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
On quiet Sundays between the revolutions,
After the bombing and before the morning,
The soul returns in tired, injured steps
to help my grandpa pick mushrooms in the forest.
When dirty victims go back into their drawers,
for reasons only politicians know,
I see the kitchen where my mom was panicked
The stew's too bland - no salt or bread at all.
When spy detectors clean the human race,
Black suits and ties push buttons of decision,
I stick a branch in quaking wicked pace
to stop the rhythm for the ants in trouble.
There's so much air - sometimes you suffocate
"Atlantis" - can you see me cry?
Important sightings trying to locate?
There's just the black box and my final flight...
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