-Clamoring at the Southern Gates

von am 2. April 2021 um 18:33
Veröffentlicht in: Polemics, Politics

Clamoring at the Southern Gates

 

Why are hordes of migrants clamoring at the southern border with nothing
but the clothes on their backs and a few belongings?

We’ve been coddling Right-wing dictators down in South America for years,
and we’ve engaged in our share of hanky-panky.
Remember the mining of Nicaragua City Harbor in 1984!
That of course was okay, since the government consisted of a bunch of commies.
Ditto for Salvador Allende!

As far as maiming, murder and rape were concerned, the Contras took the cake.
Their spokesmen gave gory accounts of how they dealt
with the peasants and villagers they came upon in their forays.[1]

Reagan’s assessment:
“The Contras are the moral equivalent of our Founding Fathers.”

Yeah, Ron, they are splendid fellows. Were those Fathers torturers, rapists, murderers and
marauders?

Here’s Ron, the compassionate conservative:

 

Ron:

“We were told four years ago that 17 million people
went to bed hungry every night.
Well, that was probably true.
They were all on a diet.” [2]
quote/              berkeley.edu/news/media

Smelser, assistant chancellor for educational development at the time Reagan ran for office, recalled that „Reagan took aim at the university for being irresponsible for failing to punish these dissident students. He said, ‚Get them out of there. Throw them out. They are spoiled and don’t deserve the education they are getting. „They don’t have a right to take advantage of our system of education.“

 

Child Sacrificed

 

A ten-year-old girl in Paraguay is pregnant after having been raped by her stepfather.
The child been denied an abortion by the conservative Catholic authorities
installed by Pope John Paul II. Pope Francis in Rome is silent.

The child is being sacrificed in order to confirm that life is “sacred” from conception on.

I call his action, or rather inaction, the epitome of cruelty.
In the future I want nothing whatsoever to do with an institution
that interprets the Deity’s wishes in this barbaric manner.

Pope Francis in the Holy City is mum
and he remained mum when he visited Paraguay.

In July, Pope Francis spent three days in Paraguay. He met with officials, toured a slum outside Asuncion and celebrated two Masses.
While activists had hoped to bring up the case of the pregnant girl, Francis did not speak about it or focus on abortion in any of his speeches.

This is a previous policy statement by Pope Francis:
“The moral problem of abortion is of a pre-religious nature because the genetic code is written in a person at the moment of conception.
A human being is there. I separate the topic of abortion from any specifically religious notions. It is a scientific problem.
Not to allow the further development of a being which already has all the genetic code of a human being is not ethical.
The right to life is the first among human rights. To abort a child is to kill someone who cannot defend himself.”[3]

Fox News reports: “According to health statistics, 680 Paraguayan girls between 10 and 14 years old gave birth in 2014.”

Bishop Romero’s Successors

In 1995, Pope John Paul II appointed Fernando Sáenz Lacalle, an Opus Dei member, archbishop for San Salvador.
Lacalle was instrumental in having harsh anti-abortion laws established. A woman who has had abortion can be sentenced to thirty years in prison.

If a woman is brought to a hospital, and she suspected of having undergone a botched abortion, she is tied to her bed,
and serves as an exhibit of the crime committed.[4]

Humanism on the March

Henry Kissinger on democracy: “I don’t see why we need to stand by and watch a country go communist due to the irresponsibility of its people.
The issues are much too important for the Chilean voters to be left to decide for themselves.” And here he is on mass murder in Cambodia after our “incursion”:
“Why should we flagellate ourselves for what the Cambodians did to each other?”

Nixon to Kissinger on civilian casualties in Vietnam: “You’re so goddamned concerned about the civilians, and I don’t give a damn.”

The migrants are trying to escape the locations that were certainly not improved by the leaders of the location they are attempting to enter.

 

– Herbert Kuhner

 

* * * * *

 

[1] consortiumnews.com
[2] Ronald Reagan, TV speech, October 27, 1964.
[3] lifenews.com
[4] Sam Harris: Letter to a Christian Nation, Alfred Knopf, New York. 2006; Jack Hitt: “Pro-Life Nation,” New York Times, April 9, 2006.

 

 

_A Poem from a New Book by David B. Axelrod

von am 25. März 2021 um 19:44
Veröffentlicht in: Poetry

 

 

A Poem from a New Book by David B. Axelrod

 

WHY I CUT MY BARBER

 

 I’ve been going to a father
and son shop where, lately,
the eighty-six year old dad
doesn’t see too well, so I sit
down for his errant son whom£
dad once told me, “shows up
late but does know how
to cut good.” As Sonny starts,
he asks, “What do you think
of the Deep State trying to
destroy America? They stole
an election.” Dummy that
I am, I tell a man holding
a sharp object next to me,
“OMG, are you still stuck
on that?  Get over it.” He
quickly concludes the haircut—
barely having done a thing.

