My dad had a sister, who married a boy not from their nationality.
Her friend convinced her, well they were young and she was inlove? I guess.
She didn't even consider to talk to her dad, mum, siblings.
She left with a:"I will marry young", she was 18 that time.
So she moved to bosnia.
Her dad never wanted to see her ever again, sadly he died still his daughter leaving home.
---
I remember when I was 3years old, her kids and me and my sister and some other cousins sat in the hallway playing cards because we didn't understood eachother.
--
She visited her homecountry more less.
I mean her boys are already 18 and 20.
And her daughter married at 18 too, with a bosnian boy too.
We communicated with her in english.
She came once when I was 13 years old.
---
My auntie broke up with her man.
Her daughter broke up with the man.
My uncle never wanted to see her again.
Categories:
bosnian, 8th grade,
Form: Free verse
His father was an Aristocrat
His mother a high class whore
And he attended Public School
As had his ancestors before,
Achieved a First at Oxbridge,
Sword of Honour at Sandhurst,
Served in Bosnian with UNFOR
Saw genocide at its very worst.
He resigned his commission
Following his service there
Couldn’t cope with the memories
The sense of guilt and despair.
He dosses on the Streets now
A homeless hulk without a name
Disowned by his family and
Just seen as a bringer of shame.
The people on the streets
Try to avoid his eye,
Toss him the odd coin
As they pass him by.
He nods his head in gratitude
But he’s not really there
As he copes with his demons
Behind his thousand yards stare.
All people see is a vagrant,
An alcoholic and a souse.
He’s in Line for the title and
A seat in the Upper House.
Nobody gives a toss about
The many cases like him.
That’s just the modern world
You either sink or swim.
Come and join the forces
Show that you are willing
To go and serve your country
Accept the Old Queen’s Shilling.
Learn to fight and kill
Sell your service on the cheap
And if you crack and break
You’re out on the scrap heap.
Categories:
bosnian, angst, soldier, war,
Form: Rhyme
We are the second coming,
In a land so subtle but so becoming,
The dream that we must live well,
But are we like you, a wickedest smell,
From the word of chaos in which we fell,
Do I take the city, or approach a southern bell,
I think it would be my accent ,is what I would have too sell!
Welcome too my world, an imma grant with a dream
Or do I just close my mouth so ‘‘tis like you i May seem!!!
Categories:
bosnian, absence,
Form: ABC
ROAD TO SLOVENIA in Haiku
H 13...In A Bosnian Village
"Burn the houses down
gather all the people up
bus them out of town."
© Ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Categories:
bosnian, abuse, christian, discrimination, hate,
Form: Haiku
The Angel
Heart of Peace
In the hills and glens of the Bosnian homelands
Roamed the Serbian chetniks, with swords of the devil
In the name of nationalism
Raping and killing, burning and pillaging
Their aggressions they called it defending
Carkic the rapist of all of humanity
Drank himself to a stupor
To hide his soul from his very own gods
As he burned the villages, children and all
How can such evil stand so tall?
From the ruble of hate, and Serbian addictions
There rises an angel from the concentration camps
Malice none, for her heart is filled with compassion
She listens to the victims, her kindness is her fashion
Esmuda Mujagic, content to build bridges to rainbows true
She is an angel of inspirations
Asking only for warmth for the victims of torture
No reprise is sought, only admissions of truth
So through forgiveness, life can mend and flourish
Instead arrested and harassed
The soldiers of Serbia, still carrying on
Categories:
bosnian, angel, love, war, wisdom,
Form: Free verse
He spoke,
He spoke in ways I’d never heard before,
Bashfulness clustered around “ma’am” and “sir.”
I thought I knew a lot about him, till he taught me more,
Which was great, at first–Spanish class had become a bore–
his Bosnian sweetness an enticing lure–
he spoke in ways I’d never heard before.
Soon every night I would find him at the door of my mind,
I’d pull him in, mind rushing, face blushing,
as he spoke in ways I’d never heard before.
With his hair, with his smile, but, above all, speech, I didn’t think that I’d let him go out the door again
because thoughts of him would never be a bore,
I thought I knew a lot about him, till he taught me more,
I could never hear his voice enough, till new words bore down hard—”visiting,” “girlfriend,” a nameless “her.”
He spoke in ways I’d never heard before.
I thought I knew a lot about him, till he taught me more.
Categories:
bosnian, valentines day,
Form: Villanelle
I was born very young
I was born very rich
I inherited millions
of red blood cells
and white blood cells
from my parents
look alive
Categories:
bosnian, dedication, friend,
Form: Prose
"Infants drink milk"
From the hands and breasts of their mothers
When such small bottles are called our babies.
"Children drink blood"
From the wrists and necks of their fathers
As these vials struggle to be men and ladies.
Categories:
bosnian, brother, daughter, family, father,
Form: Rhyme