We Refugees

I come from a musical place Where they shoot me for my song And my brother has been tortured By my brother in my land. I come from a beautiful place Where they hate my shade of skin They don't like the way I pray And they ban free poetry.

A Prison Evening

Each star a rung, night comes down the spiral staircase of the evening. The breeze passes by so very close as if someone just happened to speak of love. In the courtyard, the trees are absorbed refugees embroidering maps of return on the sky. On the roof, the moon - lovingly, generously -

Home

no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark you only run for the border when you see the whole city running as well your neighbors running faster than you breath bloody in their throats the boy you went to school with who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory is holding a gun bigger than his body

Variations At Home And Abroad

It takes a lot of a person's life To be French, or English, or American Or Italian. And to be at any age. To live at any certain time. The Polish-born resident of Manhattan is not merely a representative of general humanity And neither is this Sicilian fisherman stringing his bait Or to be any gender, born where or when Betty holding a big plate Karen crossing her post-World War Two legs And smiling across the table

Paradise Motel

Millions were dead; everybody was innocent. I stayed in my room. The President Spoke of war as of a magic love potion. My eyes were opened in astonishment. In a mirror my face appeared to me Like a twice-canceled postage stamp. I lived well, but life was awful. there were so many soldiers that day, So many refugees crowding the roads.

The Refugees

Have you tried to find clothes for others than for your own self? Have you tried to give food to others than to feed your own self? Have you tried to bring a homeless than to sleep alone in your house? Have you tried to ask your own mind than to doubt others generosity? Have you tried to let others exist than to let your own self seek protection?

(132) Mother Teresa: The Scintillating Touch (Silssa 1983 - 99)

A sacred hand towards the poor, A golden heart for the invalids, A heavenly smile for the refugees…. O Mother, Who other can be all these? Your touch on my shoulders And on my face, In which heaven I found myself – my heart- With the pleasure it filled,

Nagasaki Days

I -- A Pleasant Afternoon for Michael Brownstein and Dick Gallup One day 3 poets and 60 ears sat under a green-striped Chau- tauqua tent in Aurora listening to Black spirituals, tapping their feet, appreciating words singing by in mountain winds on a pleasant sunny day of rest -- the wild wind blew thru

The Little Boy On Bodrum Beach

(Lines written spontaneously after seeing the photo of the body of a little Syrian boy washed up on the beach of Bodrum, a Turkish resort town, as the family were trying to escape by boat to Greece. Tragedy of the 5 year old Syrian Civil War.3rd September 2015) The little boy (A Kurdish toddler In red shirt and blue shorts) Washed up on the beach Of Bodrum, a Turkish resort, Far away from home. The sea weeps over his lifeless body, Washing him with her foam.

Try To Praise The Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June's long days, and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships; one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,

Lunatic Spasm

Astonished I'm! No! World is distinct book of deaths! Book of lives, of a child, of a woman, of a man, of human. Breast of this world has no milk! No! Blood feeder is the sea beach, surf comes to cover its nakedness! Cancer canonizes seat of judge in united creepy thoughts with gavel. Justice

O Have Mercy On The Refugees

Government against the governed Faith against faith Brother betrays brother Friend betrays friend To death. The home that shelters From cradle to grave It turns into a demon The motherland that nurtures

The Refugees

In the shabby train no seat is vacant. The child in the ripped mask Sprawls undisturbed in the waste Of the smashed compartment. Is their calm extravagant? They had faces and lives like you. What was it they possessed That they were willing to trade for this? The dried blood sparkles along the mask Of the child who yesterday possessed A country welcomer than this. Did he? All night into the waste

(148) Relics Of War (Oneryu)

Refugees...........................................

! Himalaya

Be there as the highest peak Not essentially to differ Not eventually to conjure Be there as a genuine will Not necessarily to demand Mirage a gift from horizon Too long to sustain Pathways ice beds Heralded with winter wings On rocky supreme

Refugees

From the dark arenas of violence, From the shackles of oppression, From a land reeking of the smell of blood They flee, bloodied and bruised. These scraps of humanity alienated from their moorings Have no possessions other than the sky above And some inches of land to curl up That they carry with them as they move

A Lazy And Simple Poem about God And The Moon

A Lazy And Simple Poem About God and The Moon Do not laugh please, this poem is meant for my dearest Vinhie tonight the moon promised me to appear in full dot on her permanent spot but do you know what's so odd? With the moon, I shall also see God, I still think this is so odd but always possible

! ! Stevie Smith Reading Her Poems

She was not yet really 'known' - but asked to read by this small group of older Jewish refugees and eager youngsters, talent destined for a fame, at the tiny Gaberbocchus Press which did not affect at all the self-contained aloneness that walked up the aisle from door to barely stage

Another Paradise Lost

One sleepy summer afternoon, while helping myself to a glass of chilled water, I saw a snake lying curled under the fridge. It could have been a very poisonous cobra. Very quickly, I chose my mode of attack: Acid. Staggering, I reached for the glass bottle so that I could pour the yellow-green cheap acid on its slimy body, burning it to death.

! The Un-Ked

Words are like unicorns – come from nowhere without any one’s permission or request because there’s a need for them. Whose painful, sudden, desolate need called this word to be? Market gardeners pushed further out of towns, their customers now too far a wagon-ride away;