I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree, the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries.......
I try to mute the sound of them
For..., I was there, I hid in fear, was somehow spared, but now I look for
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope.... but nothing, nothing left.
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.
Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I
live in fear with no one here.
I'm just a girl, or at least I was.... for just a while.
I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling
blood as if for fun? For thrill? For what?
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust. They poisoned our wells, burned out our land,
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......,
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet, across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me
There are no flowers, there are no trees,
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned,
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated,
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.
Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed
throughout the world.
Copyright © Carrie Richards
I am surrounded by death’s
its unrelenting determination.
I cling to the nothingness
feel the emptiness of
the gnawing bite of hunger
My children died first,
made too weak to linger -
in death’s grip -
held the lifeless bodies
and slowly followed.
Looking into her
hollow, empty eyes
I knew that death
long before her
to the hate.
to the hungry,
to the children.
to forgotten gods
for an end,
one more time,
see the gray haze
of one more day,
into blackened memories.
yet this war
I will rest now,
allow the darkness
what little is left
of my life,
of my family,
John G. Lawless
for the Genocide: Speak for the Lost contest
Holodomor, the Ukrainian genocide.
Copyright © John lawless
Hordes of screams sounded out all around and masses of slashed bloody villagers staggered into our village. Grownups started running to finding stuff to clean them They kept saying “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” and talking about running away so they could live.
They said that hundreds of men had been hacked to death and they were the lucky ones. There was rape…and death…and starvation…and disappearing thousands, not just in their village, but in other villages in Dafur, too.
Since Uncle Sofarlo and grandma hadn’t arrived, yet, Mom became histeric. Then, someone said a man with an old woman was still in the desert and they weren’t hurt. Mama raising her eyes upward and thanked God.
I didn’t understand exactly what was happening, but a few years later, I learned first hand. One dreadful day, the Arab militia rode into my village. The first thing they did was ride over to the well and start cutting off people’s arms and pushing them to the ground. They laughed as they drew water for themselves and their camels. Then, they cut off my father’s head and started grabbing my playmates and their mothers.
Terrified, I slunk back into our hut. My parents had dug a hole in the floor beneath each bed shortly after my grandmother and the rest of the survivors had come to live with us. They told me that if those bad men came to our village that I must hide in the hole and not make one sound. So, that is what I did.
Sometimes, I would lift the cover and peek out. I saw one of those men slash Uncle Sorarlo’s head with a hatched and throw it in the well. One of them grabbed my mother by the hair and slung her into a nearby hut. Then he dismounted and went in. Her horrible screams still flash through my memory. I saw and heard appalling things happening to other women, young girls, and even the little boys.
I could hear loud voices and laughter as the Janjaweed savages watched the survivors scamper like rabbits into the desert. Next, they set the huts on fire and rode after them. Then, there was silence.
I stayed shivering in that dark hole what seemed like forever. Then, my older brother came over to help me out. He had hidden beneath his bed, too. We never saw our grandmother or cousins again, but we were alive!
Survival was the next challenge. My big brother was smart and had faith in God. It is because of his strength and bravery that we are both alive today to tell the story.
Please help the people of Dafur.
I chose Dafarian Genocide.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE Sponsor Cyndi MacMillan
PART 1 SETS THE STAGE. PLEASE READ
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Thunder storms raged forth in grandeur and the rain fell splashing in torrents,
The brook water levels rose and burst their banks flooding walk ways and paths,
Drains around buildings became blocked with shifting gravel, paper and leaves,
Through the villages and county towns people with umbrella's lined the streets.
Men with bags and old coats on their shoulders to open their flooding drains,
They used fire-shovels, spades, rakes, rods almost anything that came to hand,
Where one minute all is silent profound, hot the sky, dark tinged with yellow,
Then, a few minutes the roar of streams bursts forth flooding a hundred homes
Hurrying down the declivities, glens are loud with turbid brooks and streams,
Water rushes rushes along the roads at the feet of hilly green corn pastures,
Seconds ago we walked on the dry ground then after the roar it was knee deep,
A crash of thunder on the hill tops pealing and reverberating again and again.
Rushing waters down steps in great lines of white foam over brown muddy water,
The wild sough and murmur through the whole darkened, yellow tinged, warm air,
As quick as it came, it went and the sky turned to clear watery turquoise blue,
On the telephone wire sat a Corn Bunting singing a jingling song without a tune.
Copyright © Terry Trainor