Category: Poem Of The Day

Arizona Poem of the Day from AZPoetry.com

Hang on to your chairs ass bomb poem by bill campana azpoetry. Com

Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb) by Bill Campana

“Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” by Bill Campana

Hang on to your chairs, I’m going back to school.

I’m getting my degree, a doctorate in science.
I’m going to MIT to study mathematics, quantum mechanics, nuclear physics
and whatever else it takes to get me to achieve my goal.

Because I am going to invent a bomb
a bomb that will shame all other bombs
I’m going to invent a bomb that will kill no one,
but will wipe everybody on their ass
right off your feet
flat on your ass
and then I am going to fire up another one
just in case I might have missed some people
who were sitting at the time
and then had gotten up just to investigate the commotion.

All over the world, on the appointed day
phones will ring.
The people calling will say,
“I fell on my ass at 10 o’clock this morning.”
and the people they are speaking with will reply,
“That’s funny… so did I…”

Newspapers will print enormous headlines:

AND THEN WE ALL FALL DOWN

DEATH TOLL ZERO AS WORLD FALLS ON ITS’ ASS

BILL UNLEASHES WEAPON OF ASS DESTRUCTION

I will show you,
that you can have a sense of humor,
that mass destruction just ain’t where it’s at.

Not terrorism, but performance terrorism.

So like that bomb the Soviet Union
dropped on us in the mid-sixties,
that bomb that made everybody want to say
the word “fuck”
freely
in public
forever.

Man, that was fucked up.

But when I walk down the street
with my silver squared
and my beard held high
people will say, “there goes Bill.
He invented the Ass Bomb.
He’s really not such a bad guy.”

I can see it now.
I will become Time Magazine’s “Ass of the Year”.
I will win the Nobel Prize for Ass
and with my winnings,
support an network of underground ass-droppers.
Getting through airport security
will be as easy as dropping trow.

And you will thank me.
Someday, you will ALL thank me,
from the bottom of your bottoms,
for being making global terrorism silly
and ground zero cleanup
nothing more than dusting off your pants.

So, hang on to your chairs.

I don’t know how I’m going to do this.
But, I’ll never find out
until I get up off my ass
and try.

Transcribed from “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb) from The Hit List 2 by Bill Campana.

Listen to the poem “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” from the spoken word album The Hit List 2 by Bill Campana.

About the poet Bill Campana

Summary and Analysis of “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” by Bill Campana

Bill Campana’s poem “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” is a wild, irreverent ride through performance poetry and political satire, packed with wit, absurdity, and a surprising undercurrent of hope. With his trademark humor and grounded delivery, Campana envisions a world-changing invention—not a bomb of destruction, but one of disruption. This imagined “Ass Bomb” doesn’t kill or harm. Instead, it knocks everyone flat on their backsides—an act that, in the poet’s vision, serves to unite, disarm, and humble humanity in one shared, absurd experience.

Summary

In this hilarious and sharply satirical piece, the speaker declares his intention to go back to school and study complex sciences—quantum mechanics, nuclear physics, and mathematics—not to build a weapon of mass destruction, but a weapon of “ass destruction.” This bomb won’t maim or kill; it will simply knock everyone off their feet. Whether standing, sitting, walking, or talking on the phone, people around the world will fall to the ground in synchronized, undignified unison.

The poet imagines global headlines reacting to this act of performance terrorism:

“AND THEN WE ALL FALL DOWN”
“DEATH TOLL ZERO AS WORLD FALLS ON ITS’ ASS”
“BILL UNLEASHES WEAPON OF ASS DESTRUCTION”

The piece swerves between the ridiculous and the reflective, revealing the poet’s wish for a gentler, funnier kind of revolution—one that uses laughter instead of violence. He points to a cultural shift in the 1960s where, in his words, “that bomb that made everybody want to say the word ‘fuck’ freely in public forever” broke down barriers of censorship. Now, his own imagined bomb would break down political and ideological barriers with comedy, reminding people that “mass destruction just ain’t where it’s at.”

By the end, the poem circles back to a personal call to action. The speaker doesn’t yet know how he’ll accomplish this dream, but one thing is certain: he has to get up off his ass and try.

Analysis

Campana masterfully uses humor to critique our obsession with violence, weaponry, and the spectacle of destruction. By flipping the traditional function of a bomb—from devastation to harmless absurdity—he challenges societal norms around power and conflict resolution. His “Ass Bomb” becomes a metaphor for a unifying jolt, an equalizer that reminds everyone—world leaders, ordinary citizens, and even the poet himself—that we all fall down sometimes.

This poem is classic Bill Campana: irreverent, self-aware, deeply human, and delivered with a wink and a truth bomb. The poem functions not just as a performance piece, but also as a vision for an alternative kind of power—one that doesn’t rely on fear but on humility, connection, and shared laughter.

It’s also a subtle commentary on agency and action. As the poem ends with,

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this. / But I’ll never find out / until I get up off my ass / and try.”

Campana speaks not just of his fictitious invention, but of the creative act itself—the need to rise and create, even if you don’t have the blueprint yet.

➡️ Ready to experience more of Bill Campana’s bold, boundary-pushing poetry?
Visit his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com and discover why he’s considered one of the most iconic voices in Arizona’s spoken word scene.

