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Best Afghan Poems

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Details | Afghan Poem | |

Letters from Afghanistan (cowritten by James Fraser)

Dear Carolyn:
Another letter from another tour
In this place in the sand they call Helmand
This will be my last, for you can be sure
To never look back on these Afghan lands
 
          Dear James:
          It's been so long since I've felt your embrace
          Studied the constellations through your eyes
          Found joy in the manly features of your face
          Or recovered from our last sad goodbyes

Dear Carolyn:
Another two lost, one was my best friend
Before it's me, I pray my leave is soon
My heart is crying out, my hopes descend 
Is tomorrow my day, in deathly strewn
 
          Dear James:
          I've been praying so hard; surely you're safe
          The son I carry will have his Dad's smile
          I don't think God would orphan our young waif
          You must walk through our door in a short while

Dear Carolyn:
The joy in your letter, mother to be
Me a father, soon to be homeward bound
Grow with my kin in the land of the free
To thrive in peace on American ground

          Dear James:
          I think our boy will be a football star
          Perhaps he’s sending a message to Dad          
          Like Peyton and Eli he’s thrusting hard
          To have you and him here, I’ll be so glad

Dear Carolyn:
As James was preparing to say goodbye
Boarding the chopper to take him your way
Enemy aircraft dropped bombs from the sky
I regret to say this was James’ last day
          Commanding Officer Brannigan
          U.S. Armed Forces, Afghanistan

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Afghan Journey

I want to wear a djellabas. Blackness engulfing me in its tentlike refuge veiled in gauze. Or a burkha of blue with a screen over my face to hide my eyes. I want to wear rope sandals down a dusty Afghan road on the warmest of days with the wind whistling through the Khyber Pass. I want to know the language, taste the food, gaze at the bearded men I pass who will not know I am looking at them. They are handsome and brave in Kabul. I want to hear the children reciting the Koran in their Pushtu cadence and play upon a tabir with a beat of peace.

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Stripping of Star Capes

Sleep with me under the afghan of stars
illuminary milk pouring out of heaven's jars
A storm of sliding satellites colliding can be ours
as we ribbon out our lives in whispered stories.

~Whisking up of ink in your eyes white peppered mint
while our breath entrances frost on the eve of night fall's wrist
We are still intangible, first here, but than a mist
as vagrant as sweet stars in their last glory.
Shoulders hug the trees with their limbs limp silhouette
while we strip translucent star capes to their bows with no regret
Moon beam pure explosions to beget and to beget
the light with which we pine for now in haste~

Sleep with me under the myriads of minds
which slept here before us and whispered in kind
We will be stardust ourselves you will find
as our wings of illusion unravel.

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Silver Strands

I still have the afghan you made for me all
those years ago mother
Although I have washed the afghan dozens
of times the silver strands are still interlaced
through the yarn

I feel your love and warmth each time I cover 
myself with this special afghan.
You are always here with me when I am ill
and covered with my afghan interlaced with 
silver strands through the yarn

Yes mother the silver strands are your hair
As you so lovingly made my afghan your hair 
fell into the weave left behind when you left this 
earth heaven bound

For the Early Mothers Day ~ Contest of P. D.
Written by: Carol Brown
3rd Place Winner

Dedicated to my Mother
Helen Elizabeth Huebner
08/1928 ~ 10/2005




Details | Afghan Poem | |

A World Away

I found
your eyes
so randomly,
your face did
not exist

No waist
to place my
arms around,
no lips for me
to kiss

No hair
to lose my
fingers in,
nor ear to
whisper sweet

No one
to hide within
my heart, to
fall in love 
so deep

Your image
I saw by
happenstance,
a beautiful
vision to see

You held
me there with
just a look, as
you stared back
at me

Your eyes,
those lips, that
lovely face,
my feelings are
all for not

For you
are more
than a world
away, my beauty
from Herat

Herat (Herr-Rot) is both an Afghan city and province. Herat City is the capital 
of Herat Province located in the western portion of Afghanistan.

Written in Afghanistan -May 2013

Details | Afghan Poem | |

The house eaters

1.
My grapefruit tanned
toothpicks
bow above
the five-day flattened
spot
in an olive shag carpet
tracing grandpa Leo's 
blueprint,
with one encapsulated
toe –
this is the femur, this is
the head,
this is the fist, the ring
finger, the soul.
I search for any blunt
white quivering slivers
of Caroline's purported
fly fetuses.

