Just do it

No one lingers on open ground in Syria,
And the buildings are silent.

The young man steadies his hand and shoots again.

It is Christmas Eve, and his
Yellow T-shirt – Just Do It T-shirt – is his only reminder,

Of normal people,

And Christmas stockings,
And of his mother.

His brown Uncle says he is fighting for his niece,
His manhood, but
The woman who shot,

In his direction fully clothed was fully,
Female,

Fully functional.

The bombs have destroyed all the buildings and the shooting,
Almost everyone,

And,
The meaning on the T-shirt is not his, but

He takes aim and shoots again.

Published in: on December 25, 2017 at 10:01  Leave a Comment  
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Red Ink

Short poety, works move, out and about Africa

I.

We used to receive, in West Germany, handwritten letters from friends in Soviet Russia.

Mail was read by censors so we established a code;
If written in blue ink,

True,
If red,

False.

Letters would arrive,
All written in blue;

Everything wonderful, stores full of food,
Apartments large, weather is good.

We just cannot buy,
Red Ink.

II.

So then I was moved by,

The shoddy silhouette,
Cut into concrete,

Of three bedraggled figures;
One woman, one man,

And a frail old lady.

The woman,
Cradling a baby swaddled in yellow rags,

Called the man, ‘…Husband.’

The man was the old lady’s Son,
And was weeping bitterly on his mother’s shoulders but,

The schooner had not failed this time,
And she was finally here,

On the dock,
Cold and withered and whispering to her son,

Grandma will be happy to learn the new ways,
Of feeding her children, soup!

Korea.

♦photo♦ yeyeolade.wordpress.com

evocative short poetry

Published in: on July 1, 2015 at 07:05  Leave a Comment  
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