by James Corbett
corbettreport.com
13 August, 2012

[UPDATE 21 AUG 2012: I have received some poetry submissions in response to this post, so I will add them below as they come in.]

Listeners to Corbett Report Radio will have heard an interesting call from Ronson in Kansas last Thursday. He shared with us the following poem:

Bodhisattva

by Ronald Paul Boutian

The obvious atrocity; in the study of philosophy;
…Is the fact we failed to remove hypocrisy from democracy.
Let alone cleanse the pollution that resides inside of me.
Half truths leave whole fools still wishing remittance to thought schools.
Self Observation is the patient upon the conscious table,
Live in the moment and not the fable.

Long-time listeners of The Corbett Report will know that I like to highlight Truth Music when as and if possible (see Truth Music installments One Two Three and Four). Well, why not Truth Poetry? Or Truth Art? There are many different creative modes of expression, and surely they are all effective at getting the word out to others who may not be interested in dry news reports and “serious” conversation. If you have some creative truth work in your info arsenal, by all means send it in through the contact form and I’d be happy to take a look. If there’s enough interest, perhaps we’ll be able to put together a compilation of some kind.

remember september
by hak

burning news fuel blackout rage and outrage
mixed up hearts and minds caught in a cage
in vain seek answers in light of a candle
at a wake where truth is too hot to handle
staggering haggard close to a deeper divide
realize the arms of evil reach far and wide
if we die all 9/11 will only show one thing
snowfalls in winter kill any hope of spring
the deeper the wound the longer the healing
and lest we forget the scar remains a sting
but if truth be told, the enemy lies within
not so far out there, but here among our kin
when truth i behold, no lies with me may win
no matter how sweet be the sound of violin.

——————–

the power of art..
by TheFrankDaily.com

a picture paints more than words can say
to bring wonder to ones day

the art to bring all together
to communicate from one to another

for in art a community is bound
for a new discussion to be found

to look upon the hand of the present
with a question to cause dissent

but the gallery of life dose contain
the mischief of those who have no shame

but then the brush becomes the light
to light the way to clear ones sight

for all art has this power
to tumble down deceptions tower

to right a wrong with a painters song
to show the truth so the lie be gone

and we all have this itch to scratch
to see the truth, the power to act

so find a wall big and white
and get your paint brush ready to fight

get some black paint so all can see
and write in big words

‘I’m with the free’

——————–

Firestone
by M.A. Wiggins

I’ve been waiting two hours for my scarred
brake discs to be refinished, the remnants of pads replaced,
and the gunked-up fluids to be purged and replenished.
Fox News blares its eleventh arrangement of today’s drama
of talking points. Newcomers to the waiting room at the
Firestone Auto Center hum pseudo-thoughtfully when they see riots
outside various US embassies across oil land.  I look back

into the service bay where the man’s polishing a rotor, his practiced
hands guiding the grind wheel atop his workbench, daily grind.
One lucky patron is called to the desk to checkout. He glances
at the TV and says, jovially, they just need to shoot a few.
The cashier agrees: a good seven dead will send the message.
There’s your riots solved.  In the uncomfortable seat, I’m scribbling
the story of a drone pilot with a worn out conscience, waging war
and returning to his toddler, day after day, stop and go.

My car looks exposed without wheels, each fender like a blown
skirt revealing a bare well. I wonder how many would blush
to see the great war machine like this. It’s painfully clear
the TV voices are running a successful business, like the dealership
that sells you the car and performs the scheduled maintenance,
oiling and buffering it back near the new you bought without thinking.

My heap suspended out in the bay is a decent car, considering
its history, once driven by the teenage me. In those early days
I knew I was reckless, but that naive, hungry haze of mind
drove me to see where I could take my chances—a kamikaze flight
to my twenties. I’m still trying to slow this thing down. I’m not sure
if the fuel running those old crusades was the ends or the means.

Back then, before my trip overseas, I never worried much about the car.
These days I’m always expecting something massive to go wrong,
but I’ve still managed to wait way too long to change the brakes.

I may not leave here with the same morbidly sociable satisfaction as that
last customer, hopping into his truck buzzed on spontaneous camaraderie,
but I will run my hand over the smooth new surface of an old brake disc, crafted
the same year the towers fell. I’ll trace the enduring steel that turns and turns,
and I’ll still feel what’s been polished over, the silken grooves as personal
as a fingerprint, silver like a medal, a beautiful, reflective veteran of friction.

——————–

Season of the Infidel
by M.A. Wiggins

When the weather is ripe
and they judge it fit for wartime,
the Gardeners of Paradise
ferment the fruit of good and evil
to make the strongest of wines.
——————–

But What of Truth
by Hal O’Leary

For now, the loss of truth’s the only known.
The truth’s become old fashioned. Could this be?
With lies, we have decided to condone.
Just what the end will be, I cannot see.

The truth is now old fashioned. Could this be,
Like chastity and people you can trust?
Just what the end will be, I cannot see,
For those believing life was somehow just.

Like chastity and people you can trust,
A thing called love could also disappear
For those believing life was somehow just.
We’ve got to make an effort, or I fear

A thing called love could also disappear,
To set each individual apart.
We’ve got to make an effort, or I fear
There is the chance that we could lose the heart.

To set each individual apart,
With lies we have decided to condone,
There is the chance that we could lose the heart.
For now, the loss of truth’s the only known.

——————–

THE DEVILS MESSIAH
by pbd62

Who asked you to lie to me, Decieve Me and Trick me,
The Cordial soaked into the Chalk, At Ingesting Fluoride, aluminum
and Sterilants, Id’e Balk
The Controlling Elitists and their Predictive programming. Your 
believing the lies they are telling you
and Buying the products they’re selling to you.
The Black balloons and the cordial in the chalk
at drinking fluoride, aluminum and sterilants, Id’e Balk.
An altered time line and the Left , Right Paradigm,.. Our leaders 
are Puppets of the New World Order Prophets But its all been Fore told in a book of Old, Do you understand the 
reality of things, Now and the times of Old
501C3 What does that mean to Thee,. Lets not Live the mistakes of 
past history., or give in to fascism or tyranny.

——————–

REMEMBER, REMEMBER
by Paul Maurone

Remember
Remember
The 11th of September
The Globalists’ treason & plot.
I know of no reason
Why the 9/11 treason
Should ever be forgot.

——————–

Magic Land
by Jeff Mason

Magic bullets change direction
Suspect shot on live TV
Magic fires deter erection
Buildings fall symmetrically

A magic box reveals it all.
It’s Magic Land, where leaders feel,
they must confess they don’t recall.

Oh still our thoughts oh magic box.
Dull us of eternity and
Fill us full of pure sensation
Stoked with temporality.

Feed us fragments, bits and pieces,
Crafted stories day by day.
Conjure up some magic bad
That magic good can take away.

As our minds fuse with the fiction
Gasp we, for our imagined breath.
Our lives a growing contradiction
Flesh and spirit obsolesced.

——————–

in time
by Joy Raviv

In time, our dying failed history
Is the slow tortuous crime.
In no time, the crime
Is what it is.

a wave of timeless deep balance,
a wide turning,
A suprawave
Curves over the waves that we know

Don’t be afraid to be
brave out on the big wave
Don’t be living in the past, man
being too tight with time