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Poems are below...


New Afghan Poems

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

An Afghan Girl by Hossain, Md Shahadat
The Orlando Massacre and Afghan Tragedy by Derradji, Abder
Afghan Fields by Brown, Robin
Afghan Glory by Nesbitt, John
Afghan Superman by Samandar, Moses
Afghan Princess by Samandar, Moses
Afghan Killers by Samandar, Moses
The Afghan Beast of War by Samandar, Moses
Afghan Journey by Mason, Sue

View all new Afghan Poems

The Best Afghan Poems

 
Details | Afghan Poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

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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.


Copyright © Sue Mason | Year Posted 2007



Details | Afghan Poem | Create an image from this poem.

THE JOURNEY

Once upon a weedy lawn
At Cedar Oaks Retirement Home
There sat my mother, weak and old
On an afghan knit to block the cold.

It was summer, but in mom's grey eyes
Was winter, when all around us dies.
I had tried to park her in the sun
Though I doubt she could notice what I'd done.

The disease had eaten up her brain
So little of her now remained
She didn't even know my name
I knew her not, much to my shame.

I looked around our patch of earth
Saw dandelions,and thought with mirth
Of how when small these grew quite wild
Mom would pick them as she smiled.

"Blow upon this cloud of seed,
"Then wish for what you really need."
I picked one now,and sadly blew
I asked for "mom" I never knew.

Suddenly a gust of wind
Took those seeds and made them spin
I felt my body start to rise
And change to match the seeds in size.

My mother gasped, & sucked us in
The seeds and me like some great wind
I saw her teeth, quite brown from smoking
And feared that I might cause her choking.

I swirled around, then down a slide
"Is this my mother I'm inside?!"
I landed in a battered lung
Where signs of cigarettes had clung.

And unsure of just where to go
I found a bridge, and crossed it slow.
Whence I entered a crucial part.
I found myself in momma's heart.

Where in a corner, dark and dusty
A young girl played, her laugh so lusty.
Her eyes weren't grey but tinged with blue
The plaited hair I also knew.

Her teeth so white, her face unlined
It was my mother, quite a find!
A joy, a freedom never shown
A lightness in her manner, tone.

And then a moment changed it all
I saw my grandma softly call
And whisper in my mother's ear
"Your dad has died. I'm sorry, dear."

Her wailing nearly deafened me
As the joy drained out like tides at sea.
Seeing all her pain and grief
I felt unwelcome, like a thief.

So I moved further in her heart
And came upon a teenage tart.
Awkwardly smoking, trying too hard
And too easily letting down her guard.

She fell for boys like rain from clouds
Her clothes too tight, her make-up loud.
Each night she staggered home alone
Hoping one would actually phone.

Then came the day that in that place
Could only lead to her disgrace.
I saw my mom in grandma's parlor
And my granny pacing as she hollered.

She pointed at mom's bulging middle
Screamed, then cried, then swore a little.
Pulled my mom up to her feet
In one swift move, threw her on the street.

My mother was 16, expecting a child
Homeless as well, she ought to be wild.
But instead I saw a great peace abide her
As she gently caressed me still forming inside her.

I saw in her eyes how love was the way
She changed from a girl to a woman that day.
Not love for a boy, a career, a degree
The love that transformed her was her love for ME!

Already feeling like my heart could break
And not sure of how much more I could take,
I still turned around to roam and explore
Both anxious and wary for what was in store.

This part of her heart was lit bright as the sun
My mother was wedding her intended one.
I remembered the dresses, beautifully white
I remembered the dancing that went on all night.

And then like a knife tearing straight through my chest
I knew what I'd see when I looked at the rest.
My mother so happy to be loved and give back
And me, growing older, and jealous of "Zach."

My stepdad who treated me like I was his own
Whose only crime was to enter our home.
I wanted my mother's attention on me
I was blinded by self-centered jealousy.

