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Best Syrian Poems

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Don't stop! The most popular and best Syrian poems are below this new poems list.

Syrian Refugees by Bates, Jim
The Last Syrian Blood by Smith, Shaniki
The Syrian Children by Flannery, Vincent
To The Syrian Child by Nforche, Gerald
The Syrian Devil by vaso, arthur
Syrian Agony by Tennakoon, Udaya R.
The Syrian Spy by vaso, arthur
Syrian Graveyard by Mala, Nsah
Serius, the Syrian Sorcerer by storm, solomon

View all new Syrian Poems

The Best Syrian Poems

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Line in the Sand

Obama drew his mighty line in the sand
Dare ye not to cross me

Assad replied in kind
Gassing thousands and laughing

A little Syrian boy has drowned
Siblings to weak to cross that mighty line

Salvation was the evasive dream
Father shall never escape the nightmares

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |

I am a Child- Poem written for Restore a Child Organization

I am a child
Like the one you tuck in bed
The one you kiss on the head
The one who gets loved instead
The one who is so well fed
I am a child

I am a child
Like the one who gives you joy
Your pretty girl and fine boy
The one who gets every toy
The one who none dares annoy
I am a child

I am a child
With no home to call my own
The cold reaching to my bone
Hunger pangs, all that I’ve known
In tattered clothes, I have grown
I am a child

I am a child
The pavement my only bed
Dreaming of a piece of bread
With a small heart full of dread
My life hanging from a thread
I am a child

I am a child
With no gifts beneath the tree
With no hope to be set free
Wanting like YOUR child to be
Why, oh, why, can’t you love ME?

I am a child
I am YOUR child
I am GOD’s child
Remember me this Christmas….

Eileen Manassian Ghali

I'm privileged that Norma Nashid, founder of Restore a Child, has asked me to be an ambassador for the organization to help raise awareness of the plight of less fortunate children around the world. She asked me to write a poem for their newsletter, and I am sharing her FB post regarding it here with you.

(The poem below was written by Eileen Manassian Ghali, a professor of English at Middle East University in Beirut, Lebanon. She dedicated her poem this Christmas to Restore a Child. Her mother, Angel Dikran Manassian was my favorite teacher and my first teacher in school. Now I get the honor of enjoying the beautiful writing of her daughter, Eileen.--Norma Nashed)

If you are interested in finding out more about this humanitarian organization, please look them up on FB. I will be writing an article soon to highlight the plight of Syrian Refugee children in Lebanon. I hope my Mama would be proud of me! (latest newsletter)

My poem will be published in the next edition

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013

Details | Syrian Poem | |

The Girl From The Mountain

It’s a diaphane, this day, with all the lives, stringed to one another.
The filament of life is asking for something I wouldn’t know.
For this is all but nothing? Or a little something, a little nothing, a little both.
Vertigo! Vertigo! Ends like this. Ends like this.
Little confusion, little confusion, spinning about itself.
Yet wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t know. When to stop and feel stupid.
But now I know. Now I know.
‘til the clouding stops, and mountain starts, I must keep moving. Keep moving.
Keep my shoes clean, and heart abbott.
I’m stupid lot. Stupid lot.

When did sweltering heat become the winter gales?
I won’t hear this, but within earshot.
Restful, yet I fluster. I once took a red road,
Walked into an Australian day, foamed. Now I defoam.
I must listen, all the silent lines in my head.
The fate that vanishes, becomes a feat.
And I wake up, waking up with the fowl flow of a river,
That reminds me of a Syrian night, no antigram to go with it.
                                              So I respawn.

One stream of consciousness, and I recall,
Half my head is underwater, where things are clear.
The other half, wandering about someplace good in a little light weather.
I hope it’s the same Australian day in the ferns.
Hitherto moving along the daylight, hitherthen dreaming twice,
Of the same Syrian night in the fall,
Where I trip over a lazy way off, and toss my thoughts for a call.
Head; and this mountain is all I have in the middle of another day.
So I must not stop, till I see what she’s like in the sun.
Tail; and I hope she likes the Sun.            

But who is she? Is she the mountain I want to see?
I always knew people are, where they are.
And not who they are, I know for sure.
Is it morning yet? I walk indifferent, to the sky that keeps changing.
But to tell this a plethora of it, I do not have one.
I feel one ray on my skin, only dreaming of a myriad.
Now this dream sets my skin, sleep inducing,
Not a ray would wake it up, it will take more.
So I keep walking till I see a lot of mornings.
More than I have ever seen, more than I can take.
                                              I have known for long, tranquility not.

