Tag Archives: war

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Could you love Frankenstein?

short poetry, words move, pets, war, death

 

Back when valuables were,
Sealed,

In polythene bags and,
Kept at bottoms of freezers,

So that after burglars had upended the,
Drawers downstairs,

-thieves whose parents you know from down the street,
boys much nicer when they were,
young enough to enjoy,
their birthday parties with,
parents in dracula costume,
too expensive for household budgets,
but bought anyway-

You only lost what you could afford.

Alsatians die too early.

Actually,
Pets die too early.

Tea-cup terriers,
Handbag sized pals,

Great Danes that look like,
Cows,

And are good fun provided you have the acreage,

Friends all,

Chosen by sloppy licks when puppies or,
Fully grown from the Blue Cross Rescue down the road,

Pets die too early.

And would you zap your lover if you could?
Is Frankenstein a horror film?

 

picture – Corbis Images, Juan Medina for Reuters

evocative short poetry – words move

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The courtyard

short poery, war, death, dog togs, young soldiers, experience

The courtyard is alive with the spit of angry bullets,
And baked hard by the scorching sun.

Clouds of smoke drift in,
In patches,

And are,
Collected by moans,

That become tiny whirlwinds,
That suck on the dog tags on dead men’s chests.

See - Why we fight, Soldier
♦photo – 67pics.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

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Nothing breaks forever pt.V

What is a,
Post-traumatic episode?

The burst of a machine gun?
The bullet-ping off body-armour?

The dear girl sucking on the,
Lollipop that killed her,
When her family,
Believing it was offered by an American Soldier and,
Too readily accepted,
Strung her up high on an olive tree,
To teach her friends that sugar must not be imported?

Perhaps the divorce,
A few weeks after your return,

That thing at the park,

You under a car,
At the crack of a base-ball bat,

Is that Post-traumatic?

What is a post,
On a blog,
On living past trauma,
When all you got is,
My car wouldn’t start this morning,
And my bank account’s run dry?

I will wait for the post to change,
As it invariably does,
Post war, post eleven p.m.
When I will meet zdapslim on the internet,
-my best friend-
And discuss his problematic tooth.

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦photo – Carlos Barria for REUTERS at TotallyCoolPix.com♦

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When water tasted as good as my Palestinian friend said it would.

 

 

They removed the thermostats,
And made us pay for every cup of water we used.

I was standing in the rain when it happened,
With a white friend and a,
Servant.

We did the mud,

Rivulets of grime,
Marveled at the homemade architecture,
And heaved
Big
Sighs.

I asked him why there were,
Water tanks with signs that read,

‘Twenty shillings a litre.’

He said,
‘They sell water here too.’

Scottish men protect,
Single malt whiskey,
Welsh women,
The language they speak,

My Palestinian friend once told me,
Water,
Israelis keep.

 

-visit my postaday2011 blog-

♦photos – National Geographic & Carlos Barria, REUTERS  for Totally Cool Pix at Yeehee.com♦linux hosting

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John Rabe

John Rabe,
Crys alone,
At the dining room table.

His back is hunched but,
He wears his jacket with pride.

Before him,

In the brown paper bag,
On the dining room table,

Is a package from China,

Containing,
One rice-cake,
Some dried fruit, and
A letter from sixty-thousand people,
Asking him to return.

His back is hunched and he is crying because,
His nation doesn’t love him,
Anymore.

His Nation wants to know,
why in Nanking he,
Bothered to keep the farms going when,

The railroads were fixed and,
Potatos were coming in.

Light from the window,
Lifts dust from the surface and,

John Rabe,
Cries alone.

When he died,
Died hungry,
The Chinese came and took him away,

They took him to Nanking and,
Laid him to rest,

Swastika, jacket and all.

‘…a living buddha in China, an outcast in Germany…’ he wrote in his diary

-visit two beautiful German poems by Han-Magnus Enzensberger-


♦photos – 123rf.com and  John Rabe at Widipedia♦

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Soldier

 

short poetry, military, returning, coffin, flag, war, soldier, calibre, bullets

 

Bullets are measured by caliber.
The smaller ones kill by breaking an artery.

The magnum is fired,
Flat,
On its side or,
Pumped in both hands,
Gangster like.

Diameters count.

Point fifty.
These take entire body parts with them.
Legs and hearts and so forth.

The will to survive on the airstrip,
Is tempered only by,
The need to see the flag,

Come home when you can and,
Let me nurse your pain.


♦photo – Reuters/USAF♦

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Radio Wars

The strident tones came through the radio,
And announced themselves
Israeli!

Others took defensive positions.

The mediator,
On BBC, changed
His shirt
And asked another question.

They had set up camp around a wall that was
Either
Only half way done,

Or,

‘What are you gonna do about it!’
Fully scaled up.

It didn’t occur to me to turn the dial.
I thought about my passport instead.

♦photos – 123rf.com & Talal Abu Rahma for France2 – controversy details at honestreporting.com/a/alDura.asp♦linux hosting