Fine white powder poem by naughty a mouse artwork azpoetry. Com

Fine White Powder by Naughty A. Mouse

“Fine White Powder” by Naughty A. Mouse

sugar is a fine white powder let me say
that a little louder sugar is a fine
white powder let me say that a little
louder sugar is a fine white powder and
just like crack and smack it’s all
wrapped up in money and power see Coke
comes from leaves and opium from flowers
but the granddaddy of the fine white
powders is made from beets and Cane
people hear the word drugs they usually
think of gangs they think of
cold-blooded Killers with Latin last
names selling PCP LSD and Mary Jane are
moving Mac ecstasy and crack cocaine
people hear the word drugs they think
shackles jails and chains they think
suffering and pain they think Blood
Money backstabbing and innocent slain
but there is no such stigma attached to
sugar cane yeah there ain’t no shame
affix to the sticks of even little kids
get lit they sit and take hits
off of their pixie sticks getting ripped
and no one sees a problem with this
because this is a fix that we all crave
and we are not ashamed although we know
it was built on the backs of black
slaves so I tell y’all sugar is a fine
white powder and I want it to ring in
your brains a little bit louder because
its story is the same as what’s shot in
the veins a shot up the nose to get
straight at the brain I’m talking Blood
Money backstabbing innocent slain I’m
talking suffering and pain shackles
jails and chains headlessness remembered
remains Little Women and Children
backing up the product and Counting out
the change and The Killers deranged who
ran the whole game and who teach kids to
kill for material gain the saddest thing
about it is all of these facts are
already in your brain they’ve just been
sanitized like blood stains washed down
shower drains so only the cold and
boring facts remain
you all sat in little rows frustrated
but so well trained and normalized this
[ __ ] with the phrase triangle trade
sugar for rum for slaves Europeans ruled
the waves and got money in power off a
little grains of white powder so I’m
asking y’all help me make this louder
sugar is a fine white powder come on
y’all louder sugar is a fine white
powder come on y’all louder sugar is the
fine white powder come on y’all louder
the foundation of our nation the
independence Declaration was sung by
kingpins who ran drug plantations so
fast forward just a few generations to
the days when radio stations still sing
the Praises of criminal organizations
but the biggest drug dealers are legally
chartered corporations and on both sides
of the law it’s all about location
location
it doesn’t matter if the battles are
fought in courts over end caps instead
of blocks or if the people that pack the
gats are called cops it’s still cash
crops to define the line between the
hives and the have-nots and I think
we’re all just too high on sugar to call
them crimes when they’re committed by
the Criminal Minds on top so I came out
to tell y’all that sugar is a fine white
powder and I’m asking you spread the
word because knowledge is power

Transcribed from the video Fine White Powder by Ghost Poetry Show and Naughty A Mouse.

Watch the Video “Fine White Powder” by Naughty A Mouse on YouTube

About the poet Naughty A Mouse

Naughty A Mouse’s powerful spoken word poem “Fine White Powder” is a lyrical indictment of sugar—yes, sugar—as a historically overlooked but deeply entwined player in the legacy of colonialism, slavery, capitalism, and addiction. Delivered with rhythmic urgency and a call-and-response refrain—“sugar is a fine white powder”—this poem blurs the lines between drug culture, economic power structures, and normalized consumption, ultimately inviting readers to reconsider the social and historical contexts of everyday commodities.

Summary

At its surface, “Fine White Powder” compares sugar to illegal drugs like crack, smack (heroin), cocaine, and ecstasy. But this isn’t just a metaphor for sweetness and dependency—the poem traces sugar’s origins as a commodity rooted in slavery, colonialism, and racial exploitation.

Naughty A Mouse challenges the audience to recognize how sugar—like narcotics—is a fine white substance entangled in systems of money and power. He critiques how society vilifies some drugs while ignoring others that share similar histories of violence and control, especially when profit motives sanitize or legitimize their use.

Children “take hits / off of their pixie sticks” and society sees no problem, but the poet points out the dark legacy behind the treat: “built on the backs of black slaves.” The speaker makes a strong case for sugar as the original addictive substance of empire, tied directly to the transatlantic slave trade—”sugar for rum for slaves.” He links this to modern corporate and legal institutions that profit from “drug-like” products, drawing attention to the hypocrisy of how some harmful industries are socially accepted or legally protected.

Analysis

“Fine White Powder” is more than a history lesson—it’s an urgent political poem, calling for deeper awareness of systemic injustice. Naughty A Mouse’s use of repetition (“sugar is a fine white powder”) becomes a chant, a rallying cry, and an indictment. The rhythm mirrors spoken word and hip-hop influences, pushing the message past poetic beauty into the realm of protest art.

The poet subverts the idea of what a “drug” is, taking it out of alleyways and placing it on the kitchen table, in the classroom, and on supermarket shelves. He draws attention to the way society separates “legal” and “illegal” substances not by harm but by who profits from them. The “location, location” line points to how geography, race, and class determine what is considered criminal versus what is considered commerce.

Lines like “the foundation of our nation… was sung by kingpins who ran drug plantations” push the reader to reevaluate sanitized historical narratives, including the American Revolution, and recognize their economic foundations in slavery and drug-like agriculture. This is a poem of unmasking and recontextualization—pushing listeners to see the institutional legacy of sugar and question what they’ve been taught.

Call to Action

By the end, the poet isn’t just making a point—he’s building a movement. He directly addresses the audience, asking them to join in spreading awareness:

“I came out to tell y’all that sugar is a fine white powder / and I’m asking you spread the word because knowledge is power.”

