Syndic Literary Journal
June 11, 2022
Syndic Poetry
The Art of the Spoken Word
” Theme ~ Uvalde is Family to Me ”
PART I
Uvalde is Family to Me
Written by Paul M. Levitt
Narrated by Roger Netzer
Instead of walking you to class,
We’re on our way to saying Mass.
Instead of seeing you to bed,
We’re cradling your disfigured head.
We should have been there to protect,
Instead we’re guilty of neglect.
The GOP says what’s the fuss,
Unseeing that the dead are us.
Oh dear children of Uvalde,
We sing a goodnight song for thee.
The air was fresh, the air was dry,
A cow was flying in the sky.
A cat was bathing in the lake,
A rabbit ate a garden snake.
A whale was running on his legs,
A cock was laying golden eggs.
A polar bear, dressed all in white,
Was eating grass with great delight.
A tender wolf in lady’s dress
Was playing bear a game of chess.
An old gray cat, and very nice,
Was teaching French to several mice.
A blue swan was in great alarm.
In spite of her alluring charm.
Her husband had the other day
With mistress crow flown away.
Two hares were boxing kangaroos,
The referee was mister goose.
A duck was dancing with a fox,
And a yellow hawk with an ox.
Tortoise was racing Nelly horse.
And all the story was of course
A paradox, a paradox!
♦
Uvalde is Family to Me
Written & Narrated by Jennifer Lagier
Uvalde is Family to Me
It’s personal.
Before Columbine, Sandy Hook, Stoneman Douglas,
a teen gunman with a grudge against immigrants
entered Cleveland Elementary School in Stockton,
slaughtered five Vietnamese students.
These were my kids, shy readers who hung out
in our small storefront library.
Angry males with automatic rifles
vent rage by mowing down youngsters.
Politicians funded by NRA blood money
worship a misconstrued second amendment,
mumble about the inevitability of violence,
refuse to consider common sense gun control.
In response, journalists debate publishing photos
of what military-grade firearms
can do to a body.
The Uvalde carnage wounds us all,
tears apart community,
leaves families traumatized
as they mourn catastrophic loss,
bury their loved ones.
We the People grieve,
reject platitudes, demand action,
implore our representatives
to protect children, not weapons
♦
Uvalde Is Family to Me
Written & Narrated
By Charles Rammelkamp
Just back from a pilgrimage to Antietam,
bloodiest day in American history,
Americans killing Americans,
over 23,000 dead in a single day:
a family feud, Cain and Abel.
Just so Uvalde, our children:
more of our American family
slain like mown-down hay
on the altar of the Second Amendment.
I can’t help but reflect
on the chain of carnage
linking the American family
through the generations:
the bloody bond, fastened in gore.
A Facebook friend confesses,
when I post a battlefield photo
of the three-arched Burnside Bridge
one of his ancestors owned a farm
where so many soldiers died,
his bloody link to the family slaughter.
But the NRA continues to insist
guns are our American birthright –
a vital link binding our family.
♦
Uvalde is Family to Me
Written & Narrated by Francis Poole
A long time ago
when I was five years old
I had a girlfriend.
She was, in fact, my first girlfriend.
We were the same age and
her name was Marsha.
She had short brown hair with bangs
kind of like Scout in the movie,
To Kill a Mockingbird.
We lived on the edge of Naples, Florida
and there was a slash pine woods nearby
that we would sometimes explore.
Back among the scrub and palmettos
lived an old man in a small trailer.
Sometimes he would be friendly
and talk to us.
Sometimes he let us play in the clearing
outside his front door.
One day we were walking through the woods
near his trailer.
I don’t remember if we wanted
to visit him that day
or not.
It seems like we were just on
a little aimless hike.
As we got closer he came outside
and started yelling.
Then he pointed something at us
and there was a loud “crack.”
I was holding Marsha’s right hand
in my left.
As soon as I heard the “crack”
Marsha screamed, grabbed her stomach
and started running toward
a nearby open air wash house
where the women washed clothes.
I ran after her and could see
the front of her white t-shirt was red.
I looked at my hand and there was
blood on my fingers.
A couple of the women came running,
picked her up and carried her inside the wash house
where the other women were gathered.
I still remember the loud cries and shrieks
that came from that bundle of women.
I couldn’t see what happened
after that.
It turned out the old man
had fired a rifle at us
for some unknown reason.
The bullet had gone through
Marsha’s right hand,
the hand I was holding,
and into her body
yet somehow missing me.
I had to tell a police officer
what happened.
Later I was told the old man
didn’t get arrested
but after a few weeks
he and the trailer were gone.
No one mentioned Marsha after that
and I never saw her again.
So is Uvalde family to me?
Let’s see.
If I say Yes, because of
joy, sorrow and remembrance
whenever I recall walking hand-in-hand
with my little friend Marsha
and hear the crack of a rifle
it’s because the thing itself
was in that.