It might be a city of paradise in Bosnia,
Its memories are as fragile as a vase
The horrors and tears stained on the canvas of time
And it's something that no one forgets.
With a child snatched from his mother,
Begging her to pray for his soul
As fear ascends like a dark cloud
Standing in line and awaitng the bullet of death.
Why does it always hurt us much?
Hatred with all in the name of religion,
We deserve to live as equals
And always pledge to "Never Again."
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bested friscans, outed
not a vow about it
sheens and dreams
cameroon once held blooms in truth
never hid out in bosnia long enough
with opened hands
looking be kind at him
israelly waters eyes so himilayan
an trapped
too wrapped in his daughters heyday's
brazillia soo wild and repressed
from americaint pick up the bodies
melted frets in my brush
strokes forgetting
english frustraiting the curved bowties
Sitting in the darkness
Trying to find
Anything missed
Running it through the mind
Twenty five rounds
In a loaded magazine
All lying snugly waiting
Wiped and shining clean
Rifling oiled and checked
Pulled through with two by four
Working parts assembled
All in order once more
Gas plug checked
Firing pin in line
Pull action checked
All working just fine
Safety catch engaged
A round up the spout
Tension in the air
Squad moves out
Sitting in the darkness
Keeping self control
Always the waiting
The start of each patrol
Thanks to Lash for explaining what the real thing was like on active service, Bosnia.
I only experienced this on training exercises.
Ukraine Tune
(Inspired by Bosnia Tune)
As you get up out of bed
Fill the kettle, scratch your head
As you stretch your arms and sigh
People die
As you go to work by bus
-Traffic jams cause such a fuss! –
Cross the road successfully
People die
As you turn on Ukraine news
With its photos and its views
Then you know that life’s a lie –
People die
As you hold a talk in class
You divert to Nordstream Gas
-Yes the price has got so high!-
People die
As you drink your can of beer
Work is over, not a fear,
As you look up at the sky
People die
People die as you go home
Up the lift you always come
Lucky for you but not for some
People die
People die so easily
As you sit and watch TV
On the screen you hit a fly
People die
As you curl up on your bed
Letting fall your sleepy head
Nightmares won’t be asking why
People die
How It Tastes
What is the taste of the blood of Beloveds?
What is the sound of tears spilt alone?
There is a place where all this is known;
This place, the world's embarrassed orphan,
Where insanity reigns, alone
Hard to stand in the presence of massacre
With yet no blood upon one's hands
Hard to shift, foot to foot,
Unwilling to act,
Buying time for killers.
They're "cleansing" the world of their unwanted,
The filth of it stains us all;
Our leaders smearing it across polished tables.
Ask them how it tastes in Bosnia;
In Bosnia they eat their own.
It is dark, smells strong, a forest floor under my feet
I stumble, no light, can’t be seen, a little fear, anxious yes
I am young, too young for this, my heart pounds surely too loud
Eyes dart left to right, seeing shapes, inventing things unreal but in my head
I am cold, I shiver, will this night ever close, I yearn for the dawn light, bringing a warmth
I also fear this moment, I lose my shadow self, my hidden purpose, to be exposed
If only I held back, but my heart refused, my head said NO! heart won
A sudden noise, I drop with silence, then a shape comes to me
I try to shrink to hide to fade, a body falls and lays before me
A tongue touches my face, a silent dark greeting
She has found the child she tells me, pleased
I crawl and follow we crest a mound
Slide to the little hovel, and there
There is the child soon returned to parents with joy
As I gather him to me and we slide away through the dark, my girl at my side
Ears ready, nose searching, tail lifted, she is happy, awaiting a treat when we get back
A dog biscuit is such sweet reward
Bosnia 1994
TULSI ACROSTIC
T-Tulsi is tenacious and not one
to take any guff!
U-Unshakeable and uncrushable
under "missing email" HRC's
horrendous harumph!
L-Lion Hearted Tulsi was to
meet with HRC,face to face.
S-Staunch,so solid is her stand!
and won't take HRC's lies lined
with unproven disgrace!
I-Irate, she is! And rightly so!
She remembers so well HRC's
lies about being in enemy gunfire
in Bosnia, oh?
.....................
~Poem re:Tulsi's Nemesis~
HRC, had better things on her
to-do list, so just she didn't show!
Making a new,untruthful list~
of those she thinks are plotting
to overthrow her HRC presidency.
A shrew, who dreams of all her
political foes as
Dancing with evil Russians...
a go-go!
And so, like sweet petunias in
a funky,briar patch,
For HRC's calumny, there is
no match!
