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Poem
Four scores and seventy 
ingrained in blood stained garments
ancestors still rumbling in their graves
impatient souls lamenting their years 
pages kept turning
pens are writing
and the story is unfolding

Dead trees hang over broken walls
threadbare buildings stand solemnly
in a city that was once their home
mothers weeping for their children
people scramble in the streets
and the great big God mewl from above 

The tough bent curb wood swerves around
and cuts massive clouds into thin air
chopping trees pounding light posts
swinging and dancing from side to side 
then paused upright in the open space

The karma
the sprit
the holy words
a limb for a limb 
a sword for a sword 
raw vengeance soaks up
the weeping earth

Stricken night makes its debut 
swelling echoes mount from beneath
decades of blisters that clinches their feet
and the tension brewed as it gets closer 

The moment fires strange emotions
filtering, wrangling and mooting
dignity and power captivates stubborn minds 
and eminent slaughter looms from behind
anticipation impress heavily upon tainted lips 
while an exodus flows in the manmade ditch   

It aims directly at the center
empowered by a forceful northern wind
and moves vigorously toward the west
I saw her pulling his tiny hand 
dragging him away from the screaming crowd
while she secured her little girl
intimately to her thumping chest

She struggles through the imposing crowd
with faith courage and determination
but the swelling boomerang ripped the children
from her weary  arms
swiftly it disappears 
and she heard these words 
whispering in her ears

Wash your face
dry your tears
walk close to the mirror
and let down your hair
listen carefully 
and tell me what you hear
breathe deeply
move slowly
you are here

                                     ©2013 Christine Phillips
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