2.
Huddling behind the
corpse
of an old hospital bed,
a framed photo 
smoke browned and
wearing my toddler face,
watches
his children choke
hushed, broken
sentences

this will be yours, my
plate, separate the
holiday china…

an enigmatic language
that hovers in
smoke stretched rings
to wilt
upon the hallway
bulb.

3.
I am left
the ceramic cygnet,
and an ivory carved 
dromedary.

These artifacts
plucked
from his porcelain
menagerie
that I decipher 
through dust fingerprints
for
one small inheritance of
a memory.

4.
Tomorrow,
Aunt Rose
puts price
to his bibelots,
the olive shag carpet,
even cousin Amy's 
plastic horse,
who was accidentally
left to pasture on an 
afghan.

A silver plated glass cage
image of her past,

she says she will whittle
all of him,
from the
wooden
house 
bones.



Details | Afghan Poem | |

Our Liberty Blazing Soldiers

"...when power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence...” --John F. Kennedy ~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~
Soldiers of our armed forces, Iraq, Afghan, Lebanon, many shores, Light the way like liberty blazing torches They fight heat, bugs, sand, tough faces, urban warfare, darkness, crashed doors, Soldiers of our armed forces Now Send home change of addresses, stories, photos, emails, strange places, Light the way like iron cut by torches Camouflage faces, wet bloody bruises, brows sweating, under helmet gushes, Soldiers of our armed forces Sleep in sandy humid desert trenches, thunder blast, bombs dropped, fire fights, Light the way like laser torches Loved ones wear yellow broaches, anxiety, praise, tears, vague smiles, Soldiers of our armed forces, Light the way like liberty blazing torches.

Details | Afghan Poem | |

I want to Throttle That Darned Axolotl!

I have a friend called Bob Beaubobble
who trains unusual pets to juggle
assorted items frequently fumbled
by freakish fish or octibumbles

This hobby made him mucha dinero
which he put in the bank ‘with interest’ to grow  
but while he was filling in all of the forms
One creature escaped from under his arms

Unseen in the dark, in the bank late at night
It bypassed security through the intranet site
And juggled and gambled to its hearts content
playing with our pennies until they were spent

Red-faced officials met the press in a panic
George Bush sent more troops to Afghan and Iraq
World leaders drew circles around toxic debt
then pointed their fingers to the country that started it...

The slimy old salamander sucks his cigar
as he drives to his office in a luxury car.
CEO though all see he's a feckless axolotl
without any shame, just a shed load of bottle.

He's safe in the knowledge, while his bank has been drained
A huge bonus is scheduled to keep him retained
and cash will be pumped from the taxpayers vains 
soon he’ll start things all over and gamble again.

Details | Afghan Poem | |

The Dandelion and my Wife Strike Again


I pondered the dandelion and its dazzling deed.
Some folks think this fluffy flower is a worthless weed.

But deep down inside its transparent fluff,
a thousand tassels hide in a sphere of spiracle stuff.

Embryonic umbrellas cuddle in cocoons,
until April’s sunshine tells us a miracle is coming soon.

Mystified and wondering, I was shaken from my dream,
and abruptly stopped my pondering when I heard a scream,

As my wife descended like an Afghan bomb!
“Go out and mow the weeds,” she said, “which last year you called lawn!”


Details | Afghan Poem | |

THE RETURN OF PETER PAN 2014

THE RETURN OF PETER PAN…2014  

And Introducing 
The arch enemy:
((Political Correctness and Health and Safety))

Ladies and Gentlemen: boys and girls. Peter Pan is set to strike again.

 
A sequel to J.M. Barrie’s classic tale will be published in the very near future, in which Tinkerbell will be replaced by a male fairy named Firefly, the Darling little children are all grown up, Neverland is blighted by pollution and Nana the dog, is sadly dead. 