October 23, 2019
In my mind's contorted eye
My heart laments for our generation
And generations to come
In my mind's disgruntled eye,
I see squalor and poverty in Sudan
I see disaster, hunger,
Consuming, scavenging, rampaging
The bowels of our land
My heart weeps for the oppressed,
Displaced, and brutalized
In my mind's injured eye
I see the ruins of Bosnia
And the bloodbath in Grosny
Yesterday was Somalia, today Afghanistan
We all are engulfed in a bitter, unending race
In my mind's tired, confused eye
I see resigned, helpless faces
Of a saturated generation
Waiting hopelessly for the final
Chiming of the clock
My pools of words are not limited to English.
I was a missionary in France and Belgium, so learned French.
I studied Spanish in college for several years afterwards.
The US Army had me learn Russian during the Cold War,
Then cross-trained me into Serbo-Croatian during the Bosnia/Kosovo Wars.
I spent about 7 years stationed-residing in West Germany and Germany.
Like German, Slavic-derived languages are very root-driven.
The most romantic word I ever heard is "izabranica" (pronounced izabranitsa).
Typical banal English translations do not give the word justice.
Usually it is put forward as an endearment such as 'darling' or 'sweetheart'.
But my favorite Serbo-Croatian word means so much more.
The root of the word is 'bran'; 'braniti' means to select or gather.
The suffix 'ica' is a feminine ending, often used for people.
The prefix 'iza' means "out from". So what does "izabranica' really mean?
Means more than just your one true love; more than just your soulmate...
It means the woman you chose out from among all others, your izabranica.
When 6 million Jews died
You said never again
Yet it happened again, again and again
The genocide in Rwanda
You watched
Ethnic cleansing in Bosnia
You waited
Till the worst was over
Then slowly waded in
Now Rohingya and you close your eyes
Do you remember you said never again?
CHRISTMAS IN BOSNIA-HERZAGOVINA 1994
Another Christmas brought them to more winter night
they' ve made themselves, forgetting what is right,
and they can see their children cry
but not a one will reason why,
nor think upon enough to see the light.
There's no repent for killing, as it's done,
and no resistance to it going on,
just hate on hate that only grows,
the hint of peace that never shows,
with lots of blame, enough for everyone.
And to this chaos, we have set the way
for men of opportunity to play
and build their fortunes from it all
while winter makes its Christmas call,
and brings another dark and shortest day.
The heros are not known, til dies are cast
til all is put away into the past,
and truth is what a baby hears
as rumors meant for later years,
and right is not defined until the last.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown poet
NIGHTS IN BOSNIA-HERZOGOVINA - 1995
We love you death, and welcome all you're not;
no love, no hate, no failing and no gain,
no fighting for the things we haven't got
nor wondering about our latest pain.
Your mercy is a thing we'd surely bless
anticipating you, our only friend,
who brings conclusion to all wretchedness
the only one who knows us in the end.
So come you now as we help you along
you know you've tried to get us in the past
but now we know your timing is not wrong
and so we live and breath for you at last.
Your nothingness is what we hunger for
and in your end, we pray there's nothing more.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
BOMBERS AND BUTCHERS
Don't worry little girl, you need not cry,
we know your tears, and feel them every one
and all too well, though many more will die,
you will go home again, it is not gone,
but merely re-arranged, or burned at most,
your place called home still thrives for you one day
to dream and build again, a fence, a post,
four walls to keep you safe where you can stay,
and never see again man's evil eye
nor feel again the hate that brought this on,
and though for now you sit alone and cry,
the bombers and the butchers will be gone.
Your home is safe, and waits for your return,
Though nothing's left except what will not burn.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
WHO CAN SAVE OUR WORLD?
In the year of 1995 the world erupted in so many conflicts
from the war in Chechnya to NATO bombing in Bosnia.
This is the vision Dante had when he wrote his books on hell.
Just imagine the amount of explosives released
if the Koreas snapped or that Taiwan, America and Red China
all went mad: we’d be at deaths’ door staring into Angelica’s wicked eyes.
All would be dead except the God of Armageddon.
As his daughters spread their wings we all prepare to die.
HYPHENATED AMERICANS
You have the biggies like Chinese-Americans
And Latino-Americans and German-Americans;
And miniscule groups like Armenian-Americans
Or Bosnia-and-Herzegovinan-Americans;
But why do we never hear of English-Americans,
Scottish-Americans or Welsh-Americans?
Sound weird don’t they? Kinda unnecessary.
Anyone ever heard of Canadian-Americans?
Or Australian- or New Zealand- oh why?
And hey, what about French-Americans?
These are not hyphenated Americans
They are eliminated Americans,
And other groups include
Old people, who are Antiquated-Americans
Mothers - Unappreciated-Americans
Pre-1492 Yanks are Antedated-Americans
AFL-CIO are Aggregated-Americans
Dwarfs are Truncated-Americans
Smog-breathing residents of LA are
Asphyxiated- or Hyperventilated-Americans.
Thank God I’m normal, I’m just American.
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