Why Are We in Iraq?
Most Recent Poems

Week of April 10, 2014

by Dhia abada

From the sun rays, we will one day
have a bounty of wheat ears
we will nurture them
they will multiply
on our hills, there are
threshing floors

Blockade us
and plant our children as roses
in the bosoms of the graves
they return in the morning
to find the graveyard

Load up your sinful war machinery
and leave us
and bury a dream you drafted
in the spaces of your notebooks

Believe me
you won't gain access to the rocks
then entrenched underground
then erupted
into high mountains
and established
by the will of the Almighty

Go look for the seawater and drink
quench the blazing hell inside you
eating at your malignant
poisonous selves
and blinding you up to your eyeballs

Copyright ©2014-Dhia abada

Week of March 20, 2014

The Daily Meal
by Regina Kandraska

Still here...
the lingering fear -
Promises of peace fading,
in a sky streaked with dust from soldier's boots.
Bright eyed children playing in torn up streets.
Long skirted women shopping for the daily meal -
Hoping for the best,
knowing the worst...
and not knowing what to do
to stop the slaughter
that scars their days.

Perhaps, it is only in the darkness
of a universal night,
that we will shed our combat gear
and find the courage
to embrace a peaceful light.

Copyright ©2014-Regina Kandraska

irritable lately
by scott from jail

The news says today that Putin will own the Crimea
And that it is good that we understand that international law exists
And that we have become the arrogant monsters of earth
And that Russia will be heard
And that Russia alone has enough bombs to level the United States
And he must be right
Because the money that might have gone to universal health care in the United States
Never happened either.
Because somehow it was swallowed too.
And our government of lies dissolves
Before an honest Putin?????

Copyright ©2014-scott from jail

Week of February 6, 2014

the opposite of poetry
by scott from jail

White walls without doors
lived in as never-ending necessity
Drip by drip goes the florescent buzzing light
Mirroring all without mentioning it

And there by the water cooler
A woman's hand, pulling Kleenex from a box
Wiping the red excess from her lips
A small smearing of dusty semi-cloth

An absent-minded waiting
songs droned out in the elevator
a breathing squarish cube
a day passed

Some glint of light from
the World Trade Center
soon to be departed,
like a ghost

Copyright ©2014-scott from jail

by scott from jail

In little, tiny, and reflecting ice-like moments
let me etch my face,
melting while the sun shimmering on this life
Glistens into spring some sort of dew
Awake in all the golden hue of life

And then, beneath that Spring, come color
That which is, and was, ... how in the closest moment of despair
Your cry, its scream and echo still ring out
Its swanky and deserted shine
long gone

There in the cavern of this mind, echoing its song, terror, fright, dark passion
let me dwell - Did you know that I collapsed beside some concrete stair to hear it
And hear it still, etched into each fragment moment
As if icicles are etched, diamonds with names and microscopic Bible verses
Never letting go their hold

Until driven crazy by their sheer weight
I go... and down ... and down ... and down
goes all the polar cap with me
Hearing screams still
But more distant...

Copyright ©2014-scott from jail

Week of January 23, 2014

Snapshots from a Train
by Michael Brett

My father had always the same dream
From his war; not a dream exactly
But a memory of German children
Burning alive in a field.

London streets were busy as the human heart,
As full, when he returned;
Awash with faces that he knew-
Or like the faces that he knew.

All the faces were like leaves
-Police identikits-
Or like each other as faces are
In Army identity papers;
In black and white Army pictures.

Each passed him by
As lit up rooms in houses pass
In and out of vision and

On long train journeys
He saw his life again
In snapshots from a train:

A boy practising piano,
His father bringing in some coal;
Christmas games of monopoly.

He enjoyed imagining the London voices
Polishing the air like granny's teapot,
Behind the steam whistle of his express train;

Then he left London-and his family-
To live alone in a place
Where there were no people-
Not even trees-

But there was always the dream
That was too big for a train window.
It had him still waking up at night
In his late eighties, making toast and tea
At 3am.

It was always the same dream:

The child soldiers running towards him and
The Guards Division flamethrower tank;

Would you like some tea? He said.

Copyright ©2014-Michael Brett

You can only worry about what you can help
(after Uncle Sol by ee cummings)

by Michael Brett

My Uncle Sid was soft in the head
So they put him on anti-aircraft duty
In Hyde Park,
Next to an ATS-a women's army battery.

When we were children he would make us laugh
By making all the noises of his gun and the air raids-
Unselfconsciously-like a child (he must have been fifty):

"What did the gun sound like when you loaded it, Uncle Sid?"
"It went clang, kerchunk."
"And when you fired the gun?"
"Boom!" He would shout wild-eyed, shaking the tea pot and cups.
Then he would imitate the planes flying over (rrrrrr)
And the bombs falling around Victoria Station (zveeeoooo)

One night, the Army Officer in charge
Of the women's battery was killed
So Uncle Sid pulled the string to fire their gun.

Only men were allowed to fire the Women's Army Gun.
The War Office said that the hand that rocked the cradle
Could not fire a gun.

So Uncle Sid pulled the Women's Army string
And he was quite badly injured,
Not by the bombs but the Army's own shells;
Their shrapnel falling like rain onto Hyde Park
After the shells had gone off at 13,000 feet.

My mother said he was never frightened
As he had no imagination, luckily,
And she said he was wise in his way
As you shouldn't worry about what you can't help.
Remember that, she said. It's good advice

-Especially when the whole world is going zveeeooo
And rrrrr.

Copyright ©2014-Michael Brett

Week of January 9, 2014

A perfect hit
by k.b.harris

The son, watching news.

"Dad, come look!
They got'em all!"

Let us take a closer look.
In a tank there will be four.
Carl, Youssuf, Tom and Bob.

Between them they have,
5 adored boys and 2 cherished girls.

Will the young ones cheer in unison as they watch
Grownups solving problems?
Or... will they scream in agony and call for more?

Copyright ©2014-k.b.harris

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