AFTER THE FLOOD
Mount Ararat holds a testament
of stories told in ancient texts,
and stories shared down generations;
the aftermath of catastrophe.
Place names are the remembering
of gratitude as the Ark was drawn out of the water[1],
and the place of the descending[2]
into the village of the eight[3]~
survivers making pilgrimage[4] to the site of sacrifice[5].
Noah's Ark is resting there upon the mountain,
in archeological insistance,
and science is confirming the reality
of God's Judgment and His mercy.
The Drogue Stones[6] bear the witness to Noah's great adventure,
The Turks placing tourist signposts[7]
so we may walk the footsteps
of Noah and his progeny.
AFTER THE FLOOD
(tanka)
do doves remember
their ancient elder flying
over flood ravage
then returning to the ark
with a twig of new-found hope
[1] Uzengili Town – This was formerly called Mahser, which means: To be drawn out of the water
[2] Mount Judi
[3] Kazan and today is called Goller.
[4] Ziyaret Dagi
[5] Nasar
[6] anchor stones
[7] Noah's Ark National Park, Turkey
"*Oui, the winner, American Beauty,"
yet hail these 'Windflowers' Anemones,
flourished yon 'Down Under', 'Aussiszlanders,
indeed a showstopper for bystanders
of all but Europe, Turks, then South due East.
Breed buttercup, yet, some toxic; no feast,
bold capped to stop at bowls use; bowels feared,
not ground hugger, but mid-road, four feet cleared.
Eye catchers, nose losers; scent attracts foes,
begs Ruth from deer, rabbits ... cuts Atropos,
relevant, floral events, vast numbers,
eyes lacking, vainglory lapping ... wonders.
Attract bees, butterflies, and egotism,
flowers have that novel effect on schism.
Contested Crossroads
By Mark D. Stucky
On a battleground bloodied across millennia,
on a compact land bridge spanning continents and gods…
Canaanites, Philistines, and Hebrews, oh my!
Israelites, Judeans, and Samaritans, oh my!
Babylonians, Persians, and Romans, oh my!
Jews, Muslims, and Crusaders, oh my!
Turks, Brits, and Zionists, oh my!
Palestinians, Israelis, and others, oh my!
So many clashing claims to such a small strip of land.
So much religious, political, and ethnic strife.
So much cursing, contempt, and conflict.
So much destruction, death, and despair.
So many words of unfulfilled prayers.
So little hope for permanent peace?
(See also my poems “Hate Vacuuming” and “Bringing Heaven to Earth.”)
(Photo by Shahar Weinstein on Pexels.com.)
There was that bloke:
That war poet?
Rupert Brooke
He apparently said; and I quote
I suddenly realised that
The
Ambition of my life has
Been - since I was two - to go on a military expedition
Against the Turks
That's a bit much, isn't it?
Like a cup of
Oniony tea
I will beat Thomas
And if you got into a car
The instructor wouldn't
Say
To you, "Well
What do YOU think?"
The Armenians are’t wanted,
Christians in Muslim land,
we have to make Turkey for Turks,
they’re not part of the plan.
The kulaks are class enemies,
hoarding all the best land,
it’s fine to starve the productive,
they’re not part of the plan.
The Jews have undermined us all,
this is an Aryan land,
gas them to build a brand new Reich,
they’re not part of the plan.
We must make a Great Leap Forward,
make metal, not till land,
peasants may die, but we have more,
they’re not part of the plan.
Let’s take it back to Year Zero,
and reshape this whole land,
send tainted to the Killing Fields,
they’re not part of the plan.
The unborn just get in the way,
don’t need them in this land,
what’s life compared to convenience?
They’re not part of the plan.
These -istaphobic right-wingers
are blights upon our land,
let’s kill the lie that is freedom,
they’re not part of the—
Wait—hey, who gave them all guns? Oh shi—
~ Let's Have a Parade ~
A Shriner drives his little car
Hairpin turns upon a star
Red-fezzed Turks play guitars
Let’s have a parade…
A marching band is next in line
Buglers trumpet notes so fine
Cymbals crashing all the time
Let’s have a parade…
Egyptian camels with two humps
Maneuver over traffic bumps
Circus dogs through hoops do jump
Let’s have a parade…
Little Leaguers, baseball teams
Young majorettes live their dreams
Confectioners dispense mint creams
Let’s have a parade…
A special occasion is not needed
If my advice would just be heeded
Camaraderie and Joy to be seeded ~
Let’s have a parade…
What did the Turks do at ANZAC
When the Diggers left not looking back
Did they wander through the trenches and dugouts
Wondering in the end what was it all about
Did they taste the treats left behind for them
And thanked their God that it did end
Was there whispering on the wind so clear
By the Fallen Diggers as the spoke near their graves so dear
And when they finally left to go to their homes
Did they ponder on these unknowns
When sacrifices were made in the terrible fight
Did they think that it had put them in the right.