Why do the most beautiful words not sound so good?
Rhapsodic moments take away all the illness, to not feel so good.
Grotesque vestige of my behaviours, wear me out for the rest of the day.
Yet for long, I couldn’t walk so far, not the fear, but the far.
I am never too afraid to not wait, to not walk the red road.
It’s always like this, waiting seems like walking.
So I wait two miles, walk long in gaze, grimace to go with it.
Not a lot of it, but it still is the story that echoes in my head.
Sits calm in the bucolic, watches me wait, watches me walk.
So I must not stop, till I see the Harbinger become so.

This is ineffable, this hearth that has taken the place,
Of mantles in my labyrinth. Love, is the only way I know,
To walk out of it. So I must love what I see.
Penumbra of daily thoughts waiting with me as I walk,
My love is waiting for me in the mountain, as the mountain.
So I must not stop, riparian to this talisman, the one that keeps me going,
Wherewithal to all my quintessence, my love is watching me wait, watching me walk.
And when all lives merge with me, erstwhile.
I must read the first few lines in my head,
And keep going.

They say, this love, it is for someone else to take, but I do not care.
I just keep walking, telling my red road romance,
Submerging into it, the panoply of stories I always needed to tell.
To my love.
The girl from the mountain, I must walk up to her.
For only she can end my vertigo,
Or tell me why I should keep spinning, so I don’t stop and brood into it.
I have always loved her in stranger ways I wouldn't know.

Copyright © Lalit Kumar | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Foreign Legion Stoush

In Syria we fought the French in 1941...
Foreign Legion and the Vichy French an 8 week war was won...
After battle with the slaughter, many bodies where they lay...
Don checked them as he oughta , found a gauntlet  golden hey...
Oh it glistened with its set stones of red and shiny blue...
And Don's mates began to wonder could they get it off him too...
A frog sniper from a tower was a shooting us today ...
So we killed him with a Bren gun to his girlfriend's dismay..
Don went and checked the tower dragged down a Moslem priest...
Caught him by his whiskers now, just a holy man at least ...
The girl was still a wailing and cursing at Dons feet...
 as she kissed and held her lover, Don came down the street...
Don then the pin released...
So the gauntlet dropped beside her ...
He couldn't help her with her grief...
The gauntlet wanted neither...
Safer with her was the gauntlet gold...
She snavelled it so quick...   (grabbed)
On the priest still the whisker hold....
His blood she still did lick?....

Don got this souviner on the battlefield amongst the dead, some might have killed him to
get it...
Aussies including Don Johnson 2/25th Btn. (As he told me) .Fought the French Foreign ,
Vichy French and Syrian Arab people for 8 weeks in 1941. People from the Indian Army and
the Poms were there too at the finish......Don Johnson .....At this place Don and George
Gibson saw where a young woman and child had been killed by the same bayonet stroke .
George pointed to the cross around her neck and said to Don the little ju ju didn't save her?
Don said the Arabs were selling fresh meat in the street covered with flies to other Arabs
and the flies were still having a party on the many dead, so they held guns on the Arabs
and made them bury the dead which were being ignored

Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2011

Details | Syrian Poem | |

The Syrian Devil

Children lie dying
Punished for waking up one more day
In unbearable heat, in a dirty war
They have no Generals
To defend them
From the evils of men
They have no advocates for peace
All the gods seem to be sleeping
As so many infants weep, into deathly silence
They exist no more
Good men take no action
As evil men fight for more blood
We must stand up to the horrors
And give breath to those too weak to stand
We must march on in honor and face the faceless
Who wish harm to all with good will
Sadness created by Assad
For many a year
Infants give only love
Can we not promise them?

Shoofakboukra = We will see you tomorrow
Marhaba = God is Love

Inspired not only by recent events, but by interviews with people who at the time were children playing with unexploded phosphorus bombs dropped by the Syrian regime in Lebanon.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Syrian Poem | |

What Kind of People Are We

What Kind of People Are We

In a Shakespearean sense of tragedy and doubt the well-used
“To Be or Not To Be” from Hamlet is not the question I shall
discuss in this narrative. Rather, I shall consider a few things
concerning the current Middle Eastern and European migrant
situation that has riveted the attention of the countries in those
regions as well as the rest of the world. And it’s my opportunity
to reflect on some of the things that have occurred (and are still
occurring right now), that I find quite troubling and morally 
offensive to me as concerned person and citizen.

As a writer and poet, and as a moral human being, I can say
that I was truly shocked at the sight of an innocent, young Syrian 
refugee boy named “Aylan Kurdi,” who had drowned and was lying 
face down on a Turkish beach near a resort with his head turned
slightly on its right side, as the ebb and flow of the salted waves
pushed and pulled on his little body. A real tragedy for sure that
might have been prevented, if humane, responsible, and responsive
migrant immigration policies had been in place so his father
would not have been compelled to put his wife and both of his 
sons—who all drowned together—on that fateful boat at the very
mercy of ruthless and evil human traffic smugglers.

