Best Syrian Poems
SYRIAN REFUGEES
I'm watching a programme on telly
About the Syrian refugees
Men and women and children
Humanity brought to its knees
I'm watching the desperate faces
The terror and hunger and fear
They're facing their ultimate nightmare
And me? Well I'm just sitting here
And saying 'Isn't it awful'
'Something needs to be done'
Whilst searching the TV listings
And planning my evening of fun
Then I happen upon the BBC news
Cameron wringing his hands on my screen
Saying Syria is a priority
Then slips into a black limousine
Then Hollande, and Angela Merkel
Echo the prime minister's views
And tell us how hard they are working
Another soundbite for the news
Then shoot off to their heads of state dinner
Which will go on well into the night
While in the camps the tears will continue
No dinner for those folks tonight
At the meeting, an idea from Turkey
Amongst the platitudes and the kind words
The plan that they're putting forward
Is to drop lots of bombs on the Kurds
I flick channels and happen on Tony Blair
Offering the world a solution
I really can't listen to that grinning clown
Spouting his verbal pollution
He's jabbering on about Islam
Trying to give us the wisdom we lack
And hoping the world has forgotten
What Bush and him did in Iraq
Perhaps he's just a bit jealous
That he's not allowed to the feast
After finding Saddam's nuclear weapons!
A doggy bag surely at least.
While another mother loses her children
More slaughter and mayhem we see
And imagine the arms manufacturers
And dealers, jumping with glee
As they make another few billions
And probably a few billions more
Then they'll hide all their dirty old dollars
In their financial laundry offshore
And the politicians turn a blind eye
And I'm sure that they won't be divulging
How some of them came by their fat bank accounts
And why their back pockets are bulging
But then.......success I hear on the news
The EU says all is not black
They've solved the refugee crisis.
When they get here.........we're sending them back.
Job done, EU movers and shakers
So sorry for doubting your cause
You've sorted the Syrian problem
Give yourselves a big round of applause
© Ron James 05/04/2016
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?
Marhaba
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.
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!
Invisible ink flows
Into the night ghosts go
The cedars bleed once more
I hope i have a pleasant death
somewhere in the wilderness, perhaps
clinging to a shriveled Apple, struggling
to grow in the blazing sun, in a dusty
field on this warming, drying planet, or
maybe crushed beneath a crumbling mosque
during prayers to heaven's deities
appeasing all that's good and just
a gust of wind their hope in us
and give some comfort to this worlds
most sacred, weary casualties,
and leave a mark in quiet sands, that
never shift with time or winds, lay
etched on hearts for eternity.
A pockmarked plane atop the wooden box
tilts as it dips in the Syrian void,
its hollow compartment lining the faults like
a silver ball which never rests but always
rolls, always weary those worrisome holes
that chisel the quarry to calcified clumps.
Six years spent fighting, flushing freedom
from his nepotistic keep, have rendered al-Assad
a face full of age, nights free of sleep,
and lucid dreams of an Arab Spring
flooding the fields his brother plowed.
There he stands, slaying the wakened womb
that would bury its own for stable graves, aware
there’s a million more marching outside his door.
5/25/17
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
often
to and fro, to and fro
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
How fast life goes! How slow we feel!
When someone dear leaves us for real.
How hard it gets! How tough the deal!
If they're sublime and have ideals.
They pay so much and beat ordeals.
Their names spread and shake regimes.
They shine so bright and join sunbeams.
They soar so high no one can reach.
They speak a tongue no one can teach.
Such is Sarout, a martyred icon;
A free Syria on the horizon.
11/06/2019
I search for my family
friends
school
hospital
homebound church
NOTHING WAS LEFT
NOTHING WAS LEFT
NOTHING WAS LEFT
I scream for help
NOTHING
I was so weak
I don't even think anyone heard my voice
The blood dripping from my forehead
I knew I was half dead
But had the strength to push on
as the rocks that I walked upon
cut and bruised my feet
each step I took
I searched
I searched
nothing was left but me and the last of my own
Syrian blood that was splattered across my shirt
DAMN
THAT AIR STRIKE
DAMN
THAT AIR STRIKE
YOU TOOK EVERYTHING
I LOVE THE MOST
From Shaniki Smith
12/30/2015
Weeping Webbed World
(Apropos of a Syrian Nightmare)
Affronts to humanity streak the skies
Like once perched war eagles
Soaring over communities of prey
Where the lingering smell of death
Is as normal as the scent flowers once had.
A grieving webbed world in abject apathy
Awaits the cesarean births of hope and peace—
Hope and peace laboring on the delivery table of life.
Will they too, become miscarriage siblings?
Such a war torn land yet so many children still remain
We simply couldn't understand it doesn't fit into our brain
Yet there they sill stand for there is no safe place to run
As the dead litter the land all the children wish is to again have fun
And maybe a small bite to eat even if just once a day
And maybe a place to meet where my head I could lay
And so much of my family and my oldest best friend
That them I could once again see so my little heart could mend
But I really just want to play again like we used to do before
Do you remember back then before this whole thing called war
We were always all so happy unless of course when it would rain
But these feelings now inside of me I have never felt this kind of pain
Don't forget that we are still here for no one really seems to care
But I no longer have any fear for I would be so happy to leave there
And as the bombs get nearer and nearer he knows that it is time to leave
Making the point even that much clearer that in Syria there is no time to grieve
Immigrants are very useful now
Roast a Turk to share with all your street
Eat a Greek and let the people squeak
A Viking flames the pudding with a bow
Try a German sausage in the Court
Eat him with a knife and fork and bread
Frenchmen taste delicious so it’s said
Finish with a sailor drowned in Port
A Syrian child is now the Lamb of God
Dying for our sins and for our hate
Yet Jesus was a Jew. a piece of bait
We eat him every Sunday in the Bread
Let the refugees in, we shall see
One of them is you and one is me
Have wonderful days in Austria,
until the war is over in Syria.
Enjoy your life and adore
what you can get. We give you more
as we have for ourselves.
We wish you the best, appreciate our helps.
Just try to be happy and rest,
as long as each of you is our guest.
We hope the Syrian war will be over soon,
and there will be a new sunshine and moon
to live there again and in peace without crime
with children who are happy in their school time
to study and play and have lots of fun,
not being in danger of a bad gun,
but being prepared for better life
with working in freedom and dancing jive.
© Brigitte L. C. Waldner