© Paul Warren Poetry
He enlisted with his great mates
And embarked with his life left to fate
To Egypt and its desert sands
Training hard at the Army Heads commands
He was at The Landing at Gallipoli
Battling the Turks in Shrapnel Gully
Until he took a piece in his back when doing his best
And to Egypt for treatment and to convalesce
He went to one of the new battalions when they were formed
To England and Salisbury Plain as was the norm
Enduring the Bull Ring then to the Front Line
Finally falling at Pozieres where the German artillery was not kind
They buried him on the broken battlefield
On the ground that he refused to yield
And his papers recorded a postscript lastly meant
“Where the Australians lie” in soil
cared with reverence.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Whoa! My cabinet's 'not diverse enough!'*
This identity stuff is really tough!
Greeks, Poles, Nepalese
Turks, Finns, Congolese
You do it, Kamala ~ You're no creampuff
_________________________________
*'Biden's Cabinet not Diverse Enough'
was the top story on Chicago news
stations at 5:30 p.m., Dec. 09, 2020.
In my infinite wisdom
I tell you this thing,
In this here my kingdom
Will the pendulum swing;
One minute the Kurds
So cute in their garb,
The other the Turks
With their venomous barb.
The former I’m told
Are people to trust,
But I just like the bold
That don’t self-combust.
Give me a winner,
A strong man each time,
I’d rather a sinner
Who’ll follow my line.
Call me ‘cold-hearted’
But what do I care,
The process now started
Depicts my great flair.
Like a conductor
I set forth the tone,
The finest instructor
The world’s ever known.
Let’s finish this bleating
And follow my lead,
So the Kurds get a beating,
A serious nosebleed;
They’re nothing to me,
Just a festering sore,
I hereby decree
This subject’s a bore.
Venezuelans have taught me to laugh
Assyrian refugees how to cry
Russians have taught me diligence
Hindus to face hard times with a sigh
Koreans have taught me courtesy
Thais a sense of wonder
Mongolians have taught me love of country
Africans that they are NOT down under
Greeks have taught me exuberance
Turks a sense of humor
Saudis have taught me humility
Romanians, not to believe mere rumors
My job is to teach them all English, as best I can
The truth is that they have taught me, how to be a good man!
Istanbul was once known as Constantinople
Turks had a problem with too many syllables
So from five to three
Saved two, do you see
Worry not, my illness is non-transmittable
As the woods mimed gently
In the morning breeze like a ballet dancer.
The mother lilly
Beheld that holy thing
Begotten of her
Like the blessed Madonna the little child in the manger.
There, her seed lay asleep
To care for anything in the world.
She knew not how to teach
Life to what seemed dead
But love taught her fingers how
Like Mozart to a novice the secret keys of the grandpiano.
And there she stood
Before any smelt the coming of rain singing the virtues
Love inspired to teach the seed. Her seed!
She poured wisdom into song
And into a seed ignorant of life.
Her season had come to sleep
And all the garden of the valley had mourned.
The marching Turks passed by to war
trampling the glorious swansong on her lips.
The sole of the general
Dug her blessed seed to the ground
And the rain came.
The rain came to raise the one, destined for the general's quiet grave.
In The House Of Dengbej
Three sisters sit
Each in crimson velvet
And veiled hair.
Relate tales
Of interracial love.
Of Armenian Boys and Kurdish Gals.
This is a town of
Cobbled streets and redbrick houses of the ancient Lore.
Diyarbakir, Sur.
Fidus Achates: an Armenian gal and a Kurdish girl
Are no more. The ghosts of the Armenians; translucent
Still linger on the mud walls.
Poplar trees cast melancholy shadows
Over the last remaining residents
Mostly Kurdish
Soon to join the ghosts of the Armenians?
Still the guerrilla resistance continues.
Behind the soiled curtains of white lace.
Death is a banality. Blood spills on baked soil
Daily.
Freedom is a distant land to be conquered.
Wine making and relating tales of ancient lores
And the allure. Lured the youth to Sur.
The House of Dengbej in Sur.
Finest stories are spun like sugar
And spread from tongue to tongue.
* Sur was once a very cosmopolitan town with a harmonious community. It is now a town of bitter conflict between the Turks and Kurdish.
“Our own Festival of Youth Sport reminds
us that the potential to achieving the highest
starts with home grown talent.” It's no jest.
Karen works for the Girl Guides, the finest.
She has spina bifida causing weak legs,
And started shooting in the year of 1984,
With the Duke of Edinburgh, open door,
The top award scheme where you core.
Stoke Mandeville introduced her to guns,
And she first shot in 1991 at the Euros,
Which were there with Belgium portfolios,
In the big West Flanders city of Bruges.
Karen made her debut at the Paralympics
Of Barcelona in Spain in the year 1992,
And went on to enjoy more Paras, due:
Three - Atlanta, Sydney and Rio with ado.
She thoroughly enjoyed Operation Raleigh,
Which was a disability trek to two islands,
Over the Atlantic to Turks, Caicos sands,
Where she dived among the coral strands.
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