The horrendous scenes played over and over on the 24-hour news 
cycle of the migrants and their innocent children from Syria, Iraq, 
Turkey, Afghanistan, and other countries being treated like cattle
(or even less than cattle), and indiscriminately pushed around and
tear-gassed by unfriendly and unwelcoming jack-booted Hungarian 
Rendorség (Police) were certainly most shocking and disgustingly 
revulsive by both their malicious tenor and insidious intent. The
actions also of some right-wing Hungarian demonstrators hurling
loud and abusive comments at the refugees was also quite tragic
and disturbing. I found the actions of the Hungarian Police under
the direction of Prime Minister Viktor Orban to be similarly
reminiscent of the actions of Hitler’s Gestapo and Sturmabteilung
or the SA Troops after 1933 in Nazi Germany. Shame on them!
Shame on them! This is the same old tired bigotry and stupidity
on display today.

Despite these despicable actions of the Hungarian Police and many 
of Mr. Orban’s governmental officials, a number of Hungarian
citizens still showed their kindness and humanity in helping the
migrants at various junctures on the autobahn as they trekked
toward the Austrian border in route ultimately to Germany. This
caught my obvious attention as well.

For me, the “so-what?” here turns ultimately upon the following
philosophical and human question: “What Kind of People Are We?”
The migrant problem as we know is largely the result of the massive
displacement of people that has occurred (and is still occurring) in
in the war-torn countries in the Middle East and in certain areas of
Southeast Asia. This tragedy is one of many of our world’s current
and future 21st-century challenges. How each of us as “concerned 
citizens,” in consonance with the policies and actions of the various
governments in the countries we each live under, will certainly
play a role in reflecting in the end the kind of people we really are. 

For me, the nationalistic actions of the right-wing parties and
extremists, in many countries (including the United States) and 
particularly now in Europe, provide no real solution at all, and 
become a convenient excuse for many people to forsake their
conscience and basic humanity—and to stick their heads in the 
sand like a bunch of frightful ostriches lost in the reveries of
their hate and prejudice, and disgraceful cowardice! There can
be no apology and justification for this ever! This type of
behavior is a deep-seated cancer ever-lurking in the genes of 
our human society and in mankind’s soul—awaiting its chance
to metastasize and reek its horrible destruction upon its victims.  

The point I’m driving at is this: The current responsible actions
of a number of world leaders, to particularly highlight those of
the European Union, appear to be taking several of the right steps 
in helping these refugee migrants and their families undergoing
this terrible strife forced upon them by the tyranny of war and the
resultant poverty and dislocation. Being stupid, hateful, and clearly
prejudiced as some people and certain governmental leaders are in
our global community today is not the answer and it never will be!

To people who really do care about this ongoing migrant tragedy,
it’s time to rally and act in support of local, regional, and worldwide
efforts to help these migrant people and their families so afflicted
by poverty, disease, war, injury, death, and territorial displacement. 

For me, I desire to make my voice heard loud and clear as a writer,
poet, and concerned world citizen on this matter and in my own
most humble way. Keep in mind that many of us are descendants
of families who at one time or another were migrants from other
countries escaping the whip and lash of cruel dictators and their
terrible regimes masquerading as legitimate governments of the

In my estimation, the kind of people we should be or aspire to be
are those who relish the winds of freedom, the certainty of justice,
the spirit of friendship, the values of fairness and fair play, the
magnificence of humanity, the desire for cultural diversity and
inclusion, and the love of our fellow man under the very eyes
of God Himself. 

What kind of people are we? With this, I rest my case. 

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
September 11, 2015 (Narrative)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |

My Protest Write

 They`re marching on
 The Syrian soldiers
 Towards civilian neighborhoods they will prowl
 Heavily armed,their tanks approaches 
 All guns and grenades are loaded
 The have schools,hospitals and innocent people in their targets

 Shell shocked children screaming in pure death anxiety
 Their faces covered in blood,after their school being used as cannon targets
 Gone are the days when soldiers fought against eachother
 Now they smell civilian blood
 Assad`s soldiers will shoot you from behind
 My Syrian friend,you better wait until night falls
 Before you bury your dead brothers and sisters

 The regime`s days are numbered
 Written by the blood of the innocent,they have signed their own doom
 We,the world-are watching woman and children being slaughtered
 Because the UN say we have to
 I cry for you my Syrian brothers and sisters
 But hang in there,even though UN has delayed your liberation
 A time will come,the madman will fall from his shaky podium


 Where is your sence of pride,Assad?
 How do you sleep at night?
 Every woman,all the children you have tortured over the decades...
 Do you feel their death anxiety
 Or hear their screams for mercy when you close your eyes?