In doing so, Naughty A Mouse merges art and activism, using poetic storytelling to unveil how oppression hides in plain sight—in something as seemingly innocent as a spoonful of sugar.

➡️ Learn more about Naughty A Mouse and explore his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com

The mesa wind blows soft colorado pete poetry artwork azpoetry. Com

The Mesa Wind Blows Soft by Colorado Pete

“The Mesa Wind Blows Soft” by Colorado Pete

The Mesa wind blows soft tonight,
The western stars bend low,
Self-shadowed in the firelight
Old dreams, old visions go.

The mesa wind’s a soft caress,
Cool fingers in my hair;
Soft whispers out of lonliness
That breath a lonely prayer…

O mesa wind go far to her
With kisses carried high,
And tell her mountain grasses stir
And ‘wait her passing by;

Go tell her that the mesa trail
Lies yellow in the sun,
And clouds, like dreams, ride white and frail—
Lost longings, one by one.

Summary and Analysis of “The Mesa Wind Blows Soft” by Colorado Pete (1924)

Originally published in The Chicago Tribune in 1924, “The Mesa Wind Blows Soft” by Colorado Pete (the pen name of Arthur Owen Peterson) is a quietly haunting frontier poem rich with longing, landscape, and lyrical intimacy. Written during his years of treatment for tuberculosis in the Southwest, the poem evokes the stark beauty of Arizona’s mesas while exploring themes of solitude, memory, and unfulfilled love.

The poem opens with a soft, almost reverent tone:

The Mesa wind blows soft tonight, / The western stars bend low,
Here, the natural world sets a hushed and mystical backdrop. The “mesa wind” becomes both a gentle presence and a messenger, while the “western stars” bending low suggest an almost sacred stillness, as if nature itself is leaning in to listen to old dreams unravel in the flickering firelight.

In the second stanza, the wind becomes more personal—“cool fingers” and “soft whispers” suggest a human tenderness projected onto the desert wind, as the speaker’s loneliness shapes how he interacts with the world. The wind, like the speaker, “breathes a lonely prayer,” suggesting that the environment shares his sorrow and desire for connection.

The third stanza becomes more direct and emotional. The speaker sends the wind as a courier of love:

O mesa wind go far to her / With kisses carried high,
He asks the wind to tell a distant woman that nature itself—mountain grasses and desert trails—longs for her presence. This use of personification blurs the line between the inner landscape of the speaker and the outer landscape of Arizona. The environment becomes a vessel for emotion.

Finally, the closing stanza solidifies this fusion of love and place:

And clouds, like dreams, ride white and frail— / Lost longings, one by one.
Dreams and clouds drift across the vastness of the mesa, fragile and fleeting. Each cloud carries a lost hope, suggesting the passage of time, impermanence, and the pain of separation. Yet there is still beauty in the longing itself.

A Poem Rooted in Arizona’s Landscape and Spirit

“The Mesa Wind Blows Soft” is a quintessential example of Colorado Pete’s ability to blend personal emotion with the physical features of the American Southwest. Written during his time at the Veterans’ Hospital in Whipple, Arizona, where he was being treated for complications from tuberculosis, this poem reflects both the stillness and grandeur of the Arizona desert and the interior solitude of its speaker.

With its gentle rhythm, vivid imagery, and emotional subtlety, this poem is both a love letter to the land and a quiet elegy for connection lost or never fully realized. The mesa wind may be soft, but its message carries far.

➡️ Learn more about Colorado Pete and his poetry on his poet bio page.

Benedicto by edward abbey | azpoetry. Com

‘Benedicto’ by Edward Abbey

Benedicto: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome,
dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.
May your rivers flow without end,
meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells,
past temples and castles and poets’ towers
into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl,
through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock,
blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone,
and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm
where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs,
where deer walk across the white sand beaches,
where storms come and go
as lightning clangs upon the high crags,
where something strange and more beautiful
and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams
waits for you —
beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.

About the poet Edward Abbey

“Benedicto” by Edward Abbey is a poetic blessing for those who seek the wild, the unpredictable, and the profound. Written as a heartfelt invocation, the poem celebrates the beauty, danger, and mystery of the natural world. Abbey extends a wish not for comfort or security, but for crooked trails, endless rivers, vast deserts, and the kind of wilderness that challenges the soul while nourishing it. This is not a typical blessing—it’s a call to adventure, to embrace the crooked and uncertain path that leads to awe and discovery.

“Benedicto”, an excerpt from Earth Apples, captures Edward Abbey’s deep reverence for the untamed landscapes of the American Southwest, especially his beloved red rock canyons of Utah and Arizona. With rich and vivid imagery, Abbey describes a journey that winds through pastoral valleys, ancient forests, and surreal desert landscapes, all leading to a climactic vision of sublime natural beauty.

The poem reads like a mythic map—populated with castles, temples, tigers, and monkeys—yet rooted in the very real geography of the Southwest. His language is both lyrical and raw, oscillating between gentle pastoral sounds (“tinkling with bells”) and fierce natural spectacles (“lightning clangs upon the high crags”). Each line builds toward the final promise: that “something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you.”

This final line captures the essence of Abbey’s worldview. For him, the wild was sacred—a place of discovery, not only of nature, but of self. “Benedicto” is not only a blessing, but a challenge to those who would listen: to leave behind the safety of straight roads and seek the mysterious, spiritual truths that only crooked trails can offer.