Darryl Ashton has obtained this exclusive interview with Peter Pan to find out what went wrong. Peter says: “What has the world come to when someone like me is no longer allowed in children’s bedrooms? OK, so at first inspection things don’t sound too great.
I am someone who climbs secretly through children’s  bedroom windows. I have a friend called Tinkerbell who is, yes, a ‘Fairy’. The two of us tell the little Darlings’ to forget about their parents and come away with us on a big adventure to Neverland. But relax, will you! 
Looking’ back I guess my problems really began when I started planning this return trip to Britain after some 100 years. Do you know how hard it is for a guy like me to get the paper work together? By the time Childcare Agencies, Social Services and The Criminal Records Bureau had vetted me, the magic was wearing pretty thin, I can tell you.

Was I self – employed? Or were Tinkerbell and I in a VAT – registered partnership? Did I have a pilot’s licence, which met all compliance standards? Did I have the relevant Visa for tourists from Non – EU countries? Questions, questions! Don’t all these regulations get you down? Anyway, as Tinks and I soon came to discover, Britain has changed beyond all recognition in the years we have been away.
Our first discovery, much to our horror, was Wendy, and her brothers John and Michael, were some time ago taken into foster care. We learnt that their parents, who were in the habit of leaving them in the care of Nana the dog, had been stripped of access to the children.

TV crews chased Mr and Mrs Darling down the street and a police guard had to be placed outside their door to prevent vigilante gangs from attacking them. Well, that was all too much for Nana the dog who was carted off to an RSPCA hospital, where she was soon being seen by a strange Australian man with a beard and a didgeridoo, who said he could make her a star, on, Animal Hospital.  

Nana said she’d rather be put down, so after a quick call to an assisted suicide group called Dognitas, the old dear’s now pushing up the daises next to Shep in Blue Peter’s garden. Such a waste, she’d been trained by Norland, you know. 
But I don’t suppose that means much these days.

Unsurprisingly, the Darling children went rapidly down hill from there. Shunted from one foster home to another, they fell in with the wrong crowd. Before long, Michael was wearing a hoodie and worse, hanging out with Prince Harry’s lot. As for little John, without any proper father figure to look after him, he found solace in a new faith, changed his name to Sinbad, and was last heard of heading for the Afghan hills for a spiritual vacation. Which is why Wendy got back in touch with yours truly.

So with no one else left to help her, Wendy closed her eyes tight and sent a wish to her old mate Peter Pan. I must confess, when her message first popped up on my Blackberry, I winced. Is there nowhere the office can’t reach me these days? Even Neverland? So I made a few calls, and whaddya know? Hookie agreed to help me out. Yes, I know he’s a rogue and bounder who has polluted the whole of Neverland, after swapping the Jolly Roger for a fleet of turbo charged jet skis. 

Big mistake. We’d scarcely set foot in London before the anti – terrorism squad and Hookie was carted off to Belmarsh. You should have heard him shouting when they took him away! “I am Hook, one time bosom to Blackbeard. The only man to send a shiver up the wooden stump of, Long John Silver. The only consolation for the poor Captain was that the crocodile never made it through the security checks at Neverland Airport”. The other passengers heard that clock ticking in its belly and said they would not travel unless the croc was chucked off the flight.

As for Tinkerbell, no sooner had she returned to her old haunts than a gay rights group called Stonewall said it was totally unacceptable for her old name to be retained. When asked for an explanation, they just threw their eyebrows to the ceiling, sucked in their lips like lemon quarters and gasped: Firely was so much more ‘now’. They even wanted Tinks to change her gender, but we’re still negotiating on that. The Elf’s trade union is pretty sticky on that sort of alteration.

The fairy costumes had to go too, something to do with stereotyping. But when I showed Tinks her new thong, her little pilot light went out altogether, and I’m afraid no amount of Polish plumbers can get it started again. So now I’m stranded and alone, with only my shadow for company. Even Wendy has cut off contact after getting a six – figure deal to appear on a Celebrity show---get me out of here! All of this I can tell you, is incredibly upsetting.

What has happened to Britain these days? I know Neverlands not perfect, but it’s a place where time stands still – and innocence is preserved and I like it that way. Today’s inspectors and officials all say that they’re only interested in protecting children. But by imagining the worst of people they are only wrecking the very innocence they presume to defend.