10th.February 2012

Copyright © Arild Andresen Ertsland | Year Posted 2012

Details | Syrian Poem | |


Islam Burning

In deep purple flame
Stapled to the cross
While the peasants yell below
Demon demon demon
Black flags rise
Hearts fail to beat
Humanity has lost this score
The axe swings in the air
Freedom at last
From Islam’s beasts
My head tumbles into the dust
I am now an icon of the history I so loved
I am Khalid al-Asaad
Your humble servant of antiquity

Aug 19, 2015
In memory of Khalid al-Assad murdered by Islamic cowards.

Islamic State militants beheaded a renowned antiquities scholar in the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra and hung his mutilated body on a column in a main square of the historic site because he apparently refused to reveal where valuable artefacts had been moved for safekeeping.

According to Syrian state news agency Sana and the UK-based Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, Asaad was beheaded in front of dozens of people on Tuesday in a square outside the town’s museum. His body was then taken to Palmyra’s archaeological site and hung from one of the Roman columns.

“Al-Asaad was a treasure for Syria and the world,” his son-in-law, Khalil Hariri, told the Associated Press. “Why did they kill him? Their systematic campaign seeks to take us back into pre-history. But they will not succeed.”

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |


“Well we shall have to do our best and 'keep on smiling'” said Dumpty to the Owl, who he was worried could possibly get into a' flap' after all it had heard. “Yes it never helps to despair” opinioned the Owl stolidly. “ I have one thing to say to you dear egg, the reason I did give my name when you asked earlier, was not because I was being rude 'as such' its not protocol amongst the older species of ornithology  'specially Owls (to just give out our names) you see I have existed a long time now, and certainly in the circles I've lived in my name was not common knowledge, now I know you have been around a good few years yourself, 1643 I believe you came into being, however I was for a short time and I will stress it was a short time, observer/companion Owl to a young ruler in the Yuan province in China 1400/1402.  Oh they asked me to return to advise them” ruminated the Owl almost to itself; “but you cannot really teach humans, they have been responsible for the complete extinction of whole species let alone wars amongst themselves, they are just so susceptible to pride for a start”  the Owl said “and furthermore I find there is all too often a 'good reason' for having a war..! Oh there is always some ogre' either that or (they have to be ugly you see) or there has to be some other 'according to the' Instigator of war. Now where was I? Oh yes some other unreedeeming feature about them, they never mention 'to the general public' that this person or indeed persons is (probably fabulously wealthy) you know the times I have seen 'these brave knights' dash right past the villagers who are beating up the 'ogre' straight past beautiful sobbing damsels, I have seen them rush straight to the door of the treasure room though.. smash it down, lower the chest of gold down by rope, then ride off into the sunset, with nary a by your leave whilst the damsel and villagers are left to repair all the damage... cases like that always struck me odd, anyway, so you see I am quite a bit older than you. Also were I to just give out my name, it could be said by you or (others) should you pass on my name, that you or they, knew so and so, and that they said such and such, and so on and so forth.' (not saying that you would dear egg) but I hope you can see my reasons??” “Well yes” said Dumpty quietly, the Owls eyes seemed to  travel up and down him, “Look I have observed that you were not on the whole a 'bad egg' Dumpty, the bird continued on, whilst you were alive and I can see you are facing challenges on how to relate to people at this present time, moreover you have been most kind to myself and the feline, therefore I will disclose to you my name it is derived from the Bubo-Bubo line of Syrian Owls; we are of the greater Owl variety, and are still populous in the world owing to our life values, I don't know if you have heard of the place? There was once a world famous man who came from there name of Abraham. There are still numerous descendants of his in the region today! Anyway you may call me Bubo for short if you so wish.”
©Joe Maverick 18-3-2014

Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2014

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Getting Lost in Peace

Getting Lost in Peace

When a man loses his bearings
In a land of riches and honey
He sometimes loses sight of life’s tribulations
Spoiled to the core he wonders what the heck for?
Why should he care of the dying and oppressed
Surely he made not this mess?
Let them starve and be slaughtered
Not like any of them are his daughters

Politicians have lost all their backbones
Afraid to stand up for what is right
There is no enemy
If you are an ostrich with a long neck
The world may indeed be dark
Yet peaceful with your head buried down deep
Keep our soldiers here, we all say
Let those slobs and aliens all weep
Leaders today want your vote
Let the others all drown in their old tipsy boats

We have saved the world a million times or two
Giving cash to ease our conscience and feeling goody two shoes
When the weak and meek are raped and slaughtered
Who with a heart would not send a soldier or twelve?
If you live in another county, guess what? You’re in hell
We save our own, but we won’t save you
We don’t like war you see, for us is about peace not humanity

Notes 1) Being against saving people from the horrors of oppression and torture, be it a regime or terrorists well is like saying I am against doctors and heart surgery.

