Palestine Poems
The Shame of Gaza
by Richard Randolph
If the six million Jews who died in the Holocaust
saw their descendants treat an ethnic minority as second-class citizens,
what do you think they'd feel?
And if they saw them relegate these people
to poor ghettos, deprive them of basic rights,
and then systematically steal their lands,
what do you think they'd feel?
And if they heard them refuse to help these people
have a homeland of their own, claiming there’s no room,
while they live on lands taken from these very people
......
Poems for Palestinian Children
by Michael R. Burch
These are poems about Palestinian children and their mothers...
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
......
Alma
by Rainbow Wilcox
She also cried as a newborn, and felt light shine through her eyes. Her favourite colour was ocean. Her lungs moved with the tides.
On Fridays, she'd make bread with her dad. Four floury hands. Two smiles, soft and wide. It was a ritual they’d complete each week, between prayers, and stories, and feasting. Sometimes, she’d take a ball of dough and eat it raw.
On Saturdays, she'd dance among ancient trees, who were too sage to take any side. This is where Alma would find freedom, with swirling scents of cedar, thyme, and pine. Below, gnarled roots met her feet, above buds and branches met her moves. Sometimes, she’d sing a song, made up on the spot.
On Sunday, Alma died, due to a paradox and plague: 'Holy war' they call it – this vain game of trying to claim the sacred. The stars, and those paying attention, saw that in the flash of the explosion, everyone's heaven was lit bright, just the same.
The ripples are still rippling. Mother is weeping salty tears. This is an old story, and fresh. Over the kitchen table and cups of chamomile tea, she asks tired and patient questions to nobody and to me. Questions about peace and breathing bodies at ease, and why we keep killing and reducing each other to less than tender, and place each other further than intimate, when all are babes here, fleshy and intricate.
......
Mother GAZA
by Joseph Ogbonna
A percentage of me has to hell been consigned
by the ever raging zionists' war machine.
To each livid soldier, a mandate is assigned
to uproot terror where multitudes are confined.
Torrents of explosives have swept my landscapes clean.
Churches, mosques, schools have all to mighty vengeance bowed.
Stricken mothers wail uncontrollably aloud.
Itinerancy pervades my horror stricken crowd,
whilst my kids toy with explosives, carnage and ruin.
Survivors will take shelter from snipers shooting
......
Poems for Palestinian Children
by Michael R. Burch
These are poems about Palestinian children and their mothers...
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
......
The Shame of Gaza
by Richard Randolph
If the six million Jews who died in the Holocaust
saw their descendants treat an ethnic minority as second-class citizens,
what do you think they'd feel?
And if they saw them relegate these people
to poor ghettos, deprive them of basic rights,
and then systematically steal their lands,
what do you think they'd feel?
And if they heard them refuse to help these people
have a homeland of their own, claiming there’s no room,
while they live on lands taken from these very people
......
Mother GAZA
by Joseph Ogbonna
A percentage of me has to hell been consigned
by the ever raging zionists' war machine.
To each livid soldier, a mandate is assigned
to uproot terror where multitudes are confined.
Torrents of explosives have swept my landscapes clean.
Churches, mosques, schools have all to mighty vengeance bowed.
Stricken mothers wail uncontrollably aloud.
Itinerancy pervades my horror stricken crowd,
whilst my kids toy with explosives, carnage and ruin.
Survivors will take shelter from snipers shooting
......
Alma
by Rainbow Wilcox
She also cried as a newborn, and felt light shine through her eyes. Her favourite colour was ocean. Her lungs moved with the tides.
On Fridays, she'd make bread with her dad. Four floury hands. Two smiles, soft and wide. It was a ritual they’d complete each week, between prayers, and stories, and feasting. Sometimes, she’d take a ball of dough and eat it raw.
On Saturdays, she'd dance among ancient trees, who were too sage to take any side. This is where Alma would find freedom, with swirling scents of cedar, thyme, and pine. Below, gnarled roots met her feet, above buds and branches met her moves. Sometimes, she’d sing a song, made up on the spot.
On Sunday, Alma died, due to a paradox and plague: 'Holy war' they call it – this vain game of trying to claim the sacred. The stars, and those paying attention, saw that in the flash of the explosion, everyone's heaven was lit bright, just the same.
The ripples are still rippling. Mother is weeping salty tears. This is an old story, and fresh. Over the kitchen table and cups of chamomile tea, she asks tired and patient questions to nobody and to me. Questions about peace and breathing bodies at ease, and why we keep killing and reducing each other to less than tender, and place each other further than intimate, when all are babes here, fleshy and intricate.
......
