April is National Poetry Month. Every Monday in April Unbound will celebrate National Poetry month by publishing a poem by a nationally recognized poet that speaks in one way or another to what we are all facing in this time of pandemic. In the first column, I shared my background
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In light of April being National Poetry Month, every Monday in April, Justice Unbound will publish a poem. I will select the poems, by nationally recognized poets, because they speak in one way or another to what we are all facing in light of pandemic.
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The Arts and Justice Project has chosen out of the amazing submissions these artists and writers as the top submissions this year. To view submissions, click on the picture of the artist or writer. Thanks to all who participated in the first year of the project. We look forward to
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In light of April being National Poetry Month, every Monday in April Justice Unbound will publish a poem. The poems, by nationally recognized poets, will be selected because they speak in one way or another to what we are all facing in light of pandemic. Poetry is an important part
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We are grieving…mourning…lamenting Oh God why!? Oh God help us! Oh God we are suffering! When we wave through the windows of those with disease When we see our loved ones dying on screens No touch, no goodbyes, no last words muttered We are grieving…mourning…lamenting We are grieving…mourning…lamenting Oh God
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They have closed the schools for three weeks.
The children who are resilient go to their houses
(if they have them) to annoy their parents (if
they have them) because no one has explained that
it is okay for the world to change, that does not
mean it’s ending. We realize that that is
It was 1966 when, after taking the bus from New Jersey to the Port Authority bus terminal and the 1-train downtown, I found myself at the Café Au Go Go, the legendary subterranean club on Bleeker Street. The YOUNGBLOODS was the band on stage that night and I clearly remember
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The poem was written for the group of women who have accompanied one another on our journeys ever since our time as high school classmates at Emma Willard School in the 1960s. We remained in daily - often hourly- communication throughout the impeachment process. Our outrage and grief was always
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Cupping lips with mitted hands to summon us
inside, she offers fresh-baked bread wafting over our clamor,
some of us debating decades-old wounds such as who broke the china Mom left behind, priceless, irreplaceable, some of our hands guiltily empty because we forgot
promised sides. And there, new neighbors won’t stop laughing
from
Well It is barbaric. A hum drowning out the chattering lakeshore. Unwanted penetration and a mechanized din. A tower shining like a false moon through the trees we planted. God, whose Son was stripped and savaged, Feels the lash in a piney corner of nowhere. Clean Surely God cannot be
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