Want to explore more of Edward Abbey’s poetry and his deep ties to Arizona’s landscapes?
👉 Click here to visit his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com and discover how Abbey’s voice continues to echo through the canyon walls and red rock trails of the American West.

Get back by paul mccartney poem artwork azpoetry. Com

Get Back by Paul McCartney

“Get Back” by Paul McCartney

Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner
But he knew it couldn’t last
Jojo left his home in Tucson, Arizona
For some California grass

Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back Jojo

Go home

Get back, get back
Back to where you once belonged
Get back, get back
Back to where you once belonged, yeah
Oh, get back, Jo

Sweet Loretta Martin thought she was a woman
But she was another man
All the girls around her say she’s got it coming
But she gets it while she can

Oh, get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back Loretta, woo, woo

Go home

Oh, get back, yeah, get back
Get back to where you once belonged
Yeah, get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged

Ooh
Ooh, ooh
Get back, Loretta
Your mommy’s waitin’ for you
Wearin’ her high-heel shoes
And a low-neck sweater
Get back home, Loretta

Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged
Oh, get back, get back
Get back, oh yeah

Listen to “Get Back” by The Beatles on Spotify

About the poet Paul McCartney

At first listen, “Get Back” seems like a catchy, rollicking tune about two characters—Jojo and Loretta—both of whom find themselves out of place and in need of a return to their roots. But beneath its bluesy guitar riffs and laid-back energy lies a song with deeper cultural and lyrical resonance, not to mention a surprising connection to the Arizona desert.

A Story of Displacement and Return

The lyrics open with Jojo, “a man who thought he was a loner,” who leaves his home in Tucson, Arizona in search of “some California grass.” The reference to Tucson is not incidental; it offers a starting point that’s grounded, familiar, and earthy, in contrast to the vaguer, more dreamlike California destination. The phrase “California grass” may be interpreted as either literal pasture or a thinly veiled reference to the 1960s counterculture and its association with marijuana and idealism. Jojo’s journey to California—and the subsequent chorus urging him to “Get back to where you once belonged”—seems to caution against losing oneself in the pursuit of something that may be more illusion than reality.

The second verse introduces Loretta Martin, who bends gender norms and challenges societal expectations. Her presence is rebellious and provocative, and she too is told to “get back.” In both verses, the refrain functions like a grounding mantra, reminding each character—and perhaps the listener—to return to what is real, authentic, and rooted in identity.

Satire, Rebellion, and Social Commentary

The Beatles were known for embedding humor and social critique in their lyrics, and “Get Back” is no exception. While it began as a satirical commentary on anti-immigrant sentiment in the UK, it evolved into a more playful and universal story of people who lose their way—or who are seen as out of place—being encouraged to return home. That invitation to “get back” could be heard as both nostalgic and ironic, depending on the listener’s perspective.

Paul McCartney’s casual vocal delivery and the band’s jam-like energy lend the song a sense of spontaneity and familiarity. It feels less like a polished studio track and more like a snapshot of a moment in time—fitting, since it was famously captured during The Beatles’ final rooftop concert in 1969.

Tucson’s Place in Beatles Lore

For fans in Arizona, Jojo’s roots in Tucson offer a special link to Beatles history. The lyric gives Tucson a place in the band’s legacy and hints at a real-life connection that goes far deeper. Paul McCartney later made Tucson a second home, purchasing a 150-acre ranch there in 1979 with his wife Linda. The couple shared many years in the Sonoran Desert, and Linda ultimately passed away at the Tucson ranch in 1998. Her ashes were scattered on the property, binding the McCartney family forever to Arizona soil.

So when Paul sings of Jojo leaving Tucson in “Get Back,” it’s easy to imagine his own emotional journey—a man forever navigating between the global spotlight and the grounded quietude of his desert home.

Want to explore more about Paul McCartney’s surprising and deeply personal ties to Arizona?
👉 Visit his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com to discover the full story behind one of the world’s most celebrated musicians and his meaningful connection to the Grand Canyon State.

The dude wrangler by gail gardner cowboy poetry artwork

The Dude Wrangler by Gail Gardner

“The Dude Wrangler” by Gail Gardner

I’ll tell you of a sad, sad story,
Of how a cowboy fell from grace,
Now really this is something awful,
There never was so sad a case.

One time I had myself a pardner,
I never knowed one half so good;
We throwed our outfits in together,
And lived the way that cowboys should.

He savvied all about wild cattle,
And he was handy with a rope,
For a gentle, well-reined pony,
Just give me one that he had broke.

He never owned no clothes but Levis,
He wore them until they was slick,
And he never wore no great big Stetson,
‘Cause where we rode the brush was thick.

He never had no time for women,
So bashful and so shy was he,
Besides he knowed that they was poison,
And so he always let them be.

Watch Cowboy Poet Baxter Black Recite Gail Gardner’s “The Dude Wrangler” on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson

About the poet Gail Gardner

Gail Gardner’s classic cowboy poem “The Dude Wrangler” paints a humorous yet poignant picture of a cowboy’s descent from rugged authenticity to something… quite unexpected. Told from the perspective of a fellow cowhand, the poem begins with admiration for his old partner—a tough, skillful cowboy who once embodied the gritty ideals of the American West. But as the poem unfolds, readers witness the narrator’s dismay at his pardner’s transformation into a “dude wrangler,” catering to tourists and losing the essence of his cowboy soul.