Notes 2) No matter how flat is a pancake, it always has two sides.

Note 3) I do not know anyone with a sane mind that is for war. Certainly not any General or soldier that has seen the horrors of war. Today, we often confuse interventions, or saving literally complete communities from slaughter based on race, religion or tribal affiliations, as going to war. I have these words for you, Grow UP! Enemies? Again grow up, there is pure evil out there, ISIS is a prime example. If you have any doubts as to my words, and of course when you lift your head from the sand, go and visit some regions, and tell those people to their faces, you can stop it, but well you don’t want too. 

My heart goes out to the Yazidis who quite frankly are almost wiped out as a people. Also The Syrian people gassed to death with sarin gas want to thank you all for being against war, they are so happy you stood by and said , oh my that’s terrible. 

In Western nations, politicians do nothing more than reflect your views, if you do not like them, maybe look in the mirror. I do not mean each individual view but the majority, and when the majority does not care? Well you can connect the dots. If however, one disagrees with that statement, I will tell you some good news! You have the freedom to go out and run for office yourself and make a difference. Before you laugh at the statement, remember you need to get off the couch first. 

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Reality s Obligation

I`m on a constant search to find freedom
Freedom in a world torned apart in a ruthless commotion
And to satisfy an endless quest for unnecessary goods and power

The unstable spiritual balance..flipped over by the lack of common sence
Destroyed by an overwhelming hunt to achive meaningless goods
Why and how did we loose grip of reality`s obligation..

Predators awaits..politicians and dictators with crocodile grins
Reveals their infected teeth after chewing up millions of victims
Born right into war and economic misery

What lurks around the corner for these hunted souls..
Another chemical attack pointed towards them and their children
The beast is awakened..and the devil himself creeps out into the bright daylight

"...God Be With You My Syrian Friends.."

A.Ertsland June 2013

Copyright © Arild Andresen Ertsland | Year Posted 2013

Details | Syrian Poem | |

New Year- New Bomb Blast

     On December 7, 2013 a bomb blast killed former Lebanese Minister, Mohammad Chatah and several others. Less than an hour ago, another bomb blast took place in the Dahieh area in Beirut. My husband is daughter is out at a friend's house, and I'm sick to my stomach of not knowing......where is safe, where can we go? This is the latest Post on FB by a student of mine showing a picture of the explosion. "New Year....New Bomb." 

     I'm tired of this. I'm tired of the rest of the world turning a blind eye. I'm tired of feeling guilty because I'm in my nice warm house and there are Syrian refugees living in tents. There are little children dying of the cold. I'm tired of hearing of the blood of martyrs being spilled. I'm tired of hoping and wishing for peace for this country and will NEVER be. I'm tired.

    I'm tired of reliving fear. Tired of worrying about the safety of my brother who lives in the downtown area where all the political figures have their mansions. I'm tired of hearing him talking about some embedded glass shard working its way out of the skin of his face...even now. He and his wife were injured in the bomb blast that killed Prime Minister Rafic Hariri years ago, scarring their faces for life.

I'M TIRED OF THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Eileen M Ghali

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014

Details | Syrian Poem | |

The Syrian Spy

Invisible ink flows
Into the night ghosts go
The cedars bleed once more

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Syrian Poem | |

The Cat Man of Aleppo

The Cat Man of Aleppo As wrath of war surrounds this special man He, driver of an ambulance, remains To help his wounded townsmen heal and live, These victims of the Syrian civil war. The shelling dealt by forces pro-Assad Made masses quickly flee from streets and homes To hills or mountains many miles away Compelled to leave their household cats behind. Now on their own left to survive, this man, When not attending wounded friends, would then Become a savior to these orphaned pets Enrich their lives in such a giving way. “Cat man of Aleppo” became his name He took the time to care for them each day. The money from his savings purchased meat For cats that gathered near his home to feast. One-hundred fifty plus became his charge For many months, he did this wondrous deed. Good news in midst of tragic world events “Man shares his heart with cats and humankind.” © Sandra M. Haight 2014 All Rights Reserved ~1st Place~ Contest: The Good News Paper Sponsor: Mystic Rose Judged 11/17/2014 True story my poem was based on an article published September 26, 2014 on many Internet news sites and YouTube

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2014

Details | Syrian Poem | |


Mired in the worst humanitarian crisis 
Syrian refugees seek shelter from ISIS
Cries are heard throughout our nations 
Governors set up SWAT Team Stations

"Why put us in danger?" the signs reflect
People ravished in lines with little effect
No matter how torn nor hungry ye be
Ye shall not live in the Home of the Free!

For now they all wait seeking shelter and food
Their tomorrow depends on America's Mood!


Copyright © Judy Konos | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |

The Different Teachers At A Saudi School

If you ask me, who are my favorite
Teachers at school –well, I’d say there are six;
All of them are good friends too, you know –they’re
Like a box of assorted chocolates!

