Great Women of Historical System Resistance and Prolific Persistance

by Marlon Crump

Few can compare, few can bear, many can stare or glare. Only some can farewell, with welfare, a stairwell ringing a cathedral bell, a jail cell depicted as hell, monumental moms that foretell a wishing well of wonders, where dreams fell, bodies pale, or spirits that bail by those that fell:

A colony and collage, not a mirage of females with no tall tales, that can march a street with no signs of defeat to accomplish a feat of system resistance and pounding persistance. These are the outcries of irritable sighs, with only the relief of shrunken dollars in the mail:

"From the Blue that slew..."

That great woman, Elvira Pollard who's son so unjustifiably cut down from his life, before he fully grew after graduating school, by the blue who knew he could've never slew, was executed like a wild in the zoo. She cried as they tied and lied, and a spirit from her son's soul encompassed, then comforted and told her "I may be felled by the pistol but my spirit will be your missile:

A mighty mom, hands down, with a powerful sound should she frown upon trespass on her ground, the magnetic pound from her heart is the symphony of solidarity and not just sympathy for dignity but peace and prosperity, make and shake the guilty sizzle. The pupils of her eyes conclude her soul more pure that crystal:

"From the Blue that slew..."

That great woman, Marylon Boyd a woman of professionable powers of profound motion to laundromat the legions of lawless conducts, until the blue once again knew, her son never slew, taking him away without a clue of what to do. An everlasting candle was lit. The soul of her son inducted for her to be conducted and reluctant, with of the law being the vast vengeance:

A technical error of underhanded tactics, shall not lead this great woman to madness, despite her sadness. The eyes, ears, and energetic entity of humilty to proceed, is a strive indeed. You blues are equipped with artillery, but she fires and will call the shots. You blues's lawyers of lies and leisures, fuels her fury around your blemishes, only she's the astringent and instrument of your sentence:

"From the Blue that slew..."

That great woman, Wendi Lefti hardworking of strenous strive from the system, a mother of raising her young, an even more strenous task. Then one day she furiously had to ask, why a demonic dimension sent a pair from the steps of utter despair to tear away from her stairway of the heaven that was her husband; one deep, dark, and dreary day?:

A man, a father, a husband, and a local legend barricaded then erradicated by forces from overzealousness of jealousness. The falsehoods of pestilence was the typical reply, making many of us cry. "Why must you all lie? Is this everyday, inducting us into the fray, into this "American Way?"

"From the Blue that slew..."

That great woman, Kathleen Espinosa an angelic mom, who's offspring peacefully sat in his own inhabitable peace of mind, rebuilding his very life in kind, astonishly and monstrously taken out of the blue, by the blue. Nothing faced the blue that was dramatic, yet fired upon him ultimately tragic, but the magic from her fallen son's soul will be the static, that will fuel her energy to make the Satanic squad panic:

A dimensional line was breached from her life, a cognizable deficit sliced into her head, as she mourns daily of her son pronounced dead. However, his spirit announces to her and his loved ones, everyday as she goes to bed, by taking her into his arms, then so soundly said "I may have bled when I fled because I dread their hot lead, but on the Day of Judgement, they will be held accountable in God's Attic":

"From the Blue that slew..."

That great woman,Mirna Ayall a prominent, dominant female figure, immediately inducted by the Blue that so savegely slew her precious seed, as he inhabitated himself in the musical instruments through his ears, tragically ended with her tears. Unlawful restraint upon her son, that coldly ended as he merely tried to have fun was fried into the sun, by the rays of light of the Blue that had no right to unlawfully flex their meaningless might, who never instigated a fight:

Can anyone hear her plight, as she's no longer able to hold him tight now that he's taken a heavenly flight? An unstable constabulary results in his obituary, but to be proposed in an average dictionary, the definitions, with no distinction of strength, commitment, motivation, humility towards stability. The focus in the justice of her savegely taken son is a fight that will never leave her sight:

"From the Blue that slew..."

That great woman, Mesha Monge-Irrizary an eternal champion, heroine of heroines, robbed of her seed who desperatedly sought need and refuge from the deficits of his mind, ultimately was slewn by the Blue that knew, his life has always been true. While many would spend eternity towards crying out in agony for their baby,or seeking drapery of a maybe, but this isn't no ordinary lady:

Her son is now dead and deceased, she was re-born to increase a lifelong lease towards peace, even to the wielders of her son's decease. A foundation built from her fails in comparison of the height of her sight, beamed down onto her from the spirit of her son's light, that forever enchances her might as she tirelessly fight the civil right, plagued by those who only view the world as white as Lady Liberty:

Not an average Internet Service is networked, unlike this incomperable woman of a rare voice messaging system, towards any victim of a kingdom that abhors freedom and equality. The quanitiy spoken from her ultra-sound vocals speaks vast volumes, channeling indestructible positive and electrical energy, opposed to a country allegedly of "Tis of Thee:"

"Of a Land that Knew..."

That great woman, Ingrid De Leon began a prolific struggle from slaverable elements and components, in spite of her deepest darkest moments, from desert plains, crying in vain, from predators viewing her as prey to claim. From sunrise to sunset, she refused to be a stage set by a slavemaster's select towards humilty defect. Only food for her dine, was an impenetrable will and the Promised Land, focused by her mind:

The iron-like limbs of her legs never failed her joints, even as she fell spiritually depleted and defeated, thus born was her powerfully persisted points. A voice slowly, then loudly instructed the continuance of her journey, a voice from the Heavenly Father above, extending his Hand of Love. "Get up, Get up, and go!" True inspiration of a woman, a mom, a fighter and a survivor that defeated roadblocks physically, then mentally by crossing a borderline:

"Of a Land that Knew..."