As I was telling the tooth fairy the other day: “You know Gums, sometimes I wonder if childhood itself is vanishing”. And do you know what she said in reply: “Sorry Pete, I’ve gone private. If you want a consultation, you’ll have to pay up front”.
How about ‘Pay – as – you – go? Sorry Pete, it’ll Neverland!


BY
DARRYL ASHTON                                                      

                                        


Details | Afghan Poem | |

Aftermath

Last Night

There is a stillness in the house
While I wait, as quiet as a mouse

I soak it up, this quiet respite
For very soon, I'll be more desperate

I will need the peace inside myself
To put my needs up on the shelf

For at this very moment
I hear the gravel of the tires

No warning shot, no cannon fires

Coming up the winding driveway
I can hear the troops, they are like an army

I hear them comin' ....,  (and yes, I love them!)

This Morning:

Pots and pans fill up the sink, with baked on, crusty bits
There are several plates of dried up cheese, and dips with soggy Ritz

The kitchen floor has sticky goo, where the bowl of gravy spilled
And scattered glasses here and there, (a few are still half-filled)

New sofa pillows are on the floor, the dog is sleeping there! 
The gift of chocolates, someone brought me...have somehow disappeared!

A rumpled afghan, lies in a heap, where someone took a nap
Beneath the chair, a scarf, a shoe,  and someone's fleese lined wrap

There is Chex mix, legos, tinker toys, helter-skelter around the floor
Chocolate crumbs, beneath my feet, and handprints on the door

The remote control, was out the door, I found it on the porch!
The telephone was ringing too, and took an hour's search!

I'm finding candle wax, and a few thumb tacks,  a mix of this and that
I keep finding things, ...then can't find things, has anyone seen the cat??

A turkey carcass stares at me, ......(I guess I'll make some soup)
A messy bunch of people, they are,  but if you think I'm duped................

Thanksgiving Day, with family here, (although they leave a mess...)
A holiday, the best of things, and yes, I know I'm blessed!

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Afghan Glory

A poem by John Nesbitt © 22.11.2013 

I was eighteen years old and wanting to fight 
 I found what I looked for, in bars late at night 
 I took on the big guys, the small ones as well 
 They were all tough, as far as I could tell 
 -
 As a jobless young man, proud of my country 
 I joined up with the army and trained how not to be 
 They told me I’d fight to keep us all free 
 So that we’d never have to bend the knee 
 They trained me in weapons, unarmed combat too 
 The use of explosives and what they could do 
 And how to take cover behind rocks and trees 
 They taught me to find bombs and those I E D’s 
 -
 So step up to the plate boys, start waving the flag 
 We’ll be all draped with medals when it’s all in the bag 
 Think of the glory, this conflict will bring 
 A few months away, then we can all sing 
 -
 On my very first mission, I was told to unwind 
 I took lead position, when searching for mines 
 The blast threw me up twenty feet in the air 
 I couldn’t feel my feet for they were no longer there 
 My right arm was shattered my left fingers gone 
 I once had two ears but now only one 
 I thought I was dying, I couldn’t hear a thing 
 I wasn’t thinking of the medals or being dressed up with bling 
 -
 Now all I can do is sit here on the floor 
 and wonder what it all had been for 
 my comrades call around from time to time 
 I can see their discomfort when they’re thinking of mine 
 They wouldn’t trade places, no matter what for 
 They each have their memories, of that terrible war 
 My fighting days over, no more blood and guts 
 So I’ll settle right down in my terrible rut 
 -
 I stepped up to the plate boys and I waved the flag 
 But I’m not draped in medals and it’s not in the bag 
 I thought of the glory the conflict would bring 
 No legs, no fingers and in no mood to sing 
 - 
 Things soon will be over in Afghanistan 
 Talks are on-going with the Taliban 
 We struggled against them for thirteen hard years 
 But all we produced was billions of tears 
 Fathers lost sons and Mothers lost child 
 business got rich, there were deals on the side 
 Where’s the next country they’ll start a new war 

 Persia? 
 Korea? 
 Let’s hope….. it’s…. not ….yours

Details | Afghan Poem | |

KNIT-WIT

This wordy poet also loves to knit,

Nothing too complex, not even a mitt,

I don’t use a pattern, none that’s legit,

But I can pearl fine, well...just a bit.

Heaven is angora and time to sit,

Then letting my hands just flutter and flit.

