The First of May
It’s so good to see you.
You’ve been gone a long, long time.
Marx knows, we tried to carry on
while you were away.
But it was always the same old people.
It became a reunion for tired old lefties.
We mourned you, May,
thought Joe McCarthy’s thugs
had run you off for good.
Now you’re back in all your power and glory.
A million people marched in L.A.
Hundreds of thousands gathering
at the most unlikely cities.
Even Chicago, where it all began.
I’d say you are definitely back.
And who is turning out on May 1st?
It’s workers, nearly every last one.
Just like in 1890 when we celebrated
the fight for the 8 hour work day
right here in the USA.
Back then, lots of us were immigrants
come to seek a better life,
but finding out we had to fight for it.
Some things never change.
Not only that,
we’re still fighting for an 8 hour day!
The Women of Venice
Venice is a feminine town.
Here, we take time to talk and walk
and admire the beauty that surrounds us.
Women of Venice paint the murals.
Women of Venice help the homeless.
Women of Venice stand up to free Venice.
Venice is a matriarchy.
It is The Lady, not The Man,
who inspires our poets.
Women of Venice sing our songs.
Women of Venice help women in need.
Women of Venice sustain the Beachhead.
And it is the women who hear
Mother Earth telling us
we must balance our city with nature.
Women of Venice run our stores.
Women of Venice run our homes.
Women of Venice watch over our canals.
We live by the womb of the world.
From the sea we love came all life,
and the feminine spirit of Venice.
But Los Angeles, built for the Queen of Angels,
was stolen by men whose greed
and craving for land knew no bounds.
Now, L.A. treats Venice
like the victim in a bad marriage
battered by developers and gentrifiers.
Someday, O someday,
Venice will be serene and at peace
when we men learn to act more like women.
The Spirit of Venice
is the light that shines over our fair city
and distinguishes us from all the others.
The Spirit of Venice
means we would rather enjoy life
that chase after the almighty dollar.
The Spirit of Venice
means we would rather watch a sunset
than watch a TV show.
Will the Spirit of Venice survive?
As our immortal poet laureate Philomene Long said
in a poem written for Bill Rosendahl’s inauguration:
“who will walk upon our footsteps into the next century
That the light of Venice not be extinguished
Nor diminished, nor simply be maintained
But that light burn, burn, burn into a boundless Luminosity!”
And a line of my own:
“In Venice, time goes by,
but the magic remains.”
Thank you, and keep the Spirit of Venice alive.
There are sacred places in the woods
first recognized by the Tongva people
and revered to this day.
And who would not stand in awe of a mountain spring
or a mighty rock thrusting towards heaven
amid the woodland silence, and the subtle sounds.
The sacred is where you find it.
Here in Venice, the hidden Redwoods,
Japanese gardens and impossible flowers.
And walking toward the center, the Circle,
there is a Temple on a rise of ground,
Inside is a space like the Greeks once knew.
In ancient times they looked up in awe at the mighty Apollo,
or the wise Athena, until their calm places
were pulled down by Barbarians, blind to the sacred.
Inside our Post Office, the deified Abbot looks down
and watches us through the journeys of our lives
as we embrace the Sacred, or turn away.
And now we face the loss of our holy place
Where joy and sorry are carried in a letter
as the new Barbarians pull down our temple.
There’s a Tsunami comin’
to shake up the whole wide world.
You can’t escape this big old wave
hittin’ every city where there’s a slave.
Gonna feel this human tidal wave.
Listen, rich man
Your pockets got half of everything
If you billionaires won’t share the wealth,
and the things we need
Someone’s gonna bleed.
You made us the wretched of the earth
’cause you won’t give us dignity and jobs
So we’ll do a little night work.
And if we don’t get a pay raise
we’ll get extra cash another way.
Rich man, you got your armies
goin’ around the world
terrorizin’ folk. That’s gonna end.
Hey, we got our army, too.
25 million jobless comin’ unglued.
So call out your army and The Fear
Tear gas and water cannons by the ton
Lots of us want justice even more than livin’
Dyin’ might be our pride and our fate
But all you got is your hate.
You can knock us down once, twice
maybe more, but we’ll keep comin’
got no where to go so we’ll play your game
’til your soldiers join us in our fun
whatcha gonna do when they cut and run?
You seen it comin’ rich man
Hard-workin’ folk fed up in North Africa,
the Middle East, Greece, Spain,
and hairy old England
The World Wave keep on rollin’.
We’re gonna make a better world
Annihilate hunger, vaporize your greed.
Egypt didn’t need your pet dictator
like them we’re gonna put you in our past
We’d like to take it slow, but it could be fast.
We know those talkin’ heads will lie, lie, lie
your punk politicians will try to make us die.
Tsunami comin’ this way can’t be stopped
Rich man, where you gonna hide?
where you gonna hide?
(This poem appeared in the Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology, published 2012)
By Jim Smith
Holy Voice of Venice
Crying out softly
in the morning mist.
Escapees from an empire
gone mad with power.
Out they come
from the Venice West
from the Gas House
from the ancient bungalows
lining the walk streets.
Walkin’ down Ocean Front Walk
Got a nickel for a coffee?
Hey man, give me some
of those bennys.
Is that Bird blowin’ out
of Billy’s apartment?
Yes. Bop’s the thing
Oh my head is racing
Gotta put the words
Don’t try to think.
No why, No how,
Just go. go, go, go
Listen, man, listen
the ocean will tell you
The gulls are chiming in:
Chee wah wah
And Bird’s layin it down
for a gone world.
Man ooooo man,
We are in The Groove.
Listen you slaves of production
Listen you slaves of adverting
Turn your back on the city
Look out at the ocean
Just stop. Just Stop. Let it take you
in its arms. In its infinite arms.
We are home. We are home.
She rides upon her great mare, Gladus
From end to end this town is hers.
The timid peek over their fences
Others wave from their porches.
We recognize her without a doubt
A bit of pink or brightly blue, it’s her.
One of a kind, A Venice woman.
Hard to predict, easy to admire
She’s up to nothing but good.
Cooking for the sick.
Entertaining the elderly.
You’ve got to be Bad
for Suzy not to think you’re good
When night falls our fair maid
changes before our eyes
and under the moon
into the Vamp of the speakeasies
and Queen of the b l u e s
bop bop a be bop
Yeah, sing it baby sing
sing that song of a woman’s torment
sing that song of a woman’s ecstasy.