That great woman, Vivian Hain and her daughter, Jasmine Hain a generation of indomitable struggle, multiplying their very lives by four as they soar against time from the crime by society that proposed economical anxiety, imposing deprivatory of perilous political territory. The vast power of a mom and daughter's struggle thoroughly unmatched, as they are admirably attached inspite of systematic attacks:

Near light years later, they re-emerged into breaking down the walls of poverty perceptions that often invites political deceptions to discourage human affections, as this mother and daughter team crossed countlessly callous intersections.

While the arrogance of ugly aroma stenched from the "high class" hiding behind city governmental facilities, so blinded by the lustful leisures of their deceptivably humble abode; none of them ever came within striking distance of experiencing the blocks of this mom and daughter, as they traveled a ruthless road, that few could lo and behold nearly crawling on their backs:

"Of a Land that Knew..."

That great woman, JewnBug an atomical voice to date that combats an oppressionable era of terror that intends to eradicate those that create. Born of a kinetical energy of spiritual light to inspire the height of a kite that knows no hand, but her own that only blows in her direction that seeks affections, in producing every single mom's protections. A voice in every categorical aspect of a struggling mom's predicament, overcoming all odds is her sentiment as evil constantly claims of no limit:

Two jewels from her eyes can equal a stream of a two, as she wearily wanders daily battling darkened souls deemed unsavory, that dare to glare and sneer, not cheer this courageous lady. A sparkling and rising star that forever stays in orbit, a cosmic energy with a field of asteroids that sustains all her voids of love, in the gleaming radiant rays of her own son, who shall someday beams down on all mothers globally that strive in their drive to be loved, not just intimate:

"Of a Land that Knew..."

That great woman, Mama Dee a wanderer of limitless dimensions of poverty, a mother of a jewel that gleams in the eyes of her very seed,(Tiny "A.K.A" Lisa Gray Garcia), thus cometh a rarest team of an uncommon breed. A lifetime of oppression too great, where few could relate. A savage society that imposed it's guides with lines to re-create and characteristically cremate:

It's attempts proved useless and pathetic, as this great women proceeded to take the initiative and re-create a universe that still longlasts a decade of dynamic arts and crafts. An empire to one day global the poverty immobile, to transform the lost into a noticeable noble. Gone this year, leaving many with a tear, but the symbolic structure of her adventures of poverty cultures the right from system vultures that eternally, artificially inseminate then eliminate:

As heiress to the throne, that great woman Tiny ( Lisa Gray-Garcia) is daily re-born to be that triumphant horn to be sounded in a direction, for many of her ever-growing pupils of poverty that exemplifies soulful solidairity for all eternity. Though deceptions and misconceptions prowl around her true voice of journalism, her phenomenal and astronomical wisdom, acts of heroism gives sight to the blind:

The word "Poor" may shut many doors, for being labled as rotten to the core, but this great woman gave capitalization of "POOR" into the realization surrounding the criminalization and incarceration of it society's major transubstantive errors, amidst this so-called "War on Terror" era. Inspite of uncoming poverty plagues, the dawning of a new age that "POOR" has set a stage with no actors or actresses, emerging from no houses, with just mattresses.

No color lines drawn, no system resistance gone, no interest of a manicuric lawn, because grassroots still continue to grow whether from dusk or dawn. Just a pen, an eye, a voice, a knowledge, being of sound and body, from this great woman's open mind:

"Where the women that still grew"

In the coming of age, the great women still empower their might of their constant fight to battle wolves in suits that continue to bite. A Princess L. that conqured violent hands in her past. A Dharma that relentlessly struggles to succeed a difficult task. A Janie Mae Dickens whose eyes are always widened to the dream owls of poverty struggle, never revealing a wicked mask. A Laurie that refuses submission as a single mom amidst poverty as being viewed upon as a systematic, statistical rash. A Rania , an Amanda , an Anna, Joanna , or a Jackie that work tirelessly around POOR, taking on any turbulent task:

A great woman, Bessie Burger, a beauty of ancient historical resistance of astonishing longevity with the never-ending will to defy "Care Not Cash."

That great woman, my very own mother, Victoria Crump has wrestled demons and shadows, before I her oldest seed (your's truly, Marlon Crump) knew the agony and trauma of hitting the mat. In a lifelong struggle from humble habitats, plagued with poverty and rats, she strived to drive the dimensions of near-extinctions of our very lives, from a monstrous burglar, a system plagued poverty emerger, or trauma encourager, in the form of dressed-up smiles:

The flow of her energy into my very own well-being to be a lifeforce battling a callous society of no remorse, increase my stubborn will to yield to their obstacle course. I lost another great woman, her mother, my grandmother (Elizabeth Crump) due to medical neglect where I still feel the effect. Gone, is my ownself physically to be upon them, but my spirit, my voice, my heart, my very own life speak mass volumes of characteristic quantities of life. Our love, vice versa, can overflow even the River of the Nile.

"Man can flaunt and boast their masculinity, as woman struggle with their stability and self-sufficiency. Man can be aggressive, as woman are daily progressive. Man can shame, defame, and maim, while woman hold their head high from failure to blame, regardless who knows their name, or chases them like hunting game."

Marlon Crump, 12/19/2006.