Crafting an afghan for my benefit, 

As comfy in my chair as a hobbit, 

I drop stitches and think nothing of it,

Though it’s lopsided, I refuse to quit,

It is lap-wide so at least it will fit,

But my needles don’t move lickety-split,

And there is a detail I did omit:

This was a baby blanket, but, dang-it

my girl’s now in college, studying Lit!

Eventually, might read my obit,

So, to its completion, I will commit,

For I’ll never give up, never submit!

But faults I’ll allow, dawdling I’ll permit,

And, frankly, poetry is the culprit,

Verses entice so lines I retrofit, 

While my yarn grows old and gets in a snit, 

It balls itself up, has a hissy-fit,

Knots itself over this silly knit-wit.

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Wrong

This place is wrong
Thats why i write this song
Just to make sure we all know 
How wrong the war on terror has gone

In the Afghan we fight the Taleban
In Iraq we fight the image of Sadam
Where fighting anyone who follows Islam
And i shouldn't need to say thats wrong

So all you people here my song
And everybody stand up and right this wrong
So lets just have some peace in the middle east
But first of al lets have peace on our streets

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Firearm fatalities

Firearm  fatalities

Look at what recent media reports state
Awful, ironical, amusing  at once
Folks at the mercy of firearms in the STATES
Which fights terror, left and right, with booming guns.

Why not, at gun control laws, have a relook?
In Oak Creek and elsewhere, what a toll it took
Putting  US civilian lives more at risk
Than those in the war-torn  Afghan and Iraq.

7th Aug 12

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Detroit A Deadly Look

Maiming, killing, chaos, happening throughout this nation, happenings everyday.
Saw an article in the newspaper about the City of Detroit. A killing frequently just another day.
Now as Christians we should realize and know that violence breeds violence.
So what do we do? We arm our educators so we can protect our children our innocents.

More people this year have been killed in Detroit than in the Afghan war.
Right here in the U.S.A. violence is leaving a tremendous scar.
Our children being taught through the airways, video games, that same sex marriage is OK’
Our Television media explodes when violence is shown; our moral compass is in disarray.

This goes back along time our nation is a relatively young nation compared to the Vatican and the Pope.
Yet since our very Foundation we are supposedly a nation that believe in God, Christian today think that this is a travesty a joke. 
We lead in exporting smut triple x rated films nasty movies that turn up everywhere we are being misled.
The devil, his legions, control the airways they have crept into our culture, our families, our moral compass is dead.

As Christians we should pray in repentance, turn to God’s Commandments, and trust our Father.
Trusting corrupted leaders, trusting in man, is not the way in history it has never worked, this is what I’ve gathered.
Detroit a city gripped with terror, fear, a city where our children die in crossfire.
This is a national concern a must change policy towards children, to see them gunned down the situation is dire.

The four horsemen have been riding for a long time.
Ignoring the “Word” Ignoring the Father is truly the real crime.
We do ourselves no justice, with our free will we as Christians must trust in our Savior and the Lord.
Asking God to guide “Us,” in electing officials that have the courage to say enough, let’s go to God and His Son for help. Let’s truly as nation follow the “Word.” 

Details | Afghan Poem | |

by the looks of yesterday you people have not learned a thing by a disciple of Beaudlair like me

YET ANOTHER HALF-WIT WHO SHOULD LEARN TO KNIT

For what it’s worth
I’m  feeling as if I’m stranded upon this earth
A place where half-wits ain’t got even half a brain
yet they’re telling me they see the sun when it’s really the rain

People who think I have time for their asinine advice
Well I’d rather be anywhere else and lose when I'm rolling the dice
Because that’s not why I’m stranded on earth just to hear their verbal bullsh*t
The ones who instead of preaching to me should learn how to knit

That would be more constructive then the mis-information they behold
And then they can create an afghan for me when I sleep in the street and it’s cold
I have had enough of these morons with their mixed up morals and speech
And when my girlfriend washes that afghan I’ll remind her not to use bleach

In any event these fu**ing fools talk far too fast 
But it’s information that’s never meant to last
I look at these jerk offs with damnation and disdain
You know, the half-wits who ain’t got even half a brain
          © 2011.…..~free cee!~



