Dignity

image

He was drunk on the wheelchair,

oily, black skin,
black, greasy hair,
greasy, black overalls,

Dead drunk on the side of the road,
Wheelchair crooked up against the curb,

head hanging off the back,
eyes wide-open and rolled right up,

cars swerving passed carelessly,

Was drunk,
like any other drunk on the side of the road and

Picture: The Unknown Soldier Project, David Jay

-evocative short poetry-

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.asplinux hosting

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.

They want to know,
why in Nanking he,
Bothered to keep the farms going when,

The railroads were fixed and,
Nazi coming in,
What massacre?

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

The courtyard 7E81341DFA8767C7355C7125D163E3EE

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

7E81341DFA8767C7355C7125D163E3EE

evocative short poetry – words move

A little poetry on Water and War

I often think about Gaza and War. I took a walk through the slums the other day, and looked around. There will always be richer and poorer. This is how things are.

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.

 

And then there are those we send to war. Every country has them. They come back with eyes of glass, and we look away.

 

NOTHING BREAKS FOREVER – PART FOUR

 

The oil drum was,

In the middle of the road,

And stained red like rust,

From the blood of,

The marine who,

Had just arrived,

And was crouching,

Behind it,

Holding his gun.

 

He had been on his way,

Across the courtyard,

And  been shot at,

And wounded.

The courtyard was,

Flat,

And baked by the sun,

And cracked in giant yellow pieces,

And was alive with the spit,

Of hard, angry, bullets.

 

Clouds of black smoke from,

The burning fuel of,

Downed helicopters,

Drifted in,

In big patches,

 

Were disturbed by,

Eddies,

And currents,

 

And became,

Small tornados,

That sucked the dogs tags,

Off dead men’s chests.

 

 

NOTHING BREAKS FOREVER – PART THREE

You do not win a war,

And laugh,

The Sergeant told me,

Through clear blue eyes.

 

 

He had,

His rough hand,

In mine,

And I was crying.

 

I could smell the dust,

Coming off his boots,

And taste the,

Fuel in his mouth.

 

No one asks to be a hero,

Though sometimes it works out that way,

You fight for the man standing next to you.

 

When we bring them home, do we embrace them? Do we say, we understand?

 

NOTHING BREAKS FOREVER – PART FIVE

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 been,

Too readily accepted,

Strung her up,

High,

On an olive tree,

To teach her friends,

That sugar must not,

Be imported?

 

Or the rushing gasp,

Of a lover,

As he releases his seed,

And then his dying wish,

Into your cold, clammy hand?

 

Perhaps the divorce that arrives a few weeks after your return,

After that thing at the park,

You under a car,

At the crack of a base-ball bat,

Or,

Not being combat ready,

Not standing knee deep in,

Motor oil,

Shoving against the,

Armoured troop carrier,

That’s refused to go any further,

Is that Post-traumatic?

 

What is a post,

On a blog,

On living past

Trauma?

 

Where do I go,

If all I got is,

The car wouldn’t start this morning,

And my bank accounts’ run dry?

 

I will wait for the post to change,

As it invariably does,

Post war,

Post eleven p.m.

When I will meet,

zdapslim33,

On the internet,

-my best friend-

And discuss his problematic tooth.

 

 

In the end, it seems, only our mothers can make it alright.

 

give me

goodseed

and i’ll plant it by the roadside.

give me water and

i will tend it,

goodseed,

grow it

give me

laughter

and i will turn it,

and live it with goodheart,

 

and love it in

goodlight,

 

like softlight

on bone.