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myth of myself
my soul lost its memory
in blood a voice without ears
kneaded in the bread of Al Badar
plowed into the graves of 10,000 chickens
it is nothing to not exist
it is not Palestine
fathers have no hands here
mothers no eyes to hold tears
the mask covers the faces
in this nigger nobody dream
bound without hands to the earth
spilled out like a toxic red crayon
the liquid spills of incendiary skin
perhaps bits of cloth, a finger
is left to point the way to the holy city
Last few words:
Dedicated to the 1,400 nonexistent Palestinian men woman and children killed in operation cast lead.
Editing stage:
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Comments
Kailashana2
Sun, 2012-02-19 08:52
For those whom may not know,
For those whom may not know, The Middle East Peace Forum had slowly atrophied since we were booted from Dennis Kucinich's office when he was running for President. One of its greatest voices, Joanne, died of brain cancer a couple of years ago. Another one of our members, a Jewish Catholic nun who has gone to the Holy Land with peace missions has had and is having more than her share of facing the death of her body. These are my heroes as are those who live in unjust lands, daily facing humiliation, imprisonment, torture, and deprivation. Seeing family die, suffering the seen and unseen wounds of war, hate, poverty and discrimination.
I am pleased to say it seems a revitalized passion has emerged after we reconvened at our home the last two meetings. Sometimes I am filled with hopelessness, but to do or say nothing is not in my nature. Nor is it in Barry's.
Shalom, Salaam, Peace.
Kailashana2
Sun, 2012-02-19 11:48
no rush to judgment
no rush to judgment
the moon was pink
across the table,
determined to change the story
we rocked the boat
and sailed away
into history
we could not make
nor rewrite,
I, witness
to Palestine,
ringing a bell,
taking a toll,
writing a book
falling for the hook,
we were together
again,
one candle in the night,
one rush to the edge,
a butterfly to my own conviction,
flying away,
flying away.
~A
weirdelf
Thu, 2012-02-23 06:50
Is this your poem or Orphani's?
It sounds like him.
cheers,
Jess
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Nordic cloud
Mon, 2012-03-12 16:14
"ploughed into the graves of a hundred chickens"
Just yesterday they did it again, a Norwegian cook and a journalist are travelling round to countries with conflicts and inviting the two parties to a meal that is cooked by them, they all meet and discuss all sorts together and usually end up feeling that it has been of great value, meeting their opposites over a glass of wine and a good meal, well done them I say. I didn't see all so am not able yo comment much on this, we were told to see it.
Ann
"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.