Details | Afghan Poem | |

The Afghan Beast of War

Cries of agony
Desert land
No-person zone
No man’s land
No man can control the dusk and sand
Tanks squashing the houses
No hope
No hospitals
No food
No life
Just battle
Guns
The bullet
Evil deadly bullet
Armies formalise
To take over the no man’s land
None survive
Because the ones who live in the desert
Aren’t men
They are heroes
A consequence of war
Twisted surface
Twisted desert
No person’s imaginable fate
The sky turns 
A church bell rings
Dead bodies surround the floor
Blood sweeps the houses
Fire kills the innocent men, women and children
Teenagers fight to defend their country
The evil desert
The beast of war

Details | Afghan Poem | |

The Man in the Iran Mosque





        Afghan Afghan wearing an Afghan

      leg lifted high

            a pissious 88 salute

          and drenching thirsty

                                    cactus masses

                             with needle arms

                        these masses

                                    drooling acids

                                         crass bands

                                 of bandit masses


                   and the temperature over 140 degrees


            erect hands 

              linger longingly

pining for more

                opiated oblivion

                opinions like onions

          like reefer smoke weaving

      inhalation-pant-breathing

                 half assed flags

                    and children try on roles

                                        like play clothes

                        orphan, mourner,

                                    time traveller

            instant age

               in the era of youth

        exfoliators for sporeous pores

-swapping wives instead of recipes now

-foot taps not door raps in bathrooms now

-teachers teach sex ed with homework now

            a world strong enough

     to school us weekly

            as we are fed weakly

we murder it

   by not living Taliban-tech levels

but being regurgitated 

Romans we

       eating to excess

       drinking more

       sexing children

       losing mores

we will circle coriolis

    bring enemies in among us

         and embrace

    this pieceful islam of Religion

 and die

            one by one

                as a people

            who refused a Good God

                will never take a violent god

           and obssessed

     with libertine dash liberty

will die

       one

         by

        one

stoned, jaw dropping walldrops, 

            like head drops

                in soccer stadiums


smile

            this is your life


(but try not to get any turf in your teeth)


Details | Afghan Poem | |

Afghan Superman

Daisy-flux
Pashtun kickboxing
Blank stares
Cut-off
Free life
Classy travel
Super kamarati

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Where Frozen Embers Still Burn

We huddled ‘neath a hand-made afghan When it was just eight-below outside Beside the brick fireplace with my man Less than a year since I was his bride Hopes and dreams we shared that bitter night His arms ‘round me; all seemed possible Recalling our vows before firelight Our matching rings shone, our love's symbol There’d never be another for me We thought all of our dreams would come true We had no insight of what would be Never knowing we’d soon bid adieu He now finds warmth in heaven’s light My heart knows he’ll not be returning But recalling this night brings delight Even with frozen embers burning
*August 18, 2015

Details | Afghan Poem | |

Butterfly

She was just 8 years old
With freckles on her face
She was a little tom boy
Playing miles from the U.S base

Her name was parwana
 Means butterfly in afghan
She was like a little princess
Born in a cruel land

She was with other children
Just playing under the skies
But they look like terrorist
to a  robotic drone as it flies

So they all were killed
With bombs falling from the skies
Then Washington says on TV
It’s a mistake we apologize

We apologize for your lost?
How will that ease the pain?
Of the parents not seeing
Their little love ones again

Her mother cries oh god
Why don’t you kill me instead?
How can I live now? 
That my little butterfly is dead

These are our children
Not a horse or a cow
Go look your self in the mirror
Who are the terrorist now?

 The British prime minster
Says the terrorist will be beat
From his press conference
From NUMBER 10 Downing Street

The white house says
There will causalities of wars
While all the war mongers
Are safe behind their doors

Her father mourns her death
Till his cant live no more
So he drove a car with bombs
Thru the green zone door

There are good and evil
And we know what evil do
But when the good do the same
Then who is better than who

The lives of the innocent
Are being taken by both sides
And today there was a butterfly
Who will no longer flies?

Details | Afghan Poem | |

The United States of Amnesia

I look at all the "excuses" in the world            
Thinking different than a ordinary girl          
From my learning that in nineteen eighty five           
Our debtor nation strove -"keep the dream alive " 

"Who are we, please?" I asked myself just today
Conquer countries? Unless they see things our way?  
One by one we stumble through the Afghan land 
Now we're in Iraq, Syria!  Stop Iran! 