Poems © Copyright 2021 David B. Axelrod

 

 

-Shooting Up the Place

von am 25. März 2021 um 19:29
Veröffentlicht in: Polemics, Politics

Shooting Up the Place

 

The Don’s’ moniker for Corona is “Kung Flu,”
and he repatedly refers to the “China Virus.”

Who would deny that the birthplace
of this scourge is the “People’s Republic?”

So, if you are stuck with “a sex addiction,”
and are “deeply religious” to boot,
and are having “a bad day,”
and there’s an assault weapon at your disposal,
why head for a massage parlor and shoot up the place?

And if you’re just mad at the world,
any location will do.

 

Spokesman for the Weapons Lobby

There have been massacres in schools,
college campuses, shopping malls, movie theaters, churches
and even in an army fort.

People must be able to protect themselves.
The only answer is arms.

Now, you are right to assert that a pistol is no match
for a man in body armor who totes an assault weapon.

What’s the answer? As Spokesman for the” Weapons” Lobby,
I say that there has to be a security guard armed with a bazooka
at every outdoor and indoor public place.

 

– Herbert Kuhner

-The Golden Anniversary of the Annexation

von am 22. März 2021 um 15:25
Veröffentlicht in: Poetry, Text

The Golden Anniversary of the Annexation

At the unveiling of the monument commemorating the victims of the Holocaust, s
peeches of regret were read by political luminaries, Church dignitaries, public figures
and high-ranking military men. Poets read epics about the slaughter of the victims and an oratorio
was played and sung for the occasion. While those present vowed that what had happened must never happen again,
a Jew was beaten by thugs in the midst of the ceremony. No one could hear the blows or his cries due to the chorus of raised voices.
Nor could the beating be seen since the bystanders’ sight was blurry from the tears that were being shed.

“It is incomprehensible to me how any Jew could ever return
to the killing grounds. You chose to go to Hell
and then you complain that the landscape is littered with devils.”
– Cynthia Ozick, writer, USA

 

Dancing

You can’t dance on graves.
There are no graves,
no gravestones for flowers
or stones. No graves to kneel
in front of or stand next to.

That cemetery is boundless.
The dead are all interred on high.

No, there’s no dancing on graves.
There’s only dancing under graves.
And there’s no lack of dancers.
There are dancers galore!

An Icy Wind

An icy wind
does not make you giddy
like a sirocco.
It aims at your heart
and blows at high speed
to get at that organ.

Better to take cover
when that wind
has you in its path.
If you stand fast
it will cut you to the quick.

 

 

„Es ist mir völlig unverständlich,
wie ein Jude zu den Tötungsgebieten zurückkehren konnte.
Sie haben sich für die Hölle entschlossen, und dann wundern Sie sich,
daß die Landschaft voller Teufel ist.“
– Cynthia Ozick, Schriftstellerin, USA.

Ein halbes Jahrhundert nach dem Anschluß

Bei der Enthüllung des Denkmals für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus gab es Reden von Politikern,
Kirchenfürsten und anderen distinguierten Bürgern. Dichter lasen Epen über die Opfer,
nd man führte ein Oratorium zu ihren Ehren auf. Während alle schwuren, daß das, was geschehen war,
nie wieder geschehen dürfe, schlug man einen Juden neben der Bühne nieder.
Niemand hörte die Schläge oder seine Schreie, weil der feierliche Schwur lauter war. Und niemand sah,
was geschah, weil die Danebenstehenden feuchte Augen hatten, die ihre Blicke trübten.

 

Tänzer

Man kann auf diesen Gräbern nicht tanzen.
Es gibt keine Gräber,
keine Grabsteine
für Blumen oder Steine.
Man kann nicht davor
oder daneben knien oder stehen.

Dieser Friedhof ist grenzenlos.
Die Toten sind alle in der Höhe
beigesetzt.

Auf diesen Gräbern kann man nicht
tanzen. Man kann nur darunter tanzen.
Und es gibt jede Menge Tänzer!

Ein Eisiger Wind

Ein eisiger Wind
macht dich nicht schwindlig
wie ein Schirokko.
Es zielt auf dein Herz
und bläst mit hoher Geschwindigkeit
an diesen Körperteil.

Gehe in Deckung
wenn dieser Wind
gegen Dich bläst.
Wenn du nicht in Deckung gehst
wird er dich in zwei schneiden.

-A Day in the Park

von am 28. Februar 2021 um 13:25
Veröffentlicht in: Text

A Day in the Park

There had been nothing, eventful in my life. Just school and then college. I had been an average student. Not bad to look at. Not that my looks were extraordinary. Of course there had been dreams. Romantic dreams. The kind that girls have. Then the day came when nightmare became reality.

I walked home from classes through the park as I always did. It was autumn and a bit chilly. Grey weather. The trees had been stripped of most of their leaves. They lay in piles on the ground like broken crust. A dismal day.

