D-Day 2000 
(For Tracie B.) 

                       Who'll protect the little ones? 
                                Tell me; who must pay? 
                       For the loss of innocence 
                                Groping hands steal away? 
                       And who will stop the trembling, 
                                The nightmares throughout the days? 
                       Who will mend the broken hearts 
                                And dry the sea of tears? 
                       Those golden days of childhood 
                                Trampled in the dirt.... 
                       Who'll protect the little ones? 
                                And who will stop the hurt? 
                                 Hark! The dismal dirge that sings- 
                                 Of angels dragging broken wings. 

                       Who'll speak for the voiceless ones? 
                               Who will stem the fear? 
                       Of the nameless faceless shattered ones, 
                               Come, won't you shed a tear? 
                       Cry with me for the sweet young wife 
                               Broken now, on her knees, 
                       Shed a tear for the sad-eyed junkie 
                               Embracing her disease. 
                       For the decimated masochist.... 
                               Shielded by her pain. 
                       For the scrawny shivering ten-year-old 
                               Turning tricks in the rain, 
                       For the middle-aged mother: 
                               Cowering in fear... 
                       For all the beaten, broken ones - 
                               Come, won't you shed a tear? 

                                 Hark! The rumbling voice that sings- 
                                 Of angels dragging broken wings. 

                       See the blue eyed teenage beauty queen - 
                               Her soul once so bright, so alive! 
                       On her back now, legs spread wide, 
                               Doing what she must to survive. 
                       Watch the gentle brown skinned women 
                               - Poverty their only sin! - 
                       They found another discarded one 
                               In some back-alley garbage bin. 
                       The once eager young secretary - 
                               Now bereft of will or hope, 
                       Glassy-eyed behind her frozen smile 
                               Submitting to yet one more grope. 
                       The hapless homeless shell-shocked crone 
                               Beaten down so long ago... 
                       By another one - and another one - 
                               Who couldn't understand a simple "No". 

                                 Hark! The hellish choir that sings 
                                 Of angels dragging broken wings. 

                       Testify to the clenched fist, 
                               And words that cut like a knife! 
                       Who'll forsake those who gave us life 
                               - Use the child and kill the wife? 
                       Oh come with me and give your voice 
                               To heal the hurt and stop the pain! 
                       Free the souls so tightly bound 
                               And bring the sun back yet again. 
                       Wipe the tears from blackened eyes, 
                               Save the ones teetering on the edge, 
                       Kiss the blood from swollen lips; 
                               And make now this most solemn pledge: 

                                 From this day the voices must sing 
                                 Of angels soaring on mended wings!

Commentary D-Day has always been one of my favourites, and strangely it grows more topical every day. 
Originally I called it D-Day 1994 (94 was when I wrote it) but in light of recent events I revised that to D-Day 2000. 

Brief history: Right now in Vancouver the tally of missing (feared murdered) "sex-trade-workers" is around 40. Everyone agrees there probably is some sick sonofabitch serial murderer but the police have no clue, these women just seem to have vanished without a trace. This is in addition to the occasional murdered hooker they DO find dead every year, including one body in a dumpster awhile back, which actually helped trigger the poem. Most of the missing women are Native Indians, most are junkies, most from the Downtown East Side (the "bad" area of the city), this has been going on for years and years and up to recently no one (except friends and relatives) seemed too concerned. 

About a month ago this all blew up when Vancouver had a rash of garage-robberies and home-invasions in the "rich" areas of the city and the police not only scrambled into immediate and major action and established task forces but posted a $100,000 (or thereabouts) reward for information leading to capture, which was when numerous people (including the media and the Mayor of the city) stared howling about how shameful it was that not only was there no task force looking into the missing women but there was no reward offered either; it was as if being Natives and hookers and junkies their lives didn't matter as much as some rich bitch out in Richmond having her purse ripped off. So now the police have established a task force and there is a reward... we'll see what happens.

(C) Copyright 1999
All Rights Reserved

The Nexus Collection:




D-Day 2000

Dead Boys and Frozen Girls

Kurtly Speaking 
Lady Jezebel
Lizard Dreams

My Lady's Eyes 

The Call
Death of a City
The Kindred

Through a Crystal, Darkly