Summary of “The Dude Wrangler”

The narrator recounts the virtues of his former riding partner, a man with true cowboy grit. This pardner was an expert at handling wild cattle, an exceptional horseman, and so dedicated to the cowboy life that he wore nothing but Levi’s and rode horses he broke himself. He had no use for flashy hats or romantic entanglements—he was all about the work, the land, and the simple life.

However, things take a tragicomic turn when the partner, once a symbol of stoic cowboy values, “falls from grace.” Though the poem cuts off here, the title “The Dude Wrangler” (and its well-known full version) gives away the punchline: the once-proud cowboy has become a guide for “dudes” (city slickers and tourists), donning fancy clothes and entertaining guests who only want to play at being cowboys. It’s a betrayal of the old ways, and the narrator’s sorrow is layered with gentle mockery.

Analysis of the Poem’s Themes and Style

Gail Gardner, one of Arizona’s most beloved cowboy poets, brings humor, irony, and affection to “The Dude Wrangler.” The poem plays on the tension between tradition and change—between the authentic cowboy lifestyle and the commercialization of the West. The narrator’s nostalgic tone reflects a broader cultural anxiety: the fear that the true cowboy is becoming an endangered species, replaced by tourism and spectacle.

Stylistically, Gardner uses plainspoken language and rhythmic, musical verse to mirror the storytelling traditions of working cowboys. The use of cowboy slang (“pardner,” “Levis,” “Stetson”) grounds the poem in its Western setting and gives readers a sense of its authenticity. The poem’s charm lies in its simplicity and sincerity—it’s a light-hearted lament, a tall tale with a heart.

Baxter Black Revives the Classic on National TV

This beloved poem gained even wider recognition when Baxter Black, another iconic Arizona cowboy poet, performed “The Dude Wrangler” on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Black’s performance, full of theatrical flair and comedic timing, brought Gardner’s words to life for a national audience. It was a perfect pairing: Black, like Gardner, understood the delicate balance between honoring cowboy tradition and laughing at its quirks.

Baxter’s rendition celebrated Gardner’s storytelling while showing how cowboy poetry can connect people across generations. It also marked a rare moment when cowboy poetry was broadcast on one of the biggest stages in American pop culture.

📚 Want to learn more about cowboy poetry in Arizona?

  • Explore the life and legacy of Gail Gardner, the Prescott cowboy and poet who penned “The Dude Wrangler.”
  • Discover the unforgettable humor and heart of Baxter Black, a modern cowboy poet who brought Western storytelling to millions.
  • Browse AZPoetry.com’s growing collection of cowboy poets and keep the spirit of the West alive—one verse at a time.
Dissolve by sherwin bitsui poem artwork

Dissolve by Sherwin Bitsui

“Dissolve” by Sherwin Bitsui

This mountain stands near us: mountaining.
It mistakes morning with mourning,
when we wear slippers of steam
to erase our carbon footprint.


Wind’s fingers wearing yours.
you unravel a plough of harvested light
notice its embers,
when scribbled on drowned faces—
repel fossilized wind.


Bluing under a dimming North Star,
the Reservation’s ghosts
paws cartilage pincered from a digital cloud.
Its gnawed bones’ opaque sighs—
the pallor of bleached wasp eggs,
throbs on tree knobs
penciled in with burnt ivory smell.


Rising out of the uranium pond—
home picks: bird flight
from a cartouche box,
it then becomes a chain of floating islands.


Slipping into free-fall,
we drip-pattern: the somewhere parts,
our shoulders dissolving
in somewhere mud.


The arcing sun whistles
across the mask’s abalone brow,
its blurring pouts into a forest
chirping from the lake’s bite marks
stamped vertically on this map’s
windowsill.


Kneeling our thoughts on ellipses
evaporating from ollas of fragrant wet clay—
we saddle the drowning’s slippery rim.
Father’s dying ceased,
when he refunded this ours
for fused hands plaster-coated
in a glottal stop’s brief paralysis.


Pinpricked holes for eyes,
reversible teeth hemmed in copper thread,
polished brow-bone swiveling
through trimmed hedges—
he atrophies this aftermath,
its highest frond withering on maps
that dreamed our shadows waterlogged.


He then howls a constellation of anchors
flung at blue birds pausing mid-flight
where pewter wind
creaks shut over the raft’s hesitation.


He explains the sun,
not carried by horse,
but a ceiling lamp
flickering on our computer screens.


Mother threw a platter
of blind spots on her son,
without knowing that bees
ached in her feet.


The beads of her breath
sank into his chest—
he kept them for five long years.


A tassel of singed hair cinched
around his wrists,
key latches soothing songbirds
in his pockets of fire—
he stains the night’s rim
with sprigs of dry air
exiting fevering bodies
cupped briefly by their itching.


She dabs clear his brow,
remembers: syringes filled with lake mist,
wonders if it was him
who strung teeth marks
across her wrist the night before.


Together, they pace
the ravine’s gauge nearing empty,
step upon a pale horse
lying on the earth’s heat,
legs upright in the cattle guard,
butcher paper stretched taut over wiry ribs.


Its gasping sent them barreling
back toward the awakened cornfield.


Somewhere, between,
they leapt back into their bodies,
they didn’t recognize their own voices.


Her apparition ferries
the flowers of their bruises back to the severing.
The bullwhip’s knotted eye turns toward her and
only her.


When fences come to suckle,
where will her mind’s legs carry her?
Moths mill about her feet’s sleeping fountains.


