Short Syria Poems
Short Syria Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Syria by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Syria by length and keyword.
The Russian Warplane Shot Down Over Syria
syria, anger, character, conflict, death, evil, political, war,
President Putin's having Turkey for Christmas dinner this year!
I think with stuffing inside it
Will he be having second helpings?...
The Russians have made it quite plain
Life is something that they disdain
They plan to destroy
Every girl and boy
In Syria and the Ukraine!...
They are playing
With peoples life
Russian Caviar and
Do not blend
Passover and Iran
Break the bread mates.
And restrain yourself.
St George's Day
syria, history, political,
Dragon to the sword
St George's day, England's saint
Born in Syria
St Georges clan
Allow the refugees in
They are our saints kin.
syria, anxiety, art,
nerves of steel
confronting the Korean little boy
brand new toy
olives for dinner
we got a winner
Al Gore almost won
city in ivory tower
threats in Syria
In a besieged town
We are powerless
Those who are
And those who are right
I think of
syria, humanity, philosophy, poetry, war,
From Soviet Tombs
The Reds smell blood
Watching it glow
Old friends hold hands
While the Soviet glories implode
The murder from above
In the name of inflation
Crimes in Crimea
All lives matter
syria, change, courage, creation, faith, peace, prejudice, racism,
Raising the slogans won't make it any better.
Dare to accept the truth,
All lives matter.
Does that sound better,
Islam is the way out,
Quran is the light out.
Read it I promise you will later have no doubt,
As from it I have learned
All lives matter....
Life After The Dictatorship
I do not know?
They have 50 years
Of emergency law in Syria
The president is an intelligent man
He has no answer for the protest marchers
The bullets will turn on him
The choices dictators make
Are not always made for a life
To retire at the swimming pool
It's all in how you say it
syria, satire, technology, war,
While ours kill with flair and finesse
Banned weapons can make a fine mess
Since guys without class
Can possess poison gas
O-bomb-a will make an address
There's hype and there's hysteria
O-bomb-a needs criteria
To send friend Bashar
Wrapped presents from afar
His gift of love for Syria
syria, angel, death, deep, sunset,
As the shivering lips smile
to the rhythm of blasts
As eyes sparkle with light
of emptiness that forever lasts
as hands raise for someone
to hold ,Those humans look
upto God and beg just
as their mere existence shook
My children of Syria Cried
They Watched as humanity died
5th March 2018...
A Single Image of Clock Children
( for Syria)
aortal ticks hesitate
before the dull bang
of a falling fist;
the fat knuckle
of the next hit,
tick tick the small ones,
the eaters of dust,
fall apart like lost time,
the weights that
regulate all this
Tearing through flesh
No organs spared
Beautiful child playing with her friends
A fearful confused young rebel
The baker trudging to work at dawn
An elder reflecting and ruing the past
The bullet has no conscience
Only an inevitable path
Michael Newman MD
Doctors without Borders...
I Hope for the best
syria, peace, poetry, poets,
They are still fighting in the Mideast
Jews killing Arabs and Arabs killing Jews
Civil wars in Yemen and Syria
lead to the death of children
Will out poems change people's hearts?
Let us pray they do
A litle optimism
is what is needed
by all of us versifiers
We must do our best to help create
paths to peace in the world
It is vital!
when Trump rode into town
syria, bullying, business,
Then came Trump
No one talks about Syria anymore,
Was there a war there?
The bombing of Mosul the long siege
Trump occupies the news
And the whole world from pigmies
In the inner Congo, to the tall Dutch
In Amsterdam, are Psychanalysts?
The press robbed of their pompous
Self-regard like a school yard bully
Scolded, plots shocking stories about
The President of the USA
We Are Accidents
syria, death, fate, life, miracle, today,
Today, I was missed by a bullet
fired by a sniper in Syria,
a runaway train 10,000 miles from it,
and every swing of the
Grim Reaper’s scythe in between.
A repeat of so many days
of good coincidences.
Life is but an accident of time and geography,
we the beneficiaries of a random amnesty.
Tomorrow, I shall rise
and raise song unto the vaulting blue
for my privilege of sun.
syria, peace, political, song, war, world,
Mother darkness has descended
The Clouds are forming
The fog sets in
Children are crying
While Syria is dying.
Mother I am so tired of all this suffering
Why, wont these politicians
Stop the waring
Cant they see that its not the world
That is ending but souls are decaying.
Mother I need to write them a love song
Hoping one day
We would all learn to get along
As we all want too belong.
Icon of Syrian Revolution
syria, arabic, farewell, freedom, memorial, metaphor, motivation, symbolism,
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.
Some say bad times are a comin,
some say trouble's on the way.
Nonsense I say, just a total lunar eclipse
as the moon passes through
the darkest part of the Earth's shadow
any light reaching the moon is refracted
through the Earth's atmosphere
which scatters the blue light,
and what reaches the moon is red.
So I say, but with four in two years
and the situation in the Ukraine, Syria and all
I'm goin to cover my mirrors.
When Darkness Steals Her Light
syria, art, baby, cancer,
I do not know?
Babies freezing to death in Syria
Being chopped to bits in Africa
Beheaded in Mexico
Shot through their tiny hearts in America
Starving all around this world
So what is it that you want to write about: What
Is it exactly ? Houses passing budgets; more bullets
Less food more war machines less treatment more
Neglect ? Smile for their camera walk down, a red ramp...
Snapshots and poppi; hurry, there she goes ? Yes, there she goes....
Funny SYRIA TAX Money
Seems as funny
Purchased by the power
Of social media
Reigns down from a sky
Where children die
And dreams are bled
On broken crying parents beds
Funny's just is not
When it revolves around money
In this cynical old world
Where countless masses
Begs the question
Who is the real dummy
And where is this poor child's
Cold laid out Mummy
On This day I picked your eyes
And wrote in my diary
Snow is gazing guys
I am a giant heater who
Welcomes you all in my quarters
And my hands are so so big
That the Hell they bestow you will
The black giant came then close to me
And the sky went all dark
Like grand ma’s eyes
My parent are the same color as ground
And I am the same color as ground
The soil takes care of me
Since my parents reside in ground
Farah in syria
syria, adventure, dedicationsweet, sweet,
In a Farah-way Syrian sea
swims this sweet Arabian wonder,
in a golden garden grows this sweet pea
That shines, soars and sings…no blunder
In a Farah-way Syrian garden
croons this blue Arabian bird,
She’s got rhymes and rhapsodies-laden
poems that thrill the sun, stars and songbirds
From a Farah-way Syrian street
She writes, wooing wealthy words.
In the gentle arms of nature she sits,
writing with a pen that’s sealed with golden cords
syria, blessing, books, butterfly,
I have been trying to stave off old age
by avoiding old men in the park who ask me to guess
their age, empty gums looks like a burnt down
village in Syria, a war that the west has yet to understand
and by dressing young, artistic like with a big scarf
hiding my turtle throat.
It is a losing fight like leaking dykes in Holland with holes,
to stick fingers in them won’t last long. Therefore
I will embrace the day and talk to the old men in the park.
For the Freedom-Loving people of Syria
syria, death, funeral, grief, hate, life, loss, peace,
I do not know?
Massacre at Houla.
She was no more than 10 years of age.
He could have been a grandfather.
Young, old, women, girls, men, boys.
Now they are buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.
Killed by knives,
shot at point-blank range,
Snuffed-out. Decimated. Taken-out.
As Damascus lies blatantly,
spewing forth untruth,
108 warm, dead bodies,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.