Friday

Poetry by John Kaniecki

Sylvia’s Garden
 
By John Kaniecki
 
Before the sun rises in the end of winter’s death
With chilly hands and frigid breath
Working the soil with rake and hoe
Knowing come summer a blessing to grow
 
Carefully placing precious seed in pot
Each cherished child never forgot
Watered and watched until they sprout
Green little creatures coming out
 
Early spring, past the last frost
Praying to God not one to be lost
In the soil measured apart
With cautious hands and loving heart
 
Early morn to water with hose
Fulfilling expectations the garden grows
Repeating the watering in the eve
Love is doing what you believe
 
In summer heat a bounteous place
Smiles all over Sylvia’s face
Fresh lettuce and tomato to pick at will
Mother Earth sharing her thrill
 
Fall comes and we harvest more
Sharing with Trevor and Ron next door
Resting now as the labor is past
How the season has gone so fast!
 
Looking over the garden leaves in decay
I am confident of another day
Sylvia’s garden will reappear
As long as the Lord gives us another year

The Blues Man
 
By John Kaniecki
 
Popcorn snapping fingers
An emancipated heart
Sing for your victuals wage slave
Separate but equal Jim Crow iron walls
See yonder mansion, see yonder manger
As united in birth welded in life
Nailed to a cross
Agony as the soldier penetrates his side
Nobody’s seen the troubles I’ve seen
They call it the blues
In the chord of c

Tea with Joe Hill
 
By John Kaniecki
 
Joe Hill and I had tea
He let his biscuits soak
They say America is free
Man how they love to joke
Ask Sacco and Vanzetti
Ask Red Cloud and Crazy Horse
And the way I see
Is things are getting worse
 
I said “Joe why ain’t you dead?” 
Righteousness is like Love my friend
Laughed Joe as he shook his head
Spirits never die and never end
A thousand tyrants and all their force
In truth could never compete
With the Love that is the source
Of one of my melodies sweet
You see death and life they coexist
Some never die and some never live
So songs of revolution will always persist
For unto themselves my songs give
 
So open your eyes and organize
Never give in to their lies and organize
Do not hate and despise but organize
Raise your voice in mighty cries and organize
 
Joe slurped the last of his tea
And bid me a final farewell
Above all fight to be free
You’ll get heaven when you give them hell


My name is John Kaniecki and this is a cover letter to accompany my poetry. I write poetry for the enjoyment of the art. I believe that a poet must first establish that they can write in rhyme and rhythm and only then move to the more advanced free verse. I have been published by Struggle Magazine, The Blue Collar Review, Burning Books, Jerry Jazz, IWW Newspaper, Protest Poems, Flute, Black Magnolia, Left Curve, She Mom, Whisper, Vox Poetica and others. Though political or moral in nature I write in various forms. My poems have appeared in over fifty outlets.
I have a chapbook of poetry published on Cavalcade of Stars. In addition I have a poetry book entitled "Murmurings of a Mad Man" just out this September.
I have two stories published one in Struggle Magazine and the other in Cavalcade of Stars.  I also have a story The Sin of A.D.A.M. published by Witty Bard.  Also I have an upcoming book of science fiction stories to be published by Witty Bard.
My chapbook "The Second Coming of Victoria" was a quarter finalist in the Mary Ballard chapbook contest in 2014.
I have been married over nine years to my wife Sylvia. I am a member of the Church of Christ at Chancellor Avenue where I sometimes preach and work on out reach. I worked last as a customer service agent. I am a firm believer in the power of poetry to transform society for the better. The artist I most admire is Woodie Guthrie because he lived what he wrote and what he wrote was wonderful.
I also recently won the Joe Hill Poetry Labor Prize where I read my poem Tea With Joe Hill, in front of a crowd of over six hundred people in Banning Park , Los Angeles .
I currently serve as secretary for Rhyming Poets International and I am a member of the Revolutionary Poet's Brigade.

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