I’m tired of criticizin’

Poetry, politics

 

I’m tired of criticizin’

I have found fault

where fault exists,

where graft and waste

rot administrative wheels

like puncture holes of gangrene.

I have listened to talking power heads

repeat-repeat their rhetoric

on a scratched CD of promises,

seen the blood and fire of history

scream from the mouths of dying

protesters and communities.

All this I have witnessed.

All this has waned my will to critique.

For what good is it to rage a reality on replay?

To say all is lost, this nation is doomed,

we have gone from rainbows to dark-clouded gloom.

I have let my speech and thoughts be flogged

with whips of negativity for too long

and like an amateur graffiti artist,

I have tagged ‘‘failed state’’ on this land

without spotting the mural of hope

struggling to breathe beneath.

 

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Between an end and beginning

Christianity

 

Between an end and beginning

I’m sure he lies there resting

coiled tight within the rock.

 

It is Saturday, when one week dies

another comes to life.

 

I’m sure he lies there thinking

recounting Friday’s traumatic trial.

 

It is a reflective time of grace,

mercy and a time of sacrifice.

 

I’m sure he lies there listening

as authorities rejoice his brutal failure.

 

Outside the law stands firm

expecting no miracles.

 

I’m sure he lies there waiting,

anticipating Sunday’s redemptive sunrise.

 

 

 

Appearances

Uncategorized

 

Appearances

We, who appear to the world,

are blind shadows

in a faded world,

wind whose form is only known

by its whistle against the disturbed air.

 

One instant our true character is clear,

but after,

we assume some new shape,

some simulated character

we try to convince everyone to know.

 

We who deceive the world

too deceive ourselves —

to think the mask we exhibit to the public eye

can’t be torn away —

or at the very least —

 

Become a two-way mirror

to see our true selves

hidden deep within.

 

Commune

Poetry, politics

Short poem 10.

Commune

For the Iraqi Kurdish village of Kulajo

I remember you.

You were my mother, father,

sister, brother, uncle, aunt.

Though our last names never met,

we were sewn like thread at the seams

by the weddings, harvests, births and burials

our households shared.

And while planes and tanks spat fire on our heads,

while guns made us wandering souls,

the bond of our communal blood helped us to endure.

 

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