​War Clouds Gathering

the fear is palpable, sweaty, reeking, stagnant, primal.

the spectre of thermonuclear war, the ravenous vultures circling overhead.

all at the switch of a button.

infantile lunatics at the ready, exchanging taunts, rotten school yard bullies,

while the rest of us, the people, forced to hear the terrorising drivel and spewed vitriol of ad libbed threats,

of the hubris of dictators, whose people starve,

engaged in their machismo, their infantile game, their egos puffed and swaggering, their testosterone fuelled male ugliness putting on an obscene, murderous show.

they have rested easy, ensconced in their grotesque wealth, cocooned and coddled, while countless souls sleep hungry and wanting, while numberless souls slog for minimum wage.

these men are unspeakably dangerous, unhinged, seeing this world of ours as their fiefdom, devoid of humanity, brimming with twisted, smug arrogance.

we the people, can not, should not, and must not sit silent, lest we be complicit by being mute.

we the people, can not, should not, and must not allow our indignation to be squashed.

we the people, have for far too long, been battered blue by the actions of such men, always men, who have rained death and destitution and destruction upon millions.

we the people, can not, should not, and will not, sit quietly on the sidelines, as these men attempt to lead us to the precipice, the brink of horrific suffering for our fellow human beings. 

we the people, can not, should not, and will not allow our voices to be hushed, our collective outrage to be beaten down,

for we are now in the deep, murky waters of hate,

and unless we rise as one,

we doom ourselves to choke, gag, and drown.

a child of war

a child of war.

as she lies bleeding,
the girl who skipped, hopped to school,
all of nine and a half years old,
with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her parent’s pride.

as she lies bleeding,
shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,
she stares at her skipping rope,
as her blood soaks it the colour of cherries her mummy buys.

as she lies bleeding,
she sees people all around thick black smoke,
blurred visions of scattering feet, shoes left behind,
hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.

as she lies bleeding,
she slips away and then she is dead,
a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her mother’s pride.

as she lies bleeding,
for even in death she bleeds some more,
shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,
stealing the light from her bright little eyes.

as she lies bleeding …

in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,
leningrad in ‘42,
freetown in ‘98,
soweto in ‘76,
jenin in ‘02,
hanoi in ‘68,
beirut in ‘85,

raqqa now,
basra still,
gaza too.

as she lies bleeding,
a little nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her parent’s pride,
we know she’ll bleed more,

tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,

with shrapnel in her stomach,
ripped open and torn.

as she lies bleeding.

N O T
          I N
                M Y
                       N A M E …

the tears of olives

the tears of olives  …

trickling down shrapnelled flesh

tears fall

like
blood
on
bloodied
cheek

while in the sun

lifeless bodies
lie cold as stone

still
the tears of olives
flow

salty sentinels
of memory:

pain
suffering
occupation
hunger

the tears of olives
perennially streak

etching pathways of dust

between alleyways of desolation

hopelessly bleak

yet still
the slaughter continues

as more dead bodies

rot
reek

Massacre at Houla

She was no more than 10 years of age.
He could have been a grandfather.

Young, old, women, girls, men, boys.

108 lives.

Now they are buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.

Killed by knives,
shot at point-blank range,
slaughtered, mowed-down.

108 lives.

Snuffed-out. Decimated. Taken-out.

108 lives.

As Damascus lies blatantly,
spewing forth untruth,
108 warm, dead bodies,
remain buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.

108 lives