Tuesday, April 28


From your barren landscapes
with only the soupy air for nourishment,
and dust to breathe,
tradition succumbs to a final meal.
With a silver spoon, like a star,
and wooden bowl of the Earth,
rare status,
where fingers mostly bled,
to grab and feed.
Her silver gamely shines,
stirring imagined porridge inside a mock home.
Only starvation and disease awaits her out there.
Bereft eyes, going sullen, seek rescue,
despite forsaken promises and dry tears.
Can no one help?
Like the moon,
crescent reflections
spill out of her desolation,
sent splintered,
by will of spirit,
pride with each sipping motion,
showing us her hope,
that we can give
a long lasting peace and salvation.
She fills warm memories to the rim,
and watches them fade,
into the long persevering humility
of so many,
hurt, and broken.
History is not forgotten,
but only strangled moans
and cursing divides present days.
No strength left to fight for her country.
Even if she took a just stand she would die.
Bless you. May God Bless you.
Aching sympathy from my cozy niche
I weakly comfort her in bright company
I see her dead children chasing each other, happy,
tempting her always come play with them,
have fun, to eat, drink, and hug.
The eternal love that grows in her heart,
soothing her angry mind,
keeping alive her burdened soul,
feeds her collapsing body,
and with wings sheds her worldly toil.