If Only They Knew (How Many of Us)*
(By Walter Beck)
How many of us
Are fighting
Just by existing?
Just by working
In the grit & dirt;
Scarred skin
Slicked with sweat
Given in dedication & service.
How many of us
Feel forbidden love,
Have forbidden spiritual beliefs,
Hold forbidden political views?
How many of us
Wait, pray, hope, dream
Of the day
When the acid chains
Will dissolve?
When we can stand proud
And say in unison
"On my honor..."
*Previously published in Swell, an online publication of NewTown Writers
The Writing’s On the Wall
(By Walter Beck)
When even Focus on the Family
Admits defeat.
When the Westboro Baptist Church
Have members flee
As the “church” gets crazier and crazier
(Who thought that was possible?).
When Huckabee
Won’t even try to be President
And Fred Karger tries instead.
When Congress is trying not to leave it to courts
And instead is trying to pass it through legislation.
As these things come to pass,
Victories great, small or symbolic,
The writing is on the wall;
Equality wins.
Family Education
(By Walter Beck)
While I was out on the streets
In the wind and rain,
Gagged and defiant, holding a sign and a flag;
You were teaching your children
To hate my brothers and sisters.
While I was out challenging and questioning
Preachers and street loonies
And looking at the hard reality of corruption and brutality;
You were teaching your children
The dangers of heathens and pagans.
While I was out soaking myself in literature
Writing papers, poems
And exercising my mind;
You were teaching your children
The joys of ignorance, of being common folk.
While I was out reading of revolutionaries,
Of social radicals and outlaws
Living and breathing in the freedoms of America;
You were teaching your children
The patriotic and biblical duty of absolute obedience.
While I was out learning to live
To feel all the way alive,
To inspire people to make their own stands;
You were teaching your children
How to die.
No More Martyrs Blues
(By Walter Beck)
Would it take another martyr
To bring us all together again?
Would it take another bruised and broken body
To bridge the gaps
Between politicians and radicals,
Tattered t-shirts and suits?
How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?
Have we become so splintered
Vain, petty,
Complacent, compliant,
That only a burnt offering
Of a brother or sister
Will get us
To march together?
To struggle together?
To fight together?
I ask again,
How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?
Have we forgotten
Those who have gone before us?
Have we forgotten
Our own scars and stories?
Have we forgotten
Those who yet scream into the night
With fear and madness?
I ask once again, I ask you all;
How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?
I can’t watch no more.
I can’t stand no more.
I won’t see another
Broken life,
Wasted life.
I won’t see no more.
I’ve seen enough.
Enough! Enough! Enough!
OH GODS ABOVE I ASK YOU!
How much blood money
Must be paid
Before our last bridge is crossed?
(By Walter Beck)
I will honor them;
The ones forever
Mourned, un-mourned,
Remembered or forgotten;
Beaten, brutalized,
Murdered by society;
Shamed and shunned
By preachers,
By parents and peers.
I will honor them;
Those still in rusty cages
With souls shredded on razor wire.
I will honor them
With a powerful rush
Of silence.
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