Miss Latifa is Black American,
She’s the coolest expat teacher at school –
She’s like a basketball –fun to play with
But if it hits your head it might hurt –that’s
When she yells at you –if you break her rules.

Miss Sultana is from Oman. She is
Our friendly teacher in Geography –
Her smiles are as innocent as babies’
And when she speaks she does so like sweet flight
Attendants discussing airplane safety.

Miss Rasha is from Morocco, our tall
And pretty teacher who teaches us French
She may look like a Barbie doll but her
Class is like a movie that brings suspense
For the zeros we get are too intense…

Miss Heba is from Jordan. She teaches
Us Math in a very delightful way –
Although Math is a subject that I hate,
I enjoy all the games she’d let us play –
She’s like a cool breeze in a scorching day.

Teacher Mashaa’el, a Saudi local,
Teaches us Islam in the subject “Deen”.
She teaches as fast as a cheetah runs,
Yet her lessons are well-taught and clear –And
Speaks like she has a mike so all can hear!

Teacher ‘Aisha is Saudi-Syrian and
Is the most beautiful teacher at school!
In many ways she’s like a lioness
In terms of character and when she rules –
She hates fakes and students who act like fools.

They work together as a team of friends
Whose friendship is as tight as clips and glue
They’re loyal to Allah first and foremost
And faithfully obey all the school’s rules
They’re excellent leaders though they are few!

Note: This is a made-up poem, not based on any character in real life :)

Copyright © Mariam M. | Year Posted 2014

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Funny SYRIA TAX Money

No longer 
Seems as funny
Dollar money

Purchased by the power
Of social media
Reigns down from a sky
Where children die
And dreams are bled
On broken crying parents beds 

Funny's just is not 
When it revolves around money

In this cynical old world
Where countless masses

Begs the question
Who is the real dummy
And where is this poor child's
Cold laid out Mummy 




Copyright © Christopher Flaherty | Year Posted 2012

Details | Syrian Poem | |

To The Syrian Child

Dedicated to all the children who were
Victims of the conflicts in Syria

You have heard more grenades crack at dawn
As bullets wizz beneath your pale sun-
O Syrian Child! Whose family has been torn
By Taliban glories and Tribal rivalries.

O Syrian Child! To whom pain sets the day
To whom bliss only exists in the books-
You lost your sense of smile
And forgot to dream like every child.

O Syrian Child! before you she perished-
That sweet mother, blown in her parish:
You watched her Kick, as she supplicated you:
"Flee son, flee to Yabroud. Flee!! Alahu agba.

O Syrian Child! She was your only mark,
Since dad had fallen years gone and dark.
The Bomb had gotten her, as it had gotten him-
And now you are left to the world's cruel hymn.

Wipe your eyes, O syrian Child!
The pain bleeds your tender heart-
The terror of your people is a pile:
O child! How I dream you were a blissful lad.

Go down on your mat,
Pray, pray! pound out to Him,
Call out to him, sweet Allah,
He knows your broiled dilemma.

He knows, he knows, O Syrian Child!
Allah knows - that very God we worship.
There are tears in his tender eyes, 
As he watches his people in ruin.

O child! there is a way up yonder
The Lamb rubs his head against you
Urging you to hope for joy by
Looking up to that God, Allah!

Copyright © Gerald Nforche | Year Posted 2013

Details | Syrian Poem | |


Putin rides Russia’s pride
Cheers ring nation wide
Swept along by the tide
No matter, Putin’s stride

Putin derides all global calls
Jeering at the soft flung balls
High on the home-pep of it all
Playing pride before he falls

Before today Putin was creaking
Students raised aside his speaking
Syrian brokering coated his ceiling
Olympic grandeur won a believing

The party swings high on the pep
Unseeing past the next high step
Boozed out to the dawning inept
Recessions pill awaits there, swept 

Putin cynically prides pop calls 
Crimean homing serving the all
But the gain will pain, come the fall
Come the reality of Putin’s new wall 

It’s swallowing will cost his people
Harpooned by his Bolshevik needle
Freedoms put-on by the Putin spiteful
And recession bites like a razer-ball

Putin’s pride, his hoodwinking call
Subterfuge designed for his win all
Knowing oppression awaits cat calls
When pride bites deep... before the fall

Copyright © Dennis Broe-Ward | Year Posted 2014

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Arab Spring

From Tripoli to Cairo
I saw the intifada leftover
After Tunisia and Yemen
Like a dam broken
After it had sucked life from dry sand
Morocco, Kuwait, Djibouti and Oman
I heard birds singing at the cliff
Falsetto dawn
In the rift valley of religion
And water pouring from each sweat
Flood the root of the poisoned tree
Not Regina
Not Phoenix dactylifera
Not if the honey killed the bee.

