In the name of ISIS, Let's think about the impact of words!

Of Egyptian Lore

Who is Isis, Really?

Words matter. Labels matter. Names matter.

I, for one, would appreciate the Media not

being so cavalier about romanticizing terrorists

with Language. (I am still smarting from the

Romanticizing of War with names like “Desert

Storm” which sounds to me like a cologne, but

the stench of what it covers up is undeniably

horrible.

If we’re into the business, with the News, of

Branding, like they do in the Advertising &

Promotion industries, then all I ask is that we

be more thoughtful/careful in our word

portrayals. The power of words was well proved

by Adolph Hitler.

Therefore, I suggest TATAU (Those A**holes That

Attack Us) as a replacement acronym. It is a

more accurate moniker.

Isis was a goddess in ancient Egypt and quite

benign. She deserves not to have her name

sullied in the 21^st Century by journalists who

very well know the power of words!

R.M. Knight, Vancouver, Washington

I missed 100,000 Poets for Peace rally because I had a virus. Here is what I would have read.

Ladies First

March 7, 2014-Breaking News- a 17 year old boy

Killed his mother, then shot his father, but

Daddio lived

Lousy job, son, you never could get things all

the way right

Doesn’t matter who’s to blame

Fook cause and effect

Civilized people don’t strike back

No matter how much mental cruelty

is crammed down their throats

            -or-

Were the parents totally innocent

and the devil made a threesome in

the bed that made their son?

Who creates monsters?

Nature? Nurture?

The debates rage on

One thing for sure is “Happy” boys don’t

Bring Uzis to school

“Happy” boys don’t shoot senators on

a stump

“Happy” boys don’t shoot others in theatres

As an observer, I am just wondering

Who’s pissing these “boys” off?

And what can be done about it?

We have DEA to fight drug trafficking

But tell me folks, on some level don’t

we all know, mental illness makes people

abuse drugs, self-medicate and

the rage is a lethal cocktail?

Why are we not treating the wounds

before they turn gangrenous?

Why are we not trying to help people

who are in dire pain?

No money in that, eh?

Are we so entranced with the toys and

playgrounds of capitalism, we’d rather

look the other way than see other souls

gutted and burned to the ground?

 RMK-3/2014

Love Roulette and the NFL

LOVE ROULETTE…some thoughts

Some people are lucky in love, some are not. With the recent revelation of domestic violence in the National Football League a few things came to mind. Having lived through domestic abuse for a decade I have studied it extensively to try to understand- why? - For myself and others. I have a chapbook of poetry about relationships with uncaring guys. Good guys are raised in a climate of respect for women; Abusers are not, is my latest conclusion.

Nicole Browne and O.J. came to mind when this news broke. How long has domestic violence been tolerated by the NFL? Isn’t that a question we should all ask? The next question would be, how are we going to fix it?

Before I married my ex, I was made aware that his father had a history of violence toward his mother. It wasn’t until after my divorce that I started researching and discovered that I had made a naïve choice, indeed. I share the premier poem from my chapbook:

Love Roulette

He held me in a headlock

and spun the chamber of

the antique, old west 45

He put the barrel to

my temple and

whispered fiercely

Say your prayers, bitch!

I froze with shock and terror

A front page flashed on

my mind-screen:

Vietnam Vet shoots

Wife, Child, then Self!

My daughter lay innocently

asleep, down the hall

I had to protest-

The only word that

came out was: Don’t.

It was clear and true

He spun the chamber again

and pulled the trigger

Spin-click

Spin-click

Spin-click

I waited to die, not

remembering to pray

Suddenly, he laid the

pistol down, laughed

and walked out of the room

The next day, I gathered

his arsenal in a quilt and

took it out of the house

I was never in love with him

again, but I stayed

five more years…

G’Day,

Raintree

P.S. Do not judge. It is complicated.