Her throat’s cave claims each son’s song,
wears them like tiger’s legs
across nights striped and fanged.


How they stretch between moon and helium,
how they weave tuned and plucked
out of the sea’s gassed maw.


How they uncover, with clear hands,
a handful of hushed hours
held like silver coins,
where their eyes fail to shut for the third time.

    Transcribed from the video “Sherwin Bitsui – Excerpt from “Dissolve” by Sherwin Bitsui and SplitThisRock.

    Watch “Excerpt from Dissolve” by Sherwin Bitsui on YouTube

    About the poet Sherwin Bitsui

    Sherwin Bitsui’s Dissolve is a dreamlike and deeply layered exploration of landscape, memory, and identity. This excerpt presents an intricate, fluid movement through images of environmental destruction, cultural memory, and personal grief. The poem is filled with surreal juxtapositions, where natural elements—mountains, wind, lakes—intertwine with man-made disruptions, such as uranium contamination and digital landscapes.

    Bitsui opens with a mountain that “mistakes morning with mourning,” signaling a world where nature and loss are deeply entangled. The imagery of footprints being erased suggests an existential impermanence, an inability to leave a lasting mark. The “Reservation’s ghosts” and “gnawed bones” evoke histories of displacement and trauma, while references to uranium and fossilized wind highlight environmental devastation.

    The poem’s surreal logic continues as people dissolve into landscapes—shoulders becoming mud, voices becoming lost echoes. The presence of a father figure, described in fragmented, disorienting images, suggests both personal and collective grief. Meanwhile, the mother figure attempts to hold onto something tangible, but her body carries wounds and burdens inherited from generations before.

    Bitsui’s language is strikingly visceral and fragmented, mirroring the instability of identity in a colonized landscape. His images resist linear narrative, instead weaving an atmosphere of dislocation and transformation. The poem grapples with the ways history, land, and personal memory dissolve into one another, creating a haunting meditation on survival and loss.

    To learn more about Sherwin Bitsui and his poetic vision, visit his poet bio page.

    56 by robert flipside daniels poem rodney king beating

    56 by Robert FlipSide Daniels

    “56” by Robert FlipSide Daniels

    there is a fine line between
    heroism
    and martyrdom and on march 3rd 1991
    i watched a man nearly cross it swing
    56 blows led to this king’s ransom swing
    56 blows set off a chain of events some
    still have yet to recover from
    swing swing rodney’s life and
    construction helps us understand why
    building bridges of compassion was more
    important
    than his destructive past swing swing
    swing taser this is 56 times i watched
    in horror
    not believing what was clear as glass in
    front of my
    barely 18 year old eyes swing
    my mind muddied by my belief that this
    is unbelievable
    is this a nightmare wake up this is
    happening
    swing swing he was a big man he must
    have deserved it
    swing swing swing kick driving way too
    fast for much too long swing really
    rodney
    100 miles per hour in a hyundai
    swing he had two passengers and too much
    to drink
    swing swing allegedly two drugs course
    through his veins
    swing swing swing perhaps he was too
    black
    or too big in black to deserve dignity
    swing
    too slow to pull over too intoxicated to
    realize he was being
    beaten swing swing i can only imagine
    what george holliday was thinking as he
    recorded this historic moment
    swing swing swing kick a moment that
    changed my trust in who
    upholds the law swing cube spoke to it
    in his
    fictionalized art gangsters can’t be
    trusted so why should i believe these
    [ _ ] with attitude swing swing
    it’s hard to know what was said
    but i would imagine a taser speaks volumes
    swing swing swing five batons
    constantly attracted to one fallen body
    swing the racial slurs begin
    led ironically by a man named [ _ ]
    swing swing more firepower than an old
    western saloon
    swing swing swing kick so i guess we
    should be happy they didn’t just shoot
    him
    swing though they did break his skull
    and leg to show they mean business
    swing swing truth is he was a criminal
    on probation for armed robbery swing
    swing swing
    but did he deserve to have his criminal
    mind concussed
    in a savage beating swing by police
    later acquitted of charges
    swing swing judge declared the blow that
    broke king’s leg
    was not excessive swing swing
    wait what hey [ __ ] stop moving
    swing kick tasers they told him
    not to move while hitting him repeatedly
    swing
    maybe he thought the police were trying
    to kill him
    swing swing but i’m sure action spoke
    louder that night
    swing hard to imagine it takes 56 baton
    blows
    six kicks and two tasers to subdue one
    man
    swing 30 years later
    i’m still not over it swing
    30 years later one question still
    resonates
    kick can’t we all just get along
    you

    Transcribed from the video “56” by Robert Flipside Daniels

    Watch “56” by Robert FlipSide Daniels on YouTube

    About the poet Robert FlipSide Daniels

    In “56”, Robert FlipSide Daniels delivers a haunting and powerful reflection on the brutal beating of Rodney King at the hands of the LAPD on March 3, 1991. The poem’s title refers to the 56 baton blows that rained down on King’s body—a harrowing number that sets the tone for this piece, which is both an indictment of police brutality and a meditation on justice, race, and American history.

    The repetitive “swing” motif acts as a relentless drumbeat, mirroring the vicious attack itself. Each “swing” serves as a visceral reminder of every hit, every act of dehumanization, and every moment of disbelief the poet felt as he witnessed this atrocity unfold at just 18 years old. The poem shifts between historical facts, societal commentary, and personal reflection, questioning not only the actions of law enforcement but also the system that allowed them to walk free.