China says, "US gossips, ignores own issues"
homeless, health, economy, jobs, tuition 
Russia and "China" are two super powers 
Never would our largest "creditor" coward 

Sochi cost 50 billion and years to bring 
I don't believe media reports of things 
Place the blame for the whole entire world to see 
Five star hotels with shower photos! No indeed! 

In "Name of Freedom" citizens are perplexed 
Pay "close attention" just 'where' we will go next? 
We need more "excuses" better than before 
If people see this "pattern", will be the end of war!


In politics, nothing happens by accident. If it happens, you can bet it was planned that way.
 President Franklin D. Roosevelt

Details | Afghan Poem | |

ARTIST'S CHOICE - jOURNAL VIII

ARTIST’S CHOICE –
JOURNAL VIII

This old woman –
It’s always a woman
–
Looking out a window
Why not a man?
No      he’s on the
front porch smoking
his pipe

This ancient     
deep in thought
Looking out a
summery window
Is it always summer?
Yes      winter
would be so stark

It’s Whistler’s
Mother      with
trimmings
What is she thinking
about,
Surrounded by the
past,
A bible on her lap 
    or on the table,
Pictures of loved
ones. a neat row on
the mantle

You can almost hear
the rocker creak,
Almost feel the
afghan wrap her
drooping 
      Shoulders
She’d knitted it
herself once upon a
time
It was meant for
some dear one now
departed

There must have been
an animal once
A cat is included in
one picture     
with a
      potted plant
alongside 
And there are other
relics, knick knacks
too
      numerous to
mention

Such a lonely aspect
The verdant summer
outside doesn’t 
brighten
      somehow
One senses sacrifice
 -
All her loved ones
departed
Leaving her alone
and wretched

She occupies the
sacrificial room,
Thinking not so much
of her painful limbs
But, in the face of
renewal,
She has been
sacrificed to live
out her life
        in a lonely
cubicle
In the last few I
will guard my
thoughts
      Carefully 

 
 


Details | Afghan Poem | |

NOT A POEM THIS IS A SHORT STORY

There I was just chillen with all my homeies in the big zip block bag. We were all talking about the latest ozome spray, and we were wondering if it would work on us, since our scents were pretty potent. We all just were hanging out when suddenly we felt the dresser draw open. Sock after sock were moved until the tuber ware container  we lived in was found. The sound of the struggle they made to open the tuber ware scared us, but then we heard the popping sound and knew it was open.  “Who would it be?” we all thought impatiently. There was just  so many varieties of us to choose from, it was crazy. Afghan, Afghani, Alaskan Thunder**** ,Black Widow ,Blue Dream, Blueberry , Buddha, Cali Dream, Cali Gold, Caribbean Dream, or me Hash. We all were anxious to see who it would be today. We never knew, the big hand would come in and just choose so many of us at different times that we never knew what to expect. He went to the left, than he went to the right, and then he went to the center; and looked dead in at me. Everyone turned around and stared at me. I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t know what to say. Dead silent, it was pure dead silence when I looked to my left, to make a run for it, whoosh their I go! Up in the air, taken by the big hand! Never to see friends or loved ones again, never being able to tell them what happens up here with the big hand out from the dresser. The big hand was holding me, than there was some weird exchange with another hand and something green looking, than I was gone from that room forever. The next day, I was taken out by this new big hand. He put me in some big contraption, it said it was made of steel. He tossed me in there and, Ow! Oh the pain I cannot describe! Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh so miserable. I am in pieces, literally. I am in pieces, and some dark chamber I have never seen before. All a sudden, it opens. I am banged thumb, thumb, thumb, out onto the table. I am placed in some cylinder looking object, and thrown back together with all my pieces. While sitting there, thinking and wondering about what is going to happen to me, it suddenly gets hot. So sudden, in fact, that you ought to think somebody lit a match or something… and then… Ow! Ow! Oooh! Fire! It burns! My life! It has gone up in flames and smoke, and now I am gone! Oh how do I miss the dra-… Death, something undeniable to every human, animal, and mind.