Daily Archives: March 24, 2017

S.O.S. A Sparrow Falls. by Carol Argyris

I am not a silent poet

Warm thoughts are necessary
to wrap a dressing over exposed nerves
protect them from the stinging air.
They are the opiates that bring sleep,
make waking possible.
It grows harder to conjure them,
easier to despair.
A million children starve
daily, bombs amputate limbs, 
decapitate, kill dreams,
destroy all peace
and rip through hope.
For heaven’s sake
cast spotlights on beauty,
on cathedrals, on churches,
make stained glass glow.
Not all we have created is ugly.
