Poems

Actors on a stage

We are all actors on a stage.

Working for a reasonable wage.

Playing a role in the show called life.

Are you the star of the show?

Are you the leading act?

Are you the villain?

Are you the victim?

Are you an extra?

Are you the super hero?

What role are you playing in the show called life?

Are you the protagonist?

Are you the antagonist?

Are you the narrator?

Are you the singer?

Are you the dancer?

Are you the poet?

Are you playing a supporting role?

What role are you playing in the show called life?

You are created for a purpose.

You were created to play your part.

What role are you playing in the show called life?

God created you for a purpose.

You were created to play your part.

Are you playing that role with might and with vision in sight?

What role are you playing in the show called life?

Make it count.

Live it with purpose.

The life that you live goes far beyond the screen.

The life that you live goes far beyond the camera and a phone.

The life that you live goes way beyond Facebook, Instagram, TikTok and YouTube.

The life that you live goes far beyond the watchful eyes of the passers-by.

What role are you playing in the show called life?

– Erika Heslop Martin

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How many more

for Kelsey Ferrigon

CALL:

How many more?

How many more?

Before we scream

Enough

How many more?

Nine

Ten.

Eleven.

One hundred.

One thousand.

Girls.

Raped.

Killed.

Gone.

How many more

is enough

Before we stop

burying babies.

Before we stop

writing names on signs.

How many more?

Thursdays in Black.

We stand.

We pray.

We cry.

But—

Is it enough?

Is it ever enough?

How many more

names will we add

to the list?

How many more

times will we protest

for nine days—

then forget?

How many more girls?

I want to hear you.

How many more?

How many more rapes?

How many more?

How many more deaths?

How many more?

I’m ask each of you

all of you us

How many more is enough?

Until what?

Until when?

Until who?

What does it say—

about us?

about our country

about the way

we’ve taught ourselves

to tolerate pain

that isn’t ours

until it is.

we disregard our children

we know they are preys

and we do not protect them

precious little girls

How many more?

How Many more?

Why do we wait until they’re dead?

Why?

Why do we wait until they’re raped?

Why?

Is it enough

to wear black?

To light a candle?

To post a prayer?

To shed a tear?

How many more?

How many more?

Daughters.

Sisters.

Cousins.

Goddaughters.

Names.

Stories.

Silences.

Graves.

We stand like our hands

are tied behind our backs

but they’re not.

We suspect

and stay silent.

We blame

and turn away.

We know

and say nothing.

How many more?

Kelsey is dead

she was only a child

her death is wrong

It is wrong every day.

Wrong when we look away.

Wrong when we blame her.

Wrong when we protect him.

We are all in this.

All of us.

And I’m telling you—

I don’t know

how many more

I can take.

How many more?

How many more?

How many more?

I want you to tell me

How many more?

How many more?

How many more are you prepared

to die?

How many more are you prepared

to be raped?

How many more? (whisper, then rise):

How many more?

I want to know

– Opal Palmer Adisa

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