Roses were placed by the mother of an architect who died during the September 11 terrorist attacks
Their darkness has no end
and when visions,
blurred by hatred,
cloud our judgement
or ability to heal;
there creeps still a lonely
The souls of all those aching fools
are mulched with the broken bonds of glory
and cacophony of undeliverable
goods: swept up wings
of beautiful angels or sultry virgins waiting
in paradise for suicides blown to kingdom come –
the only kingdom deep in the depths of righteousness
under ashen beads of sweat.
They cry beneath their toil when all have left
them forgotten in dank, gritted dirt,
Graves roll over like fond heather
when purple prayers are laid to rest
along with all signs of peace.
Time and again they pour themselves
into the ground hoping rotten weeds
will allow them breathing room
‘til their passage, but slithering tongues
try to lick them clean while both crawl
on bellies over and through
withered twig fingers still wedded
to propaganda’s grenades and its rusted
rings. Lifeless, hollow, frigid eyes
desperately seek out the light
among a scurry of morbid shadows.
Cold pitiful screams muffled by cold clay
means in the end, there is no glory
or kingdom, vineyards and exquisite drinks
dripped by virgins in a life ever after – all bets
I am happy that the editor, Reuben Woolley, has accepted my fourth poem ‘Raping Women and children will not Bring you Closer to God’ on i am not a silent poet. Thank you, Reuben.
Warm tears on cold cheeks
Sadness stabs the first new day
Let grief be like snow
Day 75 /365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog
And on that green hill far away,
a city cries its loose, parched, grey stone;
it drizzles beside wizened honeysuckle
and yellowing foliage – unkempt and sprawling –
an analogous mass too decimated to be held
or remembered – it is in shock, in brutal denial,
in the middle of it all.
There was once a sight most beautiful,
a sight to please us all.
What was that stuff, that sense, that will
that lead us once to glory? Where is the light
that died in us – or so says an ancient story?
Atavistic shadows seek turmoil and unrest;
we dare not speak the words that once
were given. Smothered from head to toe;
blood cursed eyes are set aglow – victims
inside the garb of spirituality, are hiding in cities
without walls – neither in or out – nothing to see
especially mustard gas and myriad chemical
weapons afloat on unsuspecting air and its people;
there are no alarm bells and it escapes bloody knuckles
when it comes knocking, penetrating ghostly,
invisible arms which have no means to protect
or barricade against evil and war’s hunger.
Screams run freely when children run from the crumbs
that are side streets, but there is nowhere to hide;
shells have no ceilings, inside there are no walls –
dead bodies lie neither in or out – death doesn’t know about
cement, or boundaries, nor does it know about peace
or a suffocating child’s burning eyes, innocence,
a parent praying for death, or politics or religion,
or…whatever it is we are allowing inside of these
non existent walls and… outside of them.
Beats of time reverberate wholeheartedly,
Echoes reply and carry on the game.
Ages pass without compassion and acquiesce,
Suffering the ravages of man and beast.
Beats in time; rhythmically, belligerently,
Death is a drum roll in this excuse me of a dance.
Doubts in our minds torment us constantly,
Voices ill perceived cause havoc to sustain.
Wars do pass but go on relentlessly,
Continual and incessant; the suffering of all beasts.
Beating in time, rhythmically but belligerently,
We all waltz to the same tune in this excuse me of a dance.
Another contribution from me to the Poets for Peace initiative. If you would like to take part you have until end of this month. Your efforts would be most appreciated.
***Future and previous contributors are asked to email firstname.lastname@example.org giving permission along with name/url/location/ if you would like to be included in Praxis magazine. Please pass this message if you can.***
Two World Wars and Counting …
In World War One less than five per cent of the casualties were civilians – with today’s conflicts and wars the figure is nearer 75%.
War baby –
once a bundle of mixed acquaintance,
temporary, hurried, desperate -joy.
Love ceased when war began.
War baby –
is war; a disfigured bundle no one wants to heal;
permanent, scarred, tragic.
Lives ending as many wars begin.
War baby –
his bloodlust flows within blood –
conflicts- hostilities-civil war- religion- politics
all given more oxygen than its victims.
Peace baby –
wants to stitch together old wounds
extremism-radical eyes-terrorism-fear –
gaping sores, rancid hopes, let clean air help them heal.
Peace baby –
tries to broker for change in the dust and rubble
but cherubs still cry beyond wire mesh –
gods and people are tired, and YOU are not worthy.
I recently submitted to the magazine I am not a silent poet, and I am so pleased to be published today. Syria – Face in the Crowd.
Also, I received my copy of Fiction Magazine who published a short story of mine two days ago.