Tag: War

South of Elephant Pass

A Poem that appears in the March Edition of “Write” Magazine…….. —————————————————————————————————— Like throngs of feral horses That gather on the island of Delft, You see little children, gather around a kite, Which hovers over the mango tree, Until one Willard mango falls, Or is plucked, and helped- on to a mouth, Then they share

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A War Poem

Upon the wound, the bandage rests Blindfolding the blood soaked knee, From morphine and flies alike While the eyes they shoot glances At where smoke plumes go up Holding the pathology of tunnel vision, That like the barrel of a gun Becomes your own keyhole to another world The wound sees another wound Pain prolonged,

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Guernica

The horse’s torso talks to me like a whisper, In the aftermath. Carnage of horse meat, Who sold all the horse-parts to war.  Daggers inside the bull’s mouth, They scrape the color off the paint. Disjointed anatomies in anarchy, Of the sheer persistence of time, From the minute before to the minute after. And there

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The Little Girl In Vietnam

Sirens rang, Everywhere around the small town. Agent Orange, contained in barrels, Were sprayed from helicopters, As plumes, clouds with wings, rose like a Pegasus of smoke Storming like a stallion, the wilderness Caught in a frenzy, unfolding In the anarchy of an alien landing. And all the while there were people, Running zig-zag, cutting

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Killinochi

The dire landscape of a no man’s land Where the macaques make busy jumps From tree to tree. Palmyra grow Like pillars with canopy. An intersection Of ethnicities, where a little excavation Will unfold bones pealed of flesh. War is just a cannibal; it is famished Of loathe and bites the very flesh that searches

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A War Mum with a New Born

Gravity-defying stunt Of how the lap-work cradle Of a mother, in horizontal transfer, Makes little waves of sleep Under an ebony tree. He sleeps through the sounds Of night owls and fruit bats Not knowing the difference Between the two. Yet looking constantly out at The breast that feeds, the child suckles The nectar, not

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A Child in Aleppo

At night, Aleppo is buzzing With mosquito flutter, drones on auto-pilot And war planes under human control Shells falling from the sky. And a little boy in a shelter Looks through a crack in the window To see a shell falling from the top. And death was at first a dot, a blip That fell

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The Color Purple

In Jaffna, Dioscorea alata is a morning delicacy Boiled yam with a healthy serving Of coconut milk and sugar Mashed into a porridge like consistency And this colorful dish Is a celebration of new beginnings When an aura rises from a shadow A reminder that before renewal Time could only hemorrhage purple spurts From oxygenated

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