And you withdraw to the underground world because Monsanto, Dow Chemical and others forced you there too early in your life

A Poem by Anon ymous

Usted es translúcido, un susurro
de los labios sedientos. Usted es un delgado
de grano, un vaso de rocío y la lluvia.

I have forgotten your middle name, replaced it
with a narrative. One tale to explain your absence,
one to explain how your hair has become brittle
to my touch. Still another to describe how I lost

your voice; about the unbearable weight of grief
that walked through the door. Oh, to be a tulip:
to desire no more than water, light; this could
be a dream in any other language, a journey

into the country of namelessness. We’re packed,
bottled up and ready to go. We are unmapped
and righteous. We know everything vanishes,

everything dissolves at the right temperature
yet, you ask for nothing. Nothing but my hand
on your heart and a story, fragile and green.

You are translucent, a whisper
from thirsty lips. You are a slender
grain; a vessel of dew and rain.

(Editor’s note: The above poem came to us anonymously with the below note:

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

The poem presented here constitute an original work and are part of a new initiative: Message in a Bottle.The idea is basic: anyone who would like to join can send a poem, poems or collection to poetanony@gmail.com. Once it is recieved it will be submitted to blogs, ‘zines and journals. The same bio and mission statement is sent but depending on the poet the city/country will change.Submissions are “blind” in the sense that a person who submits will never know where the poem is being sent or where it is posted or published. The hope is we can build a mailing list of subscribers for a monthy “Anonymous Poem” newsletter and also perhaps a Blog/Website of our own as well.

 
POET ANON
 
A resident of Chicago, Poet Anon says: You are encouraged to use this work in any way you see fit. Steal it, borrow it, take parts and make something new, rearrange it, riff on it, send it out over the internet, blog it, post it on telephone poles, throw it away. There is no copyright, no expectation of credit. Poetry should be free. )
 

The Verses from Ambapali

The Verses from Ambapali

(Editor’s note: Agent Orange developed by Uniroyal, Monsanto, and Dow Chemical left its stain and its scars over humanity. Below are two stanzas from the verse–a series of verses published in ancient times.)

Like a well planted grove in the forest, thick
And gleaming was my hair, adorned with combs and pins.
But now…my locks are sparse and thin…

Formerly, both my arms were round like crossbars,
Strong and beautiful. Now with age, they are weak
As the limbs of the trumpet-flower tree…

10 Fingers

A Poem by Devlin De La Chapa

And his dirty little Monsanto secrets
spoke volumes on his discolored hands,

and he could count
the meaning of each,

he knew them greatly by name,
knew them greater by numbers

And these little secrets
shamelessly called out his name:

Honey, Dad, Grandpa

in the dark, the echoes of his loved ones
reminded him of absent ghosts

In his mind, no one knows
he is mottled by yesterday’s hate

In their hearts, he is blinded
by today\’s forgiving love

In his dreams, he is bounded
by the last of their hopes;

hopes still clinging to those 10 fingers

holding still the silent deaths of all those
that once lied silently before him

(Editor’s note: To view our conversation about this poem–and the revision process–and other poetry by Devlin De La Chapa, please go to the following link: http://projectagentorange.com/simplemachinesforum/index.php?topic=57.0 )

Uncle Danny Was A Monsanto Grunt

A Poem by A.g. Synclair

And he would often ramble on
about those grinning Cheshire cats

back slapping and palm pressing
natty, chatty, laugh a minute bedbugs

bleating broken tomes of conformity
laughing in Uncle Danny’s face

when he begged for a fresh air mask
when he lost days

and thirty-two dollars an hour
to violent lung spasms

and relentless vomiting.

Year after year
bloated pig bitch talk

squealing porcine leprous swine
massive circle jerk

step into my orifice
working class zero.

 

LTC (ret.) Thomas A. Rice

A Poem by Rachel Marsom-Richmond
 
I skipped over his name in my day book,
no need to transcribe his birthday on calendar.
Later, in conversation, I called him my mom’s dad.
“Why not grandpa?” my husband asked.

I never met him. I never knew him.
I’ve seen pictures, in our home, in a museum.
He flew helicopters. He crashed. He got back up.
He was a hero. He branded his chest
years earlier in his fraternity, and he wore a nightgown
years later when the cancer had eaten away his leg.

I’m not sure how my grandfather got lost in a cloud
of orange smoke. I’m not sure which company,
Dow Chemical or Monsanto, sent out the fatal spray,
but now I’m left with orange residue, a frame
around my memories of a man I never knew,
a man I don’t know what to call,
a man whose presence I cannot ignore.