Suddenly I found myself in a grip. I couldn’t scream. My mouth was covered by a hand. I struggled but couldn’t free myself. I was in terror. I was dragged until there was nothing around me but bushes. If only I could scream, someone would come. Someone had to help me. It couldn’t happen. But 1 knew that no one and nothing could help. It would happen.

I was thrust down. I tried to defend myself with teeth, nails and knees. I was struck several times open-handed across the face. I gasped my breath in and tried to scream but something was roughly stuffed into my mouth. I felt my clothes being ripped.

I was burned open.

I saw red, then black.

When I came to, someone was leaning over me. I saw a handsome bearded face. Someone had come to help, but it was too late. I was ashamed. My clothes were torn. I tried to put them in order as best I could. My hands trembled so. He told me to lie there, that he would get help. I noticed that his clothes were disheveled. He must have fought with my assailant. But why hadn’t he come sooner? Why hadn’t he come soon enough to prevent it?

I told him not to go, not to leave me alone. He stayed and helped me up. My feet were unsteady, and it was hard for me to stand, but instead of holding me, he knelt down in front of me.

He asked me to forgive him. He started to sob. He was lower than an animal. Nothing could rectify what he had done. He said that I should spit on him. I could kick him if I wanted to.

I had been shattered inside, broken into small pieces. I was no longer afraid. What else could happen to me? I was too weak to do anything but lean on him. The creature that had raped me, I despised him. But what could I do? I didn’t have the strength to break away and run. We just remained in that ridiculous position: I with my torn dress and he groveling at my feet.

It was he who suggested that I report him to the police. But I was too weak to do so. He finally got up and put his arm around me to support me. Like, that we walked away. We left the lonely spot where it had happened. And we were among people again. The people who had mindlessly gone about doing what they were doing while it had happened. They were just as I had been
before I had been attacked.

When we saw a policeman, I expected the rapist to let go of me and run. But he remained at my side. We approached-the policeman. I didn’t know how to tell him. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The rapist came to my aid. He told the officer what had happened. The policeman looked at us in disbelief. He removed his cap and scratched his head. We must have been a sight, the two of us, rapist and raped, standing side by side. Rapist supporting raped. I, bruised with my dress ripped, he, his shirt ripped and red streaks where I had scratched him.
The rest was agony. The police station with the staring policemen. I was a corpse they were viewing. The unmentionable had happened to me, I had been successfully attacked in broad daylight. But the corpse was alive and I had to live with my shame.

There were the questions. The rapist was charged and placed in a cell.

The ambulance came and I was taken to the hospital, Then more of the same, except my inquisitors wore white instead of police uniforms. There were intimate questions and intimate examinations. The coal clean sheets. The top sheet lifted aside. The wound displayed for all to see. The wound handled and swabbed. Why hadn’t he killed me?

It went on, The discreet lawyer. The embarrassed visits of my family. My discharge from the hospital. The trial. My appearance on the witness stand and the horrible questions. Although my assailant pleaded guilty, they had to determine whether I had enticed my assailant and whether I enjoyed it or not. And more staring. The satisfaction. It had been me and not them. Then finally he was found guilty. The sentence was passed and it was over.

But now it had only started.

I was pregnant. Naturally I wanted to have an abortion. To have the trace of the shame removed. I begged and pleaded for it. But it was denied to me. They gave me consolation, but no abortion. I was told that it wasn’t allowed. They sent a priest and he confirmed it. I was to be brave. It was my sacred duty to bring the child into the world. I was to do God’s bidding.

I cried, lashed out threw myself onto the floor. They gathered me up and again placed me in a cool clean bed. I was forced to remain in it. I hoped that my pregnancy would be interrupted or that I would bear a stillborn child. But in spite of my wishes, after causing me great pain, the child was born.

What was I to do? They told me that I could have the child adopted. But it was mine and I decided to keep it. After all, it hadn’t had anything to do with the cause of its birth. It was only a child.

That’s when I began to get the letters. The return address was the penitentiary. They came from him. He begged for forgiveness. He inquired about the child. Continued to ask about it, His letters were not what one would have expected. Not uncultivated. At first I left them unanswered. Then coldly wrote of the horror I had experienced. Finally I gave him the information he requested.

My family and friends had changed toward me. They were kind all right – too kind. I was treated
solemnly. They never joked or laughed in my presence. In truth they wanted to avoid me as if I were a cripple. But his letters kept coming.

He asked me to visit him in prison. It took much persuasion before I went. But I did go on visitor’s day. He behaved differently than one would imagine. He was a rapist, a convict in prison. Yet seeing him there, it was hard to believe, but I know that it was true. When he asked me to come with the child, his child, I refused. But at my next visit, he asked me again. I hesitated, but did as he asked. I fulfilled his wish.

He was a model prisoner and it did not take long before he was paroled. I met him after he was released from prison. Always in the afternoon. And in a public place. My fears were unfounded. He never as much reached for my hand.

I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to marry him. He wanted to atone for what he had done. He promised to be a good husband and father. He said that he was happy to be the first man in my life.

 

– Herbert Kuhner