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Prose Poetry Holocaust Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Holocaust

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Girl From Darfur

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



__________________________________________________
Inspired By Cyndi's Challenge on Genocide 8/28/2014
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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THEM

Cast in stone and written in blood Are the ideals of a lost nation? Paving the returned ashes of the ancients Their patience wore thin by the actions of the passionless Armed in tools for a journey with no set direction But their steps forward Matter to no particular purpose but a means to no end Instead to destruction Is their surrounds with earth shattering sound to deaf ears In the hope That the blind see and fear the renowned vision of tears And overcome by what comes over With a super nova of banished spirits carving out time In hope to expos The sickened seconds and momentary minutes into hours Those who have powers Will note the swinging vote they wield Those who are in this field Have only the word as a shield Blood spilled and dead, limp, bodies Will be served on the far vision Multiple weaponry Will be the cutlery of the day's dishing From the table view only red is seen Because all that within is left on the scene Those who were framed in this picture Can only refer to the Revelations of scripture Those who were in erratic panic Had to mirrored the ignorance that of "Titanic" How can men put their belief in false security? As survivors of today were fooled by the hope of tomorrow Let’s not borrow the bravado of a lost society Because Christianity is the true model we should follow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Village Flood

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HOLODOMOR

Holodomor


I am surrounded by death’s
unmerciful stench, 
its sounds,
its unrelenting determination.
I cling to the nothingness
of hope,
feel the emptiness of
bloated belly,
the gnawing bite of hunger
cannibalizing itself.
My children died first,
too small,
made too weak to linger -
in death’s grip -
for long.
My wife
held the lifeless bodies
and slowly followed.
Looking into her
hollow, empty eyes
I knew that death
had come
long before her
love succumbed
to the hate.
A hate
that refused
food
to the hungry,
sustenance 
to the children.
I pray 
to forgotten gods
for an end,
my end.
Awaken
one more time,
see the gray haze
of one more day,
watch 
gaunt shadows
of men,
of women,
fade
into blackened memories.
I, we,
have surrendered
yet this war
this hate,
this fear,
this terror
continues.
I will rest now,
allow the darkness
to envelope
what little is left

of me,

of my life,

of my family,

of us.


John G. Lawless
8/21/2014

for the Genocide: Speak for the Lost contest

Holodomor, the Ukrainian genocide.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Survived Janjaweed Part 2

     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.

Copyright 10-13-2014
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