    FlipSide does not ignore King’s past—his criminal record, his intoxication, his reckless speeding—but he forces the reader to ask: Did any of that justify what happened to him? He juxtaposes Rodney King’s flaws with the sheer excessive force and racial injustice he suffered, highlighting how Blackness itself often becomes a justification for violence in America.

    The poem also critiques the media’s portrayal and public reaction to the event. References to Ice Cube and N.W.A. emphasize the deep distrust in law enforcement that existed long before King’s beating, while the line about George Holliday, the man who recorded the attack, underscores the power of video evidence in exposing systemic abuse. And yet—even with undeniable footage—the officers were acquitted, leading to the 1992 Los Angeles Riots.

    The final 30 years later refrain reminds us that the pain, trauma, and unanswered questions still linger. The poem ends with King’s own plea for unity—“Can’t we all just get along?”—a heartbreaking echo of a man who, despite being brutally beaten, still sought peace.

    FlipSide’s “56” is not just a poem—it is a call to remember, to question, and to demand accountability. It serves as a chilling reminder that justice, even when caught on camera, is far from guaranteed.

    To learn more about FlipSide’s poetry and powerful storytelling, visit his poet bio page here.

    You are not what they speak of you poetry by jason lalli artwork

    You Are Not What They Speak Of You by Jason Lalli

    “You Are Not What They Speak Of You” by Jason Lalli

    because you are not what they speak of you
    like a tornado destroys a village
    is how quickly it destroyed his spirit
    Deja Vu with new faces
    Asian by Heritage but a Collegiate
    student in America with the thickness of
    a twig his tall slender meat and Bone
    cycle frame never seemed to get a warm
    reception

    his genius felt socially awkward
    a confident computer nerd by stereotype
    shy wants to keep to himself type of
    demeanor don’t let this magician’s
    illusion fool you
    he wants to reach out
    his giant heart yearns for connection
    but social settings breathe life into
    bullying nightmares as beautiful women
    snap pictures to laugh about with their
    friends while peers in groups distaste
    we strip him of his dignity with insults
    to his face it’s the pain of rejection
    has become the erosion of
    self-confidence

    how can mental strength survive
    if it’s the target always being shot as
    not like a private affair
    but the embarrassment of public
    humiliation
    insult bombs leave shots and negativity
    in the walls of his mind and his soul
    his heart transform the black empty
    life loses luster after a person is
    conditioned in such a man
    when degrading persecution becomes
    regular routine the Silver Lining is
    lost for light when the eyes always see
    Darkness no chance to hear truth when hateful
    poison is all that is fat to be heard so
    how can he feel alive if he’s imprisoned
    by fear

    like the scared pit bull confined by its
    Leisure are we surprised to see snapping
    teeth in defense yet we wonder why
    suicide rates on a rapid incline why the
    outcast lashes out violently towards
    their fellow students as media rating
    Skyrocket with no regard

    I was Witness
    as I watched his parents lifetime
    Harvest demolished with one action
    afraid of Confrontation there was no
    acknowledgment as he stared at the floor
    I can’t imagine his life being filled
    with beautiful Scenic views of his gaze
    is always fixed downwards
    as a bystander we have a choice
    to look away as he did afraid of
    Confrontation or to become a participant
    I chose to make a difference
    my actions spoke with words of
    encouragement as if to say
    my friend
    please take a moment to remove yourself
    from this angst fill the breath of
    oxygen invigorate life into your veins
    hear how beautiful your mind and soul is
    and always will be
    see the light outlining beyond their
    cloud of hatred

    understand they’re unhappy with
    themselves they laugh at you because
    they want you to join them in their
    misery you are not what they speak of
    you you are the lights they wish to be
    you are purity don’t let them taint your good nature

    be strong
    know that type of strength lies deep
    within your core it’s there you have it
    harness it’s power
    there are wind blowing against your
    unfazed Steel

    you are not rock the world with time you
    were ever evolving maturing beyond the
    petty use this moment don’t let it use
    you
    lead is the opposite to the extreme and
    treat everyone you meet with kindness
    because know that once upon a time in a
    different scenario and place
    I
    I was you
    and I pray that today my actions prove
    that you
    can be me

    Transcribed from the video “You Are Not What They Speak of You” by Jason Lalli and VulnerablyLalli.

    Watch “You Are Not What They Speak Of You” by Jason Lalli on YouTube

    About the poet Jason Lalli

    Summary and Analysis of “You Are Not What They Speak Of You” by Jason Lalli

    Jason Lalli’s poem “You Are Not What They Speak Of You” is a profound meditation on bullying, resilience, and self-worth. It tells the story of an Asian student studying in America, facing relentless social rejection and public humiliation. The poem paints a harrowing picture of how bullying erodes self-confidence, trapping its victims in a prison of fear and isolation.

    The poem’s strength lies in its deep empathy. Lalli explores the emotional and psychological toll of bullying, likening it to a tornado that destroys a spirit in an instant. The student is portrayed as a misunderstood genius, a shy but big-hearted individual, yearning for connection yet repeatedly cast aside. The cruelty of his peers manifests in mockery, social exclusion, and outright insults, all of which build up, conditioning him to see the world through a lens of darkness.