I knew that my mother would have to pick me
Especially if he behaved violently.
I found I was born with a flair for theatrics
And ran to my mom, often faking hysterics

Til finally my mother was left with no choice
But to tell him to leave, with a crack in her voice.
And suddenly I saw what I hadn't before
This part of mom's heart looked all broken and sore.

I couldn't continue with ease like before
The walls were too thick, advancing a chore
As if my mother had run out of room
For chances of love to grow or to bloom.

Then finally I hit the last, great, thick wall
Without any access beyond it at all
And almost afraid to look at the view.
I nonetheless watched, as I knew I must do.

It was a scene I knew all too well.
My teenage years, when I put mom through hell.
When I dumped her for boys who cared nothing for me
Choosing from her real love just to flee.

I left her alone in her house in the woods
I left her for losers who sold me their goods.
And then, too proud to admit I was wrong
I never went back, til her health was long gone.

And it was too late to say how much I cared
Too late to know it was something we shared.
Ready to go, I took one last long glance
And I saw something I never expected, by chance.

I saw my mother, like time lapse pics
Every night of her life, never missing a tick
Down on her knees, by the side of her bed
Praying for ME, who left her for dead.

She prayed for my health, she prayed I'd find love,
She prayed I'd be blessed by our Dad up above.
And even when she couldn't walk on her own.
My mom still put my needs o'er her own.

When the tears rolled free down my face,
I heard a huge sigh, and felt pulled from my place.
And in half a minute I was back on the lawn
Front of mom and Cedar Oaks Retirement Home.

My mother looked down on me, suddenly aware
And I saw for the first time her pain and her care.
And I noticed also an angel-like glow,
As she reached out her hand, and said, "Now you know."

I hugged her, held her, thanked her til night.
But the lucid look never came back in her sight.
She passed shortly after, to my great dismay
But I'll never forget the gifts given that day.

I learned never discount the love of your mother,
Never trade in that bond for the sake of a lover.
I learned there is power in a mom's loving prayers
And there is a God who hears and who cares.

I learned about faith, and love unconditional.
I learned about judging by standards traditional.
And I learned that from a little seed
Can come most everything we need.


Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2015

Details | Afghan Poem | Create an image from this 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





Copyright © Carol Sunshine Brown | Year Posted 2011

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Why - controversial contest

They stood and watched in horror
Their teacher was being burned alive.
Committed by what, they call themselves humans,
One hundred and thirty two children died.

What were they guilty of, what was their crime
They supported Malala and her Nobel peace prize
The  Murdering Taliban's tried  to kill her once
All because she wanted an education to improve girls lives

They lay there pretending to be dead
Holding their breadth when insurgents passed by,
Who killed with a smile on their face,
Only way to survive was hard not to cry.

Schools  you would think were safe places
We can see now that this isn't so
Pupils at This Army  Public School *
Take their lives in their hands whenever they go.

Wailing mothers are crying, wringing their hands in grief,
Why must  children die how do these murderers sleep. 


   
Penned on September 7th 2015.

 * School in Peshawar Pakistan where the Afghan Taliban slaughtered children and           teachers 





Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2015

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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


Copyright © Marquis MC Mills-Cooper | Year Posted 2013

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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.


Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2006

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Dog's Day Out

Here's the tale of my Cocker Spaniel
The one with the big floppy ears,
And when I have finished my story
It will very soon have you in tears.

Now the first time I heard of his exploits
It made me go weak at the knee
I was told that the police had detained him
At the local constabulary.

It seems they were going to charge him
With offences, 'til now, little known.
He'd be up in court, and it was partly my fault
For letting him out on his own.

The first charge was 'Malice Aforethought'
Going berserk on a garage's forecourt
And putting a mechanic in a state of great panic
By proving he wasn't a spoilsport.

The second charge 'Paying Undue Attention'
Had details too embarrassing to mention.
He was apparently found with a large Afghan Hound
That belonged to an angry young Frenchman.

The third charge was 'Running Amok'
In the  market, destroying their stock
He left very quick, with an oil lamp and wick
And two pairs of tights and a sock.