Some have fallen
Shaken by the protest of the wind
Some stay uneasy 
For it is the season of orchestrated discontent
I see nothing to applause
Except that stability 
And the availability of corn
Are rare in democracy there.
For culture is soil and climate
That every root begins with
And nothing strange may grow
In a rich soil's barren love.
Heroes there and villains 
Have ridden sand forever
They do no swim this mediation well
Spring rain brings flash floods
And then vulture upon vulture
Circling the corner of the eye.

Too bad the spring
Shook the blossoms off in breeze
I smell the empty branches
The resin bleeding in the new night
Hot summer's dead piled up
Against a Syrian wall.
I pray for the autumn worm
And the bones winter white
My sajada is Mecca strewn
And in my head the adhaan
The adhaan, an intoxicated bell
Calls me out of grief.

Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2012

Details | Syrian Poem | |

The world right now

[21/09/2015 9:18:41 PM] P.c: while i stand on this stage
talking to you and the rest of the race
you see the cloths you wear
the places you live
the friends you have
the parents who love you all
while we talk about the Syrian refugees
things get interesting
not positively but more pessimistic
seeing their houses being blown to ash
friends lost cause of cross fire
parents some there and some gone
with the shoes you even where now 
some children go barefoot
some dont realize how bad this maybe
19.5 millin refugees says the most of this 
i dont know what is worse
knowing this statistic
or knowing that half are children
we all see how privaleged we may be
but would you like to pay back to society
help the others in need
 seeing to those who bleed
not always physically but emotionally
with tears of sadness
experience the lose of many
running from home
losing all types of cloths
not even seeing you house as home any more
cause the windows are blown out
the door on the floor
with bullet holes scattering the wall
u wonder what was home like before the war went on
now all you can recall is the herds of refugees 
running across lands dangerous or safe
climbing the border to be clear
as i personally know
i got a friend in the country next door
he talks as he sees
them fleeing in and crowding the streets
there is 3/4 percent of the populations Syrian rather than Lebanese
the country is in chaos
while others around the world barely notice
we got to try
help them some how some way
imagine walking miles
with no shoes
a father or mother
or not even both
escaping the country you called home
because the war raging around has destroyed everything you got
you are only a child
younger than the double digits
surviving the storm and one of the worst wars on this earth
now once they get to their new "home"
do you think they are treated fairly
my god please, look around
they are blocked at the borders and tear gassed cause they are so many 
they are rejected from all
the put tents up and sit tight
die from the cold in winter times
a new article said 
" young boy at the age of 7 dies from the cold even though being held in his mothers arms"
this just makes me sick deep down inside
realizing refugees aren't treated right
even though they are exiled from home
we got to make a change"

Copyright © Dylan Manassian | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Why France

France gave America the Statue of Liberty,
In 1865, from Edouard de Laboulaya, his act;
It begot Joan of Arc who insisted that,
Nationality bet religion as a matter of fact.

The Free French were renown in WW II, 
For an innate determination which alit,
The will of those sinking around them,
For the democratic heart that was split.

It produced Thomas Piketty with his book Capital,
Which called for a global tax of all richer states,
To redistribute income for egalitarianism,
For freedom and for the poverty liberation straits.
The death of Jihadi John set it all off,
As he was the symbol of the Islamic State,
Most definitely and without reservations,
He was the one with the credal slate. 

But France today has an interventionist policy,
In Syria, and is the most vocal nation of all,
Insisting that President Assad needs to go,
To enable free democracy to stand tall.

In 2010 Qatar, an Arab state with oil and gas,
Won the bid to host the 2022 FIFA World Cup;
When a UK government employee questioned this,
In November 2014, he caused a very real hiccup.

France was said to have validated Qatar,
To chief Sepp Blatter who was eventually removed;
I can’t dismiss that Qatar would have reciprocated,
With gifts of money for the French to be proved.

With some of Qatar’s money, flowing and free,
France would’ve strengthened its foreign policy,
Doubled its presence in Syria, or even tripled it,
With the USA and others following likewise - oui.

So the French people’s ability to fight ISIS,
Is important to Syrian Islamists who are fully aware,
That the size of an army determines its success,
Thus Qatar’s allegiances are ISILs concern to beware.

