And the land had rest from war

 

My Gardener is enthusiastic.

He kills all the weeds in my garden,
Sweating conviction,

In purple droplets,
Muscles wet,

In the midday sun, he
Slaughters them,

My perfect weeds I spent so long cultivating,

Black,

And whites ones,
Jewish and Muslim,

Mayhem.

Now the name of Hebron formerly was Kiriath-arba.
(Arba  was the greatest man among the Anakim.)
And the land had rest from war, 

But-

My gardener has turned into a terrorist, and
My weeds are no longer safe.

-Joshua 14:15-

Photo – Gay Israel on Pininterest

-short evocative poetry-


Said the Joker to the Thief

 

Don’t make fun of the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is self – discipline, a

Nip here, a
Snip there, and

With fullness of time, and
Passage through life,

Done with the flash of a scissor,

Bone handles,
Glinting,

Scissor flash snip, all gone
Extra weight, things un-needed, flash

Unheeded,
If you stop,

To think about,
It,

You frighten yourself cold,
Frosty, frigid, cold lock-down, too afraid

To make a wrong move, stop –

Don’t laugh at the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is worth learning;

Moving through life with less.

Photo – Ikebana – Wikipedia

-short evocative poetry-

Home – Race in India

The idea of home is so complicated to me; home isn’t here
people look at me like I am from somewhere else.
Where is home?

Writing became an expression of my discomfort
a language
an arrangement of unbroken rage
writing poetry to question
why?
Poetry to reclaim my identity and to be
home
again.

My body is yellow, white, brown and black
Is it my skin that betrays or is it my face?
I am still looking for an answer!

You tell me
How do I respond without making you angry and uncomfortable?
How do I wear a mask that doesn’t even fit me!

Do you feel my pain?
Why can’t you, my fellow Indians respond for me?
I want all of you to speak for us.

What are words if they aren’t realized?
And realization is a distant dream
A dream to be an Indian
and here I am living despite it all
with a language that comforts me
in a language that sounds familiar.

I write to all the younger version of me, you are
already
home.

Even the colour of my dreams scream
Indian
my blood is Indian
my bones are solid Indian
so, I am writing!
I am protesting as I write
I am protesting about being an outsider in my own land.

But, why am I still looking
for something that will define me?
I can’t find my belonging here.
You will often catch me and many of us
searching for it
In the books and in passports
striding
with resilience.

(Written by Ngurang Reena)

Human

short poetry, words move, human promises

Promise,

Yellow and gold and,
Crimson;

Never make a promise.
You cannot keep them.

Never say I’ll keep a secret, you
Cannot.

You’re human.

Have loving thoughts for yourself,
And for others,

Practice loving deeds for yourself,
And for others,

Lilac spider,
Purple sunrise,

Effervescent stone,

Love wherever,
Whomever,

You can.

-♦Photo – John Foot-♦

-short, evocative poetry-

Tambourine

image

They shot the cheese cake.

High heels,
Eye-liner,

Battle-ship,

Village people,
Purple tortoises

Yelling,

The light of day,
Grey,

The road,
Dim,

Muddy,
Single lane,
Wet,

Pools reflecting torch-light,
Forest in sillouette,

Trees in moonlight,

Going home now,
Finished now,

Homeward bound.

For Betty Valdez-Ogembo

♦♦*photo* – self♦♦

Dreamers

short-poetry-words-move

Frederick Douglass, ca. 1879. George K. Warren. (National Archives Gift Collection)
Exact Date Shot Unknown
NARA FILE #: 200-FL-22
WAR & CONFLICT BOOK #: 113

I do not have dreams that I remember but this is the war;

That I was at Queen Mary’s trying to make up,
For slipping,

-skipping school-

And now the scent is after me, evil
Plastic lips and yellow handbags,

After my own whiteness,

Pure white, like
Extra-pure, like

Black is dirty, or something
And I prayed for others today,

Sold good cabbage,

Hoped it will all be ok in the end, that
It would all be ok.

Photos – Federick Douglass and Ufunk

-short, evocative poetry-

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