Arab Spring

 

It’s a revolt.
A revolution.

And in the name of God, they are building
Schools,

And delivering doctors,
Door to door.

They are conveying the message that,
People care,

And no one is forgotten.

Assistance is distributed fairly but cameras,
In some areas,

Are not welcome.

Someone hoists a burning American Flag that,
Must be made from something other than cloth,

Because it melts,
And the smoke is acrid,

And the sputtering fireballs,
Showering the crowd below,

Will scar beyond repair.

The woman who does not want to talk about it,
Has been warned.

Allah,
She has been told,

Is everything,
And so, she must shut up.

And Tunisia, and Egypt, and Syria, and Libya,
Will have to keep hoping,

That Allah,
Is not a man in uniform,

Revolting.

 

♦picture – Radu Sighet for REUTERS♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Miss Understanding

 

Jesus was always in a hijab.

Love is not a thing that we can take lightly,
Just because it’s in all the books.

The hijab is not covering the fact that he is either,
Male or Female.

Love is fresh and free, even as we discover,
That perhaps, love is the one thing,

We will never understand as universal biological entities.

There is no reason to stress the Hijab.
None to insist that the wearer is accompanied by a man.

Jezebel?

No, sorry, those are the Other Book.

Be kind to each other,
Otherwise the Alien will eat you.

♦Image by © Uli Wiesmeier/Corbis♦

short evocative poetry – words move

keep me out of this one

 

you would
dismantle life this way
and bear no burden?

the lone yellow pebble
bore witness to the
abduction that took place at midnight

the man was gagged
and bound
and led away as women wept

keep me out of this one

a bear needs
twenty seven square miles
of forest
to live

keep me out of this one

the woman cut the balls off
the man who raped her

keep me out of this one

 

♦photo – AFP/GETTY images, CNN -’putting the jab in hijab’♦

words move – evocative short poetry

wowowww

Sunday

 

They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,

So I am pulling out all the stops.

I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
-exorcising demons-

I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,

-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-

I have found sack cloth and ash and,
I intend to,

Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.

There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-

I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,
Kneel!

But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage only to elicit,

Splendid chuckles from my nephew.

♦photo - Irving Penn @ Wikipedia♦

evocative short poetry – words move

 

 

How to save the world

 

He was at my gate this morning,
Sad puppy dog eyes,
Big as the moon.

Someone had left him there,
Can you imagine that?

I’d just come in from meditation with,
A guru who says,
That the Supreme Soul is called Baba,
That we are planting sweet, suckling trees and that
We all need be sweet,
Sweet souls, so we can harvest,
Corn.

There are three of us,
The Guru, an Old lady and myself,

It’s a dark 4am morning,
The world is quiet,
My toes are numb,
And there is more.

We are to,
Tie our thread to the farmer,
Marry the bride,
To the groom,
Arrange a wedding for five billion people because
We are approaching the end.

He says that,
When half the world is awake,
The other half is asleep,
-so we are doing well-
That at 4am we’re fully beta wave,
Very, very, deep,

-that we change the world with these beta-waves so we,
Must Make Effort!

Outside,
A boy is playing Playstation,
And the battle between Good and Evil
Is marked by several pings.

Kurukshetra, ping,
Lakshmi, ping,
Buddha, Mohammed, ping, ping,

We are labouring hard we three,
The Guru, the lady and I,
Sweating and groaning and trying to float,

But people are cruel.

Someone had left him there,
Whimpering and cold and,
Barely, just barely,
One year old,

Puppy dog eyes,
Sad as the moon,

Can you imagine that?

♦photo – funnybeez.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Sunday

They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,

So I am pulling out all the stops.

I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
-exorcising demons-

I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,

-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-

I have found sack cloth and ash and,
I intend to,

Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.

There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-

I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,
Kneel!

But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage only to elicit,

Splendid chuckles from my nephew.

♦photo – 123rf.com♦

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evocative short poetry – words move