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Syrian Poem | |

another day

pale pink is the pre-dawn sky
"pink sky in mourning..."
today will be a pre-proceeding
- for some it will be the same
for some it will purvey monumental,
tsunamic, quaking, flashing innocence
as a muffled buzzing and pounding followed
by eerie stony silence enveloping the sun

FLASH! - what you knew you knew is gone
flash of white to yellow to red to black
billowing dread washes over as waves 
upon waves cover all good of the world
and flotsam of teared memories float
in mind and vision from past treasures

dangerous are those loving thoughts
unarmed without any weapons of indifference
vulnerable to the suffering and anguish
to stagger about befuddled and weeping
singularly, communally the onlookers look on

and piles of cairned candles and trinkets
appear out of nowhere, everywhere
feeble attempts to express hurt and good
- no good will come - yet - in time -
in time - time scabs over the wounded

the blood-letting stops, tears wither
and night follows this immemorable day
that we always remember, eons from now
as if it were last hour that i noticed the time, 
where did it go?, when will it stop?

© Goode Guy 2012-12-17

Copyright © Goode Guy | Year Posted 2012

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Mona Lisa Could See 2 of 2

Drop picture till six
The land like Pokémon kills
Nearing a tornado’s kiss?

Lift picture to three
The earth seems a lot different
 And looks extreme wilderness!

Turn picture upward
Rapid rivers dash inward
Floods hit mountains and stumble! 
See Ottoman cries!
Its history in Palestine
Breaks loudly a hurting cry!

Until the see twirls
Syrian shores to Lake Err!
 In one tsunami fits in!

Turn picture around
Look at it from the back side
Night time is facing big sigh!

Walk around clockwise
Walk around counter clock’s wise
What’s the difference at bright?

Look carefully at
While standing behind that
Her shoulders and her two arms

South America?
Thirst for the Atlantic’s tap
See a side face that had trapped?

Is there another mountain?
Leaking black gas surrounding
Happy carnival, walking? 

See the dancing sleeves?
While wild fire nears the streets
On her leaning arm as seen?

The plate is moving!
South America swimming?
The south is wetting valleys!

Would waters sink in?
Reaching Amazon’s region
From the forest’s province?

Incline her to three
See volcano born from sea?
Crafting her right cheek’s sad fear?

Is it Gibraltar?
Suddenly speaks, spreads horror
Causing Mona Lisa’s shock?

Tilt her down to six
See Morocco’s beaches quick?
Nearing the west in a blink?

Or causing that lint
To near Africa’s dark flint?
Marrying mounts in a blink?

Prop to quarter till
Watch! The height of the waves bring
Over Mona’s head curving!

Prop her upward to
See again what had done to
See fire rocks drop next to!

Is she hugging babe?
Alive or faint but looks dead?
Leaning on her charm screen scared?

She’s holding a rose!
Or holding one stem of corn?
Looks like child’s hand overall!

Near a villager’s 
Boat on top of the mountain
Does sail or drifts to go float?

But, a pyramid
More likely to look amid
Mountain tops and gardens’ bits!

Spin picture right this
Minute, a serpent showing
Behind two wed couples’ kiss!

Aruba under 
Her nose moving to northeast
Survives a great flood beneath!

Walk ahead the screen
See Mona is still weeping
For two thousand twelve... searching!
By: Nadia F. Shahwan – April 2009.  Note: This is an innocent discovery to analyze the 
beauty of the famous Mona Lisa by Van Gogh.

Copyright © Nadia Shahwan | Year Posted 2009

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Talitha Cumi Rise

' Talitha Cu'mi - - - Rise ! ... '

        (Tal' i-tha cu' mi)
(An Ancient Arabic/Syrian Phrase)

(Mark 5: 41 / John 5: 28, 29 / John 6: 39 /  John 10: 3-15, 27 / John 11: 23-27)

'Talitha Cumi ... Rise!'
Said The One Who Can Save All Lives
Talitha Cumi ... Rise!
Death's Cut Will Not Be Your Knife
-- Talitha Cumi ... Rise! --

Talitha Cumi ... Rise!
From Your Bed & Your Good-Byes
Talitha Cumi ... Rise!
Hear My Voice & Recognize
-- Talitha Cumi ... Rise!

'Rise! From Upon Your Bed
Greet The Brightest Day Instead
Greet The Blessings On Your Head
The Blood of Life For You I Bled
-- Talitha Cumi ... Rise!' --

'Talitha Cumi ... Rise!'
Said My Beloved Lord Jesus Christ
'I Covered You In My Sacrifice
and You Praised Our GOD For That Price
-- Talitha Cumi ... Rise!' --

'Little One - Open Your Eyes
Loved Ones - Dry Your Eyes
'Cause Resurrection Ain't No Lie
Wake Up! ... and Walk Eternal Life!'

Tal i-tha cu' mi  ... Rise!

         Written & Copyrighted ©:  9/26/2013 
                  by:  MoonBee Canady

Examples of a Resurrection:  The Spring Season, Butterflies from Cocoons, 
A Buried Seed, A Healed Skin-Cut, A Revived Heart (and) A Human Being
(and the song above is how I felt after my Lumpectomy Surgery) Oh yeah!


Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2013