I wrote this poem for a man who was struggling through these hard financial times trying to provide for his family. I send him blessings and blessings to all who are like him.
No one can limit me.
poverty will not take me.
I will not be cut down
like scented blades of grass in July
that lay down below feet chopped up.
I've seen the hunched over backs of the world's poor
hope torn from them
eyes sallow and hands that tremble
like nervous twitching rabbits in low green grass
slit off from their youth
and thrown to the side
bagged up for the rich man's spoil.
The drums will pound someday
and the rain will pour down
in raw justice for the meek.
I am sustaintive and liberated.
I will grow tall like the Elm
in a sacred forest reaching for blue skies
and find the sunshine.
The angels and eagles
that flew over the dead bloody ground
where the infantry marched.
The spirits that watched over and the bees that flew
dancing from flower to flower
still foraged from petal to petal pink to yellow.
My words will live on.
They cannot be limited
not my thoughts or my song,
not my anger or my love.
They will be remembered.
My good deads are not erased
by those who choose gossip over truth.
I will not faulter
under the power struggles.
The flocks that once were
The queens of the grasslands
will return to the wetlands and meadows
the ones men and wine destroyed
men who plundered down the trees for cash and the home of the lark.
here I speak of the powers of goodwill
of the wind and the waves
and truth and sunshine
and of inspirations unlimited.
By Joanne Kathleen Farrell
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