after a lifetime working within the justice system, I got a good look from the "poor" side when I was charged with impaired driving for flagrantly smoking a spliff when pulled over by the OPP. I wrote this poem about the disrespect ordinary people receive from the court system
JUSTICE ISN'T COMING
Oyez, Oyez the Clerk still yells
and thus begins the bogus spell
that's cast upon the common folk
who come to feel the system's yoke.
"Where's the Justice?", people cry.
Clerk gives them the evil eye.
The answer should be pretty clear.
Justice isn't coming here.
We started with some simple rules,
clear enough for any fool
but once the lawyers had debated
things were much more complicated.
We built the system, but at what cost?
Somehow common sense got lost.
We put a man upon the moon,
but justice isn't coming soon.
We say that justice should be blind,
but colour matters every time.
We say that justice should be free,
but rich folks know that cannot be.
We say it shouldn't be delayed,
but make a deal or sit and wait.
Hear the silence? That's the sound
of justice that ain't coming down.
Start with police with too much power.
Not much sweet but lots of sour.
A pinch of Latin for effect
and add a dash of disrespect.
Anyone can plainly see
that's one disastrous recipe.
Thin soup in a leaky cup.
Justice isn't coming up.
Judges sitting way up high
to look down on the common guy.
Lawyers with their doublespeak,
they might as well be talking Greek.
Let us try to shift the focus
off of all this hocus-pocus.
There's more to this than meets the eye
but justice isn't coming by.
Wheels of justice, grinding slow.
Justice is an ass, you know?
Lots of hype to hide the facts.
It's justice that the system lacks.
That's why we must truly fight,
stand up for our legal rights.
For if we fight and don't forget,
justice might be coming yet.
Rick Reimer, November, 2003.
I was so incensed by the treatment of "unawful combatants" that the only way I could deal with it was via humour. Hence this poem and the song Welcome to Guantanamo Bay. If you haven't seen the photo mentioned in the song and poem (depicting Afghani prisoners in transit to Guantanamo Bay) check the PHOTO ARCHIVE soon.
NOW DEPARTING FOR CUBA
Kidnapped in my own land' cause I dared to hold a gun
And didn't run in fear of G.I. Joe's much bigger one,
Christened with a new name that the world had never heard
Leave it to the Yankees to invent the perfect words!
"Unlawful combatant". Uncle Sam says that's my name
Well, I may have no human rights, but I am not ashamed.
Now, G.I. Joe is too afraid to chain me near my kin
So open up the bomb bay doors and put the Afghans in.
Stripped and searched and shackled by the coldest hands I've known
You might have seen my picture, and been chilled right to the bone.
Lots of papers showed me in the news about the war
Me and my unlawful friends, strapped down to the floor.
I'm the guy in sackcloth, second from the left.
Cargo straps, they twist my knees and coil around my chest
Arms chained tight behind my back, bag upon my head
Sometimes it's so hard to breathe, I'm wishing I were dead.
Cold, hard steel to sit upon, ankles wrapped in chains
Leaving now for points unknown, the men who have no names.
Glory's hanging o'er my head, one rusty, bloody sword
G.I. Joe says: "Peace on earth!", for which read: "All aboard!"
I hear some Yankee puppet who explains the way I'm bound
He says I'd chew hydraulic lines to bring the airplane down.
If only he had known that this would be so long a trip
He could've saved us both some grief and put me on a ship.
But Uncle Sam is not contrite, he feels he broke no stricture
He wants to prosecute the G.I. Joe who took the picture
There's one G.I. who hides his face and shows a little shame
Not Uncle Sam, he hides the truth and never takes the blame.
So here I am in Cuba, and I'm soaking up the rays
But that's another story that I'll tell another day
And when the conflict's over and I'm finally going home
I'll ask them for a window seat, and leave the belt alone.
GEE!?!? 20 PIECES OF GOLD!?!?
This poem was written in November. 2001. Remember? All that "beefed-up" security in a POST-911 WORLD? When the G-20 world plunderers met in Ottawa, the police responded by summarily arresting anyone they thought might give them trouble later on. Almost 50 people arrested (including yours truly) and held until early the next morning. Not a single charge laid! Our tax dollars at work creating the illusion of SECURITY. This poem recounts my time in custody. For more information, go to ACCOUNTS OF RICK'S ARRESTS and look for the letter to Ottawa Police Chief Vince Bevan dated November 21, 2001.
GEE!?!? 20 PIECES OF GOLD!?!?
I'm going to tell a real-life story,
I hope you all will bear with me
It's long and sad but never gory,
except the part about the cheese.
It started not so long ago
A cool but bright november morn
who'd have guessed, who'd ever know
democracy was so forlorn
Once in this great land of ours
you had the right to disagree.
Jean Chretien respects your rights
Yeah sure, and pigs are climbing trees.
The wilno hills and morning's glory
fell behind us as we sped
To Ottawa or purgatory?
No-one knew what lay ahead.
20 Guys had got together
Crossed our country's palm with gold
Currency from every nation
If it's bought, it can be sold.
Those who came to speak against
the global plan to rob the poor
were told their right to speak their mind
had ended at the polling door
The keystone cops were armed and ready
snarling dogs and kevlar vests
Nasty looks upon their faces
"We're the good guys, you're the rest."
Black on black, without a break
weapons made to wound and shame
all the latest innovations
and all of it in "safety's" name!
Safety! There's the irony!
Who got safer in the deal?
Some wealthy thug from Indonesia
Who's never had to skip a meal.
Unlike your daughters and your nephews
sitting hungry in a cell
Pleading for a call to mummy
Having the effrontery to yell!?
While all the kevlar boys and girls
they strutted round in jack-boot style
they took the children's shoes away
and stole their faith with lying smiles
"We're the good guys, don't you know?
This is Canada, after all"
They used the bars that you paid for
to make some children feel more small
Now please don't get the wrong impression
It wasn't only harmless youth
who got cold-cocked by your police
they picked upon some adults too.
The cheesiness of all the cops
paid handsomely by "you know who?"
would make a conscious person curdle
it could make the Danish blue!
At least the processed cheese food slab
that came between the white bread walls
was strong enough to plug the drain
so I could flood those shameful stalls
And now the chief of police speaks out
to tell us just how proud he is
Police are lying to the people
Always was, and always is
I don't ask for your belief
Check it out, there's lots of talk
But why's it only the police
who seem to think they walked the walk?
Our walk, it should have stayed so calm
that's all it ever meant to be
the only ones who made it churn
were those we pay to keep the peace.
I never got to see the walk.
I missed the joyful dance as well
the shooting stars that fell that night
I couldn't see from in my cell
My view was only one blank wall
But Jean Chretien helped me to see
We fight this now, or hold our counsel
Let our hearts and minds be free!