The man stands reaching out
to his broken country. . .
the waves toss the boats
like sodden flakes upon the bloodied tides
and the villas are rotten
around the edges,
blurring their outlines
under the violent sun. . .
the man stretches his arm
toward his anguished country. . .
a handful of hope
falls to the rubbled floor
and the lonely trees
bend down to
an empty pool
while barren clouds mound high over his
empty stare . . .
the man reaching out
to his bleeding country. . .
and in his grasping hand
a burned out star,
around his burdened neck
an iron sword. . . rank with the odor of copper
and the blackened holes
in the empty homes
go deep. . .
while all the boats float away
like horses in a sandy desert
passing by and never returning
The man reaches out
and beneath his touch
the crumbled dust.
##
I may choose to work on this poem a bit more - since I just wrote it - but I am terribly moved by such a country - especially since the school I teach in has a large number of refugees from that area. I am so sorry our world is such a harsh place. . .and the terrors and horrors that happen are more often than not of our own devising.
In the meantime - here is my Christmas playlist from Jamendo - enjoy!
I wrote this poem today as I looked at my Mac's desktop picture. I tend to get a little melancholic during this time of year. I miss my people, the ones gone to the other side, having a good time in that great place. I just get lonely I guess - but don't we all?
The old tracks are still dynamic
although
slivered and unused
but still pointing the way to go. . .
somewhere
beyond the vision of even the wisest eyes -
and the black tree limbs
punctuate the leaden sky
layered like a blanket
over the drowsy river.
Tucked between the rails
is a scarlet scarf
long forgotten by a passing waif,
and a blistered breeze
tucks the ends out of sight
while the sparrow lays down her head to cry.
although
slivered and unused
but still pointing the way to go. . .
somewhere
beyond the vision of even the wisest eyes -
and the black tree limbs
punctuate the leaden sky
layered like a blanket
over the drowsy river.
Tucked between the rails
is a scarlet scarf
long forgotten by a passing waif,
and a blistered breeze
tucks the ends out of sight
while the sparrow lays down her head to cry.
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