    Lalli masterfully shifts the poem’s tone from despair to empowerment. The speaker, who once endured similar torment, chooses to break the cycle—to uplift rather than ignore, to encourage rather than degrade. He urges the bullied student to see beyond the hatred, recognizing that cruelty often stems from the aggressors’ own pain and insecurity. The poem becomes a call to resilience, reminding the reader that self-worth is not defined by others’ opinions.

    The final stanza is particularly powerful and transformative. The speaker declares that he was once in the victim’s position but has since risen above, proving that one can overcome and even surpass the pain inflicted by others. The poem becomes a beacon of hope, offering a message that is both timeless and universal: we are not what others say we are—we define ourselves.

    To learn more about Jason Lalli’s poetry, spoken word performances, and advocacy for self-empowerment, visit his poet bio page here.

    Ritchie valens poem by myrlin hepworth azpoetry. Com

    Ritchie Valens by Myrlin Hepworth

    “Ritchie Valens” by Myrlin Hepworth

    you were the child of R&B and jump Blues
    flamingo guitar and Mariachi
    Richard Valenzuela
    they called you Ritchie said
    Valenzuela was too much for a Gringo’s tongue
    said it would taste bad in their mouths
    if they said it so they cut your name
    in half to Valens and you swallowed
    that taste down stood tall like a bacho
    and sign that contract
    Rich was always about music
    you felt it tumble inside your chest as a boy
    playing a guitar with only two strings
    and when your neighbor caught you
    you thought he’d be angry over your racket
    instead he helped you repair the
    instrument and taught you how to grip it
    correctly and you left-handed boy
    playing a right-handed guitar repay him
    by making the notes fly you could play
    and sing at 17 you was signed at Del five
    records of America, wanted to pass you
    off as Italian, but you did not have old
    blue eyes, no yours were young and brown,
    brown like the dirt in the San Fernando
    Valley, brown like the hands of your tias
    who worked in the fields for
    pennies, died inside Cantinas with broken
    hearts, California’s hands were filled
    with hate back then leading white and
    brown master and slave and there you
    were, in the midst of it all, young chicano
    kid from the barrio, an American band stand
    shredding guitar strings while Dick
    Clark watched, I swear Ritchie, when I
    listen I can hear it all
    I can hear the screams from the zoot suit
    riots, I can hear the young gringo
    hipsters swarming you after a concert,
    how you made them laugh and dance in
    their ballrooms, the children sitting on
    the bleachers of your middle school.
    swaying to your rhythm and blues, the old
    men in your neighborhoods watching you
    play ranas when they shout it out
    much how you made them all smile
    Ritchie in a nation at war with it self, ashamed of
    the blood on his hands, you were never
    ashamed of who you were, took an old folk
    song from B Cruz, la bamba swung that afro
    Mexican rhythm into rock and roll
    and sang all Spanish lyrics at a time when
    speaking Spanish came with a wooden
    paddle punishment, you played live at the
    Apollo with Chuck Berry and rocked,
    you were a legend and Rich before
    that night before you boarded that plane,
    before you tumbled from the sky like it
    caled me in before your 19th birthday
    your body frozen near that Lake in
    Wisconsin the phrase what if still sits
    on our tongues and America is still
    trying to shape you into Hollywood still
    trying to bleach the memory of your skin
    wrote a movie and said you never spoke
    Spanish when you understood each cadino
    your mother placed in your ears as a
    child chocked her death up to
    Superstition and Mexican hoopla there
    are myths scattered in your legacy but I
    know Ritchie we know it was always about
    your music and that cannot be disfigured
    it plays forever in our hearts it is
    trapped inside Carlos Santana’s fingertips
    it drifts through alleys and walkways
    plays on television during commercials
    rides up elevators drifts into backyards
    where there is some boy brown and dusty
    desperately trying to play a guitar with
    only two strings

    Watch Myrlin Hepworth perform Ritchie Valens on YouTube

    About the poet Myrlin Hepwroth

    Myrlin Hepworth’s poem “Ritchie Valens” is a moving tribute to the young Chicano rock and roll legend Ritchie Valens—born Richard Valenzuela—who revolutionized American music before his tragic death at just 17 years old. The poem vividly recounts Valens’ meteoric rise, from his humble beginnings in the San Fernando Valley to becoming a star, all while battling the racial prejudice and cultural erasure that sought to strip him of his Mexican identity.

    Hepworth crafts an evocative narrative, painting Valens as more than just a musician but as a symbol of resilience and cultural pride. The poem highlights the systemic pressures that forced Valens to change his name, downplaying his heritage to fit a white-dominated industry. However, despite the attempts to whitewash his identity, Valens’ Chicano roots remained embedded in his music, most notably in La Bamba, a Spanish-language hit that defied the mainstream aversion to bilingualism at the time.

    Hepworth’s lyrical and rhythmic style mirrors the energy of Valens’ music, blending historical context with an almost spoken-word urgency. The poem seamlessly weaves together Valens’ personal story with broader themes of racial tension, cultural assimilation, and artistic defiance. It acknowledges the ways America has attempted to reshape Valens’ legacy while emphasizing the power of his music, which continues to inspire generations.

    The final lines leave us with a powerful image: a young, brown-skinned boy struggling with a two-string guitar, much like Valens once did. It is a reminder that Ritchie’s influence is eternal, resonating in the lives of future musicians and dreamers.

    To learn more about Myrlin Hepworth’s poetry and his contributions to spoken word and Chicano storytelling, visit his poet bio page here.