The fourth charge 'Resisting Arrest'
Proves he beat the Metropolitan's best
And a policeman on mount, gave a detailed account
How he'd ripped a big hole in his vest.

The fifth charge was at the police station
When my dog had a slight inclination
He just didn't look, soaked the charge book
Then blamed it on their own Alsatian.

The day of the trial came quickly
I forget now the date it was held
But there in the dock, stood a dog of good stock
Like he hadn't a care in the world.

I listened with dread as the charges were read.
His lawyer gave up and went home.
I imagined the headlines tomorrow:
'What happens when you let a dog roam'.

When hearing the charges against him
The dog hung his head down in shame
The judge said he meant, that with all his intent
It would never, ever happen again.

He confined him to kennels for one month
On a diet of marrow bone jelly.
Saying 'I've reached the conclusion, you suffered illusion
From the violence you've seen on the telly'.

So with muzzle in place and paw-cuffs galore
They dragged him out of the courtroom door.
And his criminal record (A dog-eared file)
Now opens out for half a mile.

27th January 2017


Copyright © Ray Gridley | Year Posted 2017

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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.




Copyright © Jennifer Brooks | Year Posted 2006

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A Man and His Tree

 The tree had grown with leaves of gold
that laced the branches, frail and old-- 
   -until its time was spent

By window light, sun warms his face
He watches from his afghan nest
as two young men break out in sweat 
The chain-saw wails to wake the dawn
And, just as earth might moan in pain,
    the tree came tumbling down

There was a day  not long before...
 ……before…….before…. his war began                      
Back then he could lift a saw like that.
Hold it skillfully, carefully, casually……
Angle ..down ,  angle up,  cut a wedge and hear it crack

There's pathos in dust-driven clouds
Earth trembles, as if it can't calm down
and branch by branch it Is laid to rest 
fine leaves of courage, one final breath

His eyes brim bright with unshed tears
Age and illness scope the years
Can a tree…..or a man, so be defined 
by disease, confinement,  loss of pride
or be taken down by age and time?

A tree falls down.  It is nature's way
to open the field, clearing the way
What came before, grows new today,
but the void that's left cannot be filled

The tears we shed cannot be stilled
His leave will make a louder sound
The dust will rise.  Trees burn to ash
What matters most will not be lost

Oh God, how it shatters the fractured heart
Oh God, how it matters, how could it not?

But,  he and his tree have earned a rest                                                        


____________________________________________________________
Dedicated to my courageous and beloved older brother 
who has been there for me throughout my life
6/6/17


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2017

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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.


Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2010

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The Secret Life Of Man's Best Friend

A tattered afghan thrown about,
All rumpled and askew.
The sleepy dog makes up his bed,
Then dreams sweet dreams of you.
 
He stirs upon his makeshift cot,
Exploring places, he'd ought not.
Now free to give the cat no peace,
To race and chase without the leash.
 
He twitches, whines and runs in place,
As if not bound by time and space.
Now in a land we cannot share,
Released, set free and happy there.
 
He chases squirrels, balls and sticks,
Then wakes exhausted from such tricks.
This double life our good friends lead,
Both here with us and in their dreams.
 
Those many hours dogs sleep each day,
Are filled with sport and endless play.
The time then left, until their end;
God bids them keep - as man's best friend.


Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

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Darling Grandmother

Darling Afghan grandmother, your weary hands narrates a somber tale
Your bowed head discloses your day by day yearning ail
You have masked your happiness deep under your time-honored veil
Oblivious-- that your offspring’s will follow your footprints-- and abide by this wretched 
trail.
Anosha Zereh


Copyright © Roya Zereh | Year Posted 2014

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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                                                      

                                        



Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

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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.


Copyright © angela sutherland | Year Posted 2009

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Weed

  

I love weed; Afghan Red to be precise
It is my favourite illegal vice
I do it in the bath and in the hall
I smoke it in summer and right through fall

I smoke in class and in canteen
I smoke when cops are on the scene,
I light up when in academic gown, 
a practice that made my former
Wife frown

And on the bus it is a hoot, to fill the
Air with devil’s suit; to draw it in 
And keep it down, is much preferred
On trip through town

So if you feel life’s closing in, forget
The doctor or the gin, it’s weed that 
Makes the world go round, its soothing
Pleasure…it has no measure... this
wicked vice, I'll always treasure


Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015

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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 

 
 



Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2014

Details | Afghan Poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014

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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


Copyright © John Nesbitt | Year Posted 2014

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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


Copyright © Judy Konos | Year Posted 2014

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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!”



Copyright © James Tate | Year Posted 2011

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BLAST OFF



We were strapped in ready for take-off,
the engines churning all around us.
We'd longed for this moment,
but when it came we were scared rigid,
wondering if we'd survive.

"Countdown to take-off!" the captain roared.
Gritting our teeth we made ready.
pushed hard into our seatbacks with stomachs
turning cartwheels we were off at last!
bright lights and bogus noises
surging from under the blankets.

There was a wobble and a whistle,
the signals to burst out at warp speed.
Our bodies felt the rush, the rumble 
and finally the jolt of the touch down.
"Look out the peephole!  We're on the moon!"

the captain cried. And sure enough, we weren't
in Kansas anymore.  The moonscape was
strangely full of familiar looking objects,
Grandma's afghan flowing like a river,
what looked like the pillows 
from Jimmy's bed, crumpled like space debris,
and my school project, a volcano
puffing out baking powder.
Yep, this was the moon alright.

"Imaginations still intact," Jimmy yelled,
"but how are we gonna get home?"





Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016

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Hot Chocolate

(H)olding a cup
(O)f hot chocolate
(T)oasty warm inside

(C)omforting peace
(H)aving quiet time
(O)n the recliner
(C)overed with an afghan
(O)utside, blustery bouts of snow
(L)iving room woodstove heat is cozy
(A)ll sweet taste
(T)o keep me going
(E)ach sip, I take

Heidi Sands


Copyright © Heidi Sands | Year Posted 2016

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Double Tap


News broadcast:

Bad news from the Afghan front lines,
an Army lance corporal got killed
from Battalion 5, company 9

Soldier Bill James Medlark,
affectionately known as Billy the Kid
Saved countless service men and women lives,
with the tragically heroic thing he did ...

No one knows how many lives he may have saved,
when without hesitation, he dived on a live grenade
He sacrificed his life
for his merry band of sisters and brothers
He didn't think twice
about that small bomb he smothered

Now he won't get to hear his favorite military sounds;
Bugle revelry or banshee jumping
off a helicopter with boots hitting the ground
No, he won't get to hear that 21 gun salute,
or the dignified double tap to the heart and one to the cap
No, he'll no longer hear Pvt. McShay's Irish flute,
and the grunts owed Sgt. Bernstein has been more than paid back

No one knows how many lives he may have saved,
but there'll be lots of medals hanging on his tombstone grave
So, in case you were wondering,
in case you wanted to know
just exactly where do those dead military heroes go
Go down to Arlington Cemetery,
and see them lying row after row
But pray that you never see your name there though


*All names used were fictional
If anything in this poem bears resemblance to any real person or actual events, it is purely coincidental, and I express my deepest sympathy for 
your loss


Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2016

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Strangers

All of
I know them
I see them
I break bread with them
Strangers all
Images taped on Stalins wall
Some long gone
Some far far away
Childhood memories choking me
These walls
Slowly crushing me
No one sees
No one is here
Alone
Living inside my own deadly fear
Clinging to black and white photos
Shivering, for sure cold and lost smiles
Dreams seeping into wine glasses
Hopes drip slowly down the sink faucet
The afghan, covers me from childhood
Back then I possessed a smile
As I dreamed to love or maybe to die
Vyborg mystic nights, I  the naive spy
Lusting adventure and Lena's try
I lost
Now alone, I stare in the mirror
Asking
Who the hell am I?





















The stranger and the dead spy







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Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017