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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

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

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.

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

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

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

Details | Syrian Poem | |

The Syrian Spy

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

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

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 




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 :)

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

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

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!

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.

Details | Syrian Poem | |


You now would think Khadaffi falling 
From the stool was first the shaping
For the world to come. Listen
Loudly the silent deaths of forest leaves falling abroad
From Sudan to Syria, pen
The Arab spring wilted in the blind Syrian discord

It is not black and white any more
The tangled thread dropped at our door
Ends go north and south, then west
Neither in religion or puzzled economics 
Does the burden bends a mind lest
From the busy covert trend of paltry politics

Counting bodies is collateral
To the objective rational 
Appeal, I am non-inclined 
To trade past doublecross for a paradigm of justice
A southern season slow resigned
From its own vision must drink of drizzled chaos plus this.

Syria, the ears are sleeping 
On the hill, truth's promise breaking
Where fall the riot's dead bell
To the stoking furnace bring broken tongue in callous tears
We forge for heaven such a hell
A limp the cadaver of dreams across the slanted years.  

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.

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Shades of Sunrise

Shades of Sunrise

Dew about to escape
Breath exchanging life's elements
Another day of deals
Running shoes padding rhythms
Ready the boardroom battles
Clopping horses arriving for oats
Tourists to enchant
Occasional honk
Distress already starting
Cabs feeling lonely
So goes
Central Park awakening

Chad's sunrise-oppression unbearable
One tree shade refuge
Shoulder to shoulder
Elbow to elbow
Meager shelter respites
Awaiting Doctors Without Borders
Despair's awaited visit
Anxious tears begging cessation
Land Rover dust billowing
Through distant heat rising
Reality's desert-St. Nick on schedule
Time's super-human visitor arriving
For a refugee park arousing

Forgotten daybreaks

Sun not seen
Clouds of smoke
Layered upon layer
Acrid death and bomb residual levitating
From yesterday
Last week
Earlier months
Years ago

Now but surreal imaginings
Held ever so precious
Beside today's reality

A Syrian city without walls
Only rubble
Crumbling ever faster
More shell holes
Bigger bombs
Pulverizing all vestige of civilization
Seemingly endless murder and destruction
Reminding all
A dictator's Neanderthal mind-set
Club crunching club
Rock crushing rock
Delivers daily battle zone awakenings
Seemingly in perpetuity


Might innocent sunrises
See the light
Once again?

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Syrian Agony

A bird flying in the Sky
Can be evidence
May be blind
While the justice disappears
Over the point of view 
Down to as a whole

It may not downward
To sit with them
Sticks on the sky
Flying without aim
Looking back and at
The theories of peace

Word to word
Weapon to weapon  
Blood to blood
Hand to hand
To fight and to celebrate
For a happiness of the end

Epic turns pages
Learns lessons
Without verbs

Freeze Rivers of universe
Melt and flow 
Pouring human blood
Turning into “Red Sea”
Uniting the sea of whole 

Glory and power
Will of desire
Bi- tri – polar
Toast for over

Arrogant decision
Legitimates peace
Innocent civilian
Encages to piece

Die and cry
Carry on why
Syrian’s sky
Heave a sigh 

Bird you and I are misguided 
Media as a medium 
Is as a message
Hegemony of the God
Of several hands

Udaya R. Tennakoon

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!


Details | Syrian Poem | |

Nice To Meet You

I had heard of Black-
From highly learned 
And, a twiggy oily 
I have always 
City-women walk in 
Wear stylish and 
talk in style,
A Cow-boy shall 
always commend!
But I have 
somewhere read,
An Indian American 
poet to his
Syrian wife wrote
An unknown love 
Blaming her of 
dating once
A Muslim friend.
Therefore ere we 
may walk together 
any more,
Tell me, for instance!
Have you visited 
that saint’s shrine?
There, near your 
The fort’s on the 
Rocky Mount;
Climbed those 
hundred-fifty stony 
Many many times, in 
that sweet nonage
With grandma.
And nowadays on 
almost all Sundays
In the evenings, with 
my mom.

Ah! Ah!
Then you must have
 Fed the wild-
pigeons’ flock, corn;
Helped the lame, 
blind beggars with 
coins, and rice;
In the festivals’ 
Served the waking 
from the far villages 
in country,
Fried in ghee, the 
And in Samovar—

Yes, my dear Yes!
I have, I have, I 

Details | Syrian Poem | |

and now the policeman picks up his club

uncle sam took a moment to sit down
at the diner counter & shove a couple more
doughnuts down his gullet,
but don’t you worry,
now that Kofi Annan has thrown in the towel,
the big ****ing bully of the world
is gonna get its way again---
this time,
Sec. Clinton will no doubt come rumbling out
bantering on about how Putin is the closest thing to
the christian imaginary boogeyman 
whose name is just as long as his &
ends in the same letter
what we have here is yet another demonstration 
of all-out-aggression-to-be,
brought to you on your screens
courtesy of the world’s
those who fear him (buddies)---
everybody will be
ganging up on a country that exists in the region near
that last strong holdout who refuses to get down on
its knees & 
suck off america,
giving them whatever they want &
allowing them to rape all the natural resources &
bring “democracy”
which has failed at home on the domestic front &
so it will fail everywhere that the US demands it
to be, so that the US can get what they want
from everyone on this earth.

with bat*********ing crazy Netanyahu 
trying to intimidate mister hope & change
by sallying up with the white/rich/racist/mormon/moron
(whose most recent remarks about Palestinian culture
should give the people left in the belly of the beast
who still believe in this failed & corrupt political system
a little taste of what he will bring to the table
if you don’t walk, talk, look like & think like 
he does),
and all the warmongers on the Security Council (minus
Mr. Putin & co.) chomping at the bit,
happy that all the support they’ve given to the rebels in
Syria, made it so that Annan’s peace plan could never even
be attempted,
now there will be two fresh new conflicts 
to drain the taxpayers in the US 
of any money they have left!

the only questions left will be
when will Israel strike Iran?
(will it be before or after November?)
when will the empire send support to help
Israel fight Iran?
when will the empire send support to 
remove Assad from his country so that
“democracy” can be brought to the Syrian

and so we wait,
running the hamster wheel to make enough 
scratch to get angry at the screen,
a few minutes before falling 
asleep exhausted or
getting back on the wheel to
do it all over again,
hoping we don’t get hurt (no health care) &
hoping tomorrow comes
before these psychopaths who run things
drive our species into

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Serius, the Syrian Sorcerer

Serius, Arch Nemisis of such bliss
that you woulodn't know to miss
the beating of your heart inside 
or the doors of hades swinging wide

and the gentlest carresses of the dragons tongue
leaving traces of sulphourous flaming nether-dung
'pon your head, though had you read, you'd know
the stygain darkling doors near, creaking woe

serius, enchanting stalwart scoin of royal lineage, going back to hell
from which, i swear, my oldest ansestral memory, is of that day i fell
from heavens trumpt up majesty, through a very vale of tears
to land here among these people, and their many lovely lively fears

an eye i wiped, and without an upward glance
i set about to make the best, of my every chance
to find employers fit for me, apprentise as i was back then
to try to fit in with this crowd, so evil was this race of men

gently, trepidations palpitate, this cavern of flame within my chest
i wandered to and fro, trying my levelest best
to figure out how to compete, with Adams vicious broods
still on my guard, still atremble, they have such moods

to and fro, yet still i go
aworried and afrighted, don't you know
i kneel and pray, to God above, for His grace
trapped in this so beknighted place


to and fro, to and fro

Details | Syrian Poem | |


Killing is killing 
But I say NO 
It takes a truly evil being To commit such blasphemy 
To steal the show.
Say what you will 
About U.S. complicity in this crime 
That we should exit Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq 
That we have the blood of innocents on our hands 
I say, it goes much deeper this time

It goes to the core 
Of what makes us humane 
And gives us the capacity for compassion 
To say NO to our baser instincts 
And to choose to step back from the Game

 Look to your heart 
For it is there you will find 
The scales of justice 
That determines the good from the evil 
And separate those who see, from those that are blind 

Beheading is a heinous act 
That leaves me physically ill 
It goes beyond the pale 
And leaves me questioning 
How & why do they kill! 

Hamas, Syrian terrorist 
They call it, holy Jihad, 
How arrogant to claim it is Holy 
When in reality, its just plain evil!
And they will stand before and answer to their God! 

- See more at:

Details | Syrian Poem | |

Syrian Graveyard

Unnumbered human corpses
mutilated and spread
like illegally-shot elephants in Waza Park!
From ‘man know thyself’
to ‘man hates himself’-
humans mutilate humans!

Future-bound glorious infants,
feeble moms
and luck-abandoned dads
bombed, suffocated, shot and slain
by politico-economic drunks!
Yawning stomachs here,
blood-dripping arms there,
open-mouth frozen heads here,
rotting breasts there,
decomposing legs here…

We are in Homs,
we are in Alep,
we are in Damascus where
there has been fierce fighting
since long ago…

Vultures in black suits
brace up
for carnivorous autopsy ;
they transport chunks from
the uninterred corpses to
carnivorous mortuaries up-sky.
Maggots, ants and scavengers
perform rapid interments,
substituting caskets and graves
with their innards and
facilitating the cycle from dust to dust.

These mean creatures,
some flying,
others crawling
and some others walking,
feast on the garbage corpses ,
mocking man’s inhumanity to man
and celebrating
this sudden twist of values—
the beastification of humans and
the humanisation of beasts.

They mock us,
they mock us
for this sudden twist of values.
They also mock us and bemoan
the occidental-egoistic planes
that burned
infinite barrels
of exploitation fuel on Libyan skies,
urinating bombs and missiles,
grinding and crushing humans for humans
or humans for oil.

Aha! What a twist of values!
Exploitation went mad
and naked in Bengazi…

We are in Homs,
we are Alep,
we are in Damascus
where all Pauls
have gone Sauls…

Annan can’t understand
humanitarians’ whereabouts
now. His six points
repose in occidental dust bins.
Then he sighs.
Then he sighs,
performs Pilatism
and gives up.

Moscow and London
persistently draw parallels
that can only
meet magically
in Damascus.
So-called World Powers
Now ride snails to
Syrian emergency meetings
while they were flown
in swallows to Tripoli.

We are in Homs,
we are in Alep,
we are in Damascus
where countless infinities
of Arab eyes have focused
on one cushion since last year :
one cushion of thorns and pleasure,
one cushion of spikes and leisure.

The solution then?
It only lies back
in the Syrian Graveyard.

Syrians, counts these abandoned, mutilated,
rotting, decomposing corpses.
Count them and drop your arms.
Count them, drop your arms
and impregnate your land
with progress.

Know this: There is only one
seat in every presidency…
A president may toy
with a human constitution,
but can never ever
thwart the Womb-to-Tomb Constitution .

(Mbankolo, 6 August 2012)

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