I was going to post something else today on wild edibles but there is something much more important that needs to be addressed today so wild edibles will wait, forever if that is what it takes. Eleven years ago today, nearly 3,000 Americans died in what would go into the record books as one of the worst terrorist attacks in history. It seems like America has forgotten this. It seems likes America’s leaders have almost forgotten what happened eleven short years ago. The President of the United States himself did not even go to the site of each aircraft that fell that day. It makes me sick. Makes you wonder who he cares about, huh?
I have not forgotten and I refuse to forget. I refuse to forget about the victims of the plane crashes. I refuse to forget about the victims families. I refuse to forget about the first responders that day. I refuse to forget all those affected by the events that day that have taken their own lives or had family members that have done the same. I refuse to forget about those affected who have turned to substance abuse as a way to treat their problems. I refuse to forget the members of our military who have stood watch over our national interests abroad for the last eleven years so that these vile acts will not be repeated in our country again. I especially refuse to forget the members of our military special operations units who on May 2, 2011 killed Osama bin Laden and dumped his body into the ocean with the other algae covered scum to rot forever. Copper-jacketed justice is the best justice!
WE WILL NOT FORGET!!! 9-11-2011
The following are three poems that I found about the events of September 11, 2001 that resonated with me:
We Shall Never Forget (9-11 Tribute)
Let the world always remember,
That fateful day in September,
And the ones who answered duties call,
Should be remembered by us all.
Who left the comfort of their home,
To face perils as yet unknown,
An embodiment of goodness on a day,
When men’s hearts had gone astray.
Sons and daughters like me and you,
Who never questioned what they had to do,
Who by example, were a source of hope,
And strength to others who could not cope.
Heroes that would not turn their back,
With determination that would not crack,
Who bound together in their ranks,
And asking not a word of thanks.
Men who bravely gave their lives,
Whose orphaned kids and widowed wives,
Can proudly look back on their dad,
Who gave this country all they had.
Actions taken without regret,
Heroisms we shall never forget,
The ones who paid the ultimate price,
Let’s never forget their sacrifice.
And never forget the ones no longer here,
Who fought for the freedoms we all hold dear,
And may their memory never wane,
Lest their sacrifices be in vain.
Alan W. Jankowski
if bin laden read dr. seuss
2001 September 18
so then, bin laden is this
what you do for fun? blow
people up? kill? destroy?
i have some suggestions
you might want to try instead.
read dr. seuss. smell a flower.
do a cartwheel. watch little
children playing & drink grape
kool aid. paint pictures with
red & green tempura. eat an
orange. bin laden, you have
four wives. doesn’t sex do it
for you? open yer arms to the
smiling moonlight. tell your
lieutenent to put down his gun
& the two of you play catch.
fire up some afghani red in
a 12-hose hookah & bliss out.
did you ever watch a bogart
movie? how about cartoons?
bin laden, allah is not honored
when you kill 5,000 americans.
feed five thousand with loaves
& fish & see what allah says
about that. dude, can’t you go to
a soccer game or a chili joint?
feed pidgeons in the park?
bin laden millions of afghans
are starving, can’t you use
your millions to drill wells
& grow wheat? the arab world
needs a savior, not a fugitive killer.
you could build a band-aid factory
& manufacture penicillin &
piece together lost souls with
ointment & a gentle touch.
bin laden we look up at the same
sky, count the same stars, watch
vast oceans from the same precipice.
don’t you get it, man? yer fever
can be measured in degrees.
we have but one mission: to
clothe the naked, build houses
for the homeless, carry the sick
to the doctor. not so very far from
where you are, mother teresa
reached out to the wretched
poorest of the poor in india’s slums.
where did it all go wrong bin laden?
tonight you will dream of lambs
& flutes & calm nectars from
fruited vines, because i will it so
& that white light you see is my
shadow. open yer heart man, have
some green eggs, i know you don’t
eat ham, & i’d like you to meet
my friend sam, yes, sam i am
BILLY COLLINS, poet laureate of the United States: This poem is dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors.
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name —
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner —
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.