a poem for the oppressed

"Despicable, calculated, vicious"

  they stood grinning
  over the corpses of black men
  with illusions of immunity
Speaking of patience, healing

  with voices subdued
  they stumble as though half asleep
  with illusions of unity
Speaking of patience, healing

They say how tragic it is
  that some police were killed
  in the line of duty
And mumble about patriotism
But this does nothing
  but amuse us,
  the oppressed,
  for we know
They are the killers
  enforcers of white supremacy
  enforcers of poverty
  enforcers of misery

They speak of a race war
  when white supremacy comes under fire
And speak of progress
  when black men are gunned down on camera

But we know
  All the SWAT teams and propaganda
  in the whole world
  cannot stop the onsetting storm.

We will grind this empire into dust
  with the names of the slain still on our tongues.

-Connor Stevens

Connor Poetry 4/25/16

Weeping the World

There are moments
so small we are thought crazy
for thinking they matter
but their gravity
warps our very Being
with their passing.

How can I speak to the dead?
Why bother speaking to the living?

Here, in this pile of graphite and wood dust
I exist suspended between the two.
There is the carcass of a lady bug
that left me weeping.
The world within a grain of coffee
envelops me entirely.
Do you know what it means
to inch along the cold concrete floor
through the cobwebs and urine?
Do you think, really, the world is so small?
I have spent years
in a single puff of smoke.

It is so easy
to get lost where a strand of hair
meets the eraser shavings.
Or to wander dazed in the scent of animal musk.
Who encompasses all of this?

It is to the Source that I am falling.

The Truth They Cannot Kill

I don't pretend
or expect to be understood.
If that were my intent
I would leave it at this:

Islam is the Truth.
 This society is falsehood.
Lo! Falsehood is ever bound to vanish.

An Opening, Darkening

Beauty exists.
Between the concrete
and concertina
even here
balanced on a blade's edge
from a rope of hair-thin steel,
the Finality
of six walls.

(they yearn to smother us, but
they only harden our resolve
to grind their world into dust)

Beauty endures
but there is a lesson buried beneath
the beast's boot:
We must learn to make our beauty light,
to feed it nothing but raw essence
for how else can we survive
but to fling our hearts into the vast sky?

Good Tidings - Connor

"All Creation bends"

What can i offer
  across this void
  that thirsts endlessly
What will be left
  as a gift
beneath your eyelids?
What is this Abyss
  that cannot be traversed
  even by ten thousand nights
    of weeping?
It would be easier
  to enter Paradise
than to give
you of my
across this hungry void
that swallows up my breath
  and evaporates all tears
That turns ink
into the absence
of light,
And even my blood,
however much i spill,
cannot give you warmth.

And yet, dear
it is to this void
that you give
countless precious hours
When all around you
children's eyes overflow
  with the light of God's Mercy
And how many of us yearn
  for your affection
As all of Creation bends
  in worship to the One,
Who even now Harkens.

It is not too late.

-- -- -- --

"Ten Thousand Suns Are Blooming and We Will Not Go Blind"

-- All Glory is to God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful --


The people of the Book
  die eating bark and shoeleather
in the blackened deserts,
  irrigated with their blood
for to grow phantom buds blooming confusion.

Man-eating, child-molesting adulterous
  locust rain down a buzzing cacaphony
of death
  upon smiling children
 sighing orphans
 praying mothers
 rejoicing believers . . .

The gutters are clogged
  with suicides
and the alleys are
  awash with dream-chasers

Insects devour men
  and water
is more precious
  than blood
And some seem to think
  the taller their buildings
the closer they are to God

And every time the sun
  sets it is as though
God is telling all who may
Hasten unto Me, for
  the Hour is Near.


Surely, the dogs of hell
  have been unleashed
They are pouring the foundations
  for the vile palaces
of the Antichrist.

Enemies of God
  on every side
  throw fuel on the fire
Burning the flesh of believers,
even as they are condemned as infidels.
Everywhere the blind have risen to power.
Witness the signs, dear friends.

There can be no sense
  in reasoning with a hellhound
And so, if God Wills it,
  my words are for those
  who have not yet cast their lot:
Harken to the Supreme Guidance of God
  and His Messenger, Muhammad.

You cannot control the Storm. Not even a little.
  Do not lose yourself in that maddening Abyss.


Subscribe to RSS - blogs