Holly Horn

Stories from Holly Horn

As I sit, anguishing in my broken disguise,

And these men walk amongst me calling me friend,

I know that the peel back of these emaciated barricades

would lead to the utter destruction of my face.


As long as I am here, I:

Will see them break against every aspect of my being.

Will see them berate people like me.

Will know the statistics should I be uncovered.

Will hear the things that, in mixed company, would not be uttered.

Will be called a name that I long burned away;

For Joe Hill and Joan Baez


It was Joe Hill, who never died,
Shot by firing squad for leading strikes.
A man without money, land, or claim
He led us against the Starvation Army brigade.
Songs to the tune of a hymnal prayer
About union scabs and preacher’s long hair.


“I won’t be found dead in Utah, I swear.”

“Don’t mourn, organize!”
They shouted from hilltops
And from factory lines.

The Wobblies wrote ballads
To remember and praise

If you went to Wells Fargo at noon on March ninth

You were mistaken to think you should fear for your life

You see, the protesters there were within their rights

It’s the bankers and shareholders whom you should fight



The 20-foot banner did boldly confide

To any of the masses willing to hear

Let me tell you why it’s the bank that you should fear


On top of finding out that they open false accounts,

And charge poor people ridiculous amounts,