling
foliage, covering not limbs and grief,
broken bodies for the mass grave
that becomes the founding stone
for another theme park, but pave
only over ants, just bugs, to be shone
the same indifference as a Zionist
would looking upon a child’s fragments
a hand here, a foot there, just statistics
for the “better than’s” of “chosen” figments
of the imagination. No tears will be shed today.
Yet, as my tracks,
like those of a bulldozer,
tramp over the mounds and stacks
of debris, like some American poser
stealing a home in the West Bank, with mud
thick as blood, covering my boots, staining
the soles of me feet, the thud
of another acorn falls, raining
down from the trees, and I recall
the words once spoken to me
from the books that they all cherish,
saying, “What you do unto the least
of my creatures,” they say in every parish,
“you do unto me.” Yet, they still refuse to cease
the fire, holding themselves higher than all others,
above the law and their own commandments,
and I just wonder, at what point will this all end,
so that we can hear the birds sing once again?
...........
A Stirring Underfoot
A rumbling can be heard on the horizon
A great stirring underfoot
as dried, dying leaves crack and crumble
from the weight bearing down on them
The march into battle echoes in far off villages
and mighty metropolis
as clear as the fallen pin.
A wisp of wind in the Sahara
is all that is needed
to create a sand storm
in the dust bowl of the mid-west
Unrest in the streets and town squares
amassed in the raised voices
at the checkout counter
And a fist can be seen in the air
multiplied by the millions
of disheveled and downtrodden.
No, we are not to blame for the bankers’ plunder.
We, we are merely the results of deregulation
of capitalization
of corruption in high places
and our voices will be heard
Vibrating in your meeting halls
crumbling your capitols
to dust and ash
from whence they came.
Greedy children and their teachers
are not the guilty parties.
The excess spoils will not be found
in the pockets of the toiling masses.
Grandma’s social security check
did not crash the economy
any more than did immigrants
send your jobs to China.
We are not the problem
but like a thunderbolt from Zeus’ fingertips
slicing through the darkness
of their expedient lies
We … will be … the solution.
............
Until It Is Done
for Nelson Mandela
For all those who say,
it can never be done,
who look upon those ivory towers
with their militarized trenches
disappearing chambers
and puppet mechanisms
imitating human beings
in all aspects
‘cept for a conscience
and a body to jail
enslaving a world with divisions
of hate and sectarianism,
I say, dream of a world
which is at peace with itself.
For all those who have
given up hope,
who have fallen to despair,
who see the skies falling in on them
and the shoreline inching closer
who have given into fear
and the bitter tears of defeat,
I say, courage is not the absence of fear,
but the triumph over it.
Stand tall and lead.
To be free is not merely
to cast off one’s chains,
but to break them all.
For all those who dream of freedom
there is no easy path.
hills follow hills
and mountains
before we reach our valley
we must use our time wisely
and see the horizon.
Settle not for a life
… worth less than living.
Reach with your first and very last breath
towards victory, to that mountaintop
and we will all be there with you,
on the frontline of life
standing in the light
of that glorious sun.
Lift up your hearts, the time is ripe
it always seems impossible
until it is done.
Mark Lipman, US National Beat Poet Laureate 2024-2025; founder of the press Vagabond, the Culver City Book Festival, and the Elba Poetry Festival; winner of the 2015 Joe Hill Labor Poetry Award; the 2016 International Latino Book Award and the 2023 L’Alloro di Dante (Dante’s Laurel – Ravenna, Italy), a writer, poet, multi-media artist, activist and author of fifteen books, began his career as the writer-in residence at the world famous Shakespeare and Company in Paris, France (2002-2003). Since then he has worked closely with such legendary poets as Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Jack Hirschman on many projects, and for the last twenty years has established a strong international following as a leading voice of his generation. He’s the host and foreign correspondent for the radio program, Poetry from Around the World, for Poets Café on KPFK 90.7FM Los Angeles. As Mark continues to travel the world, he uses poetry to connect communities to the greater social justice issues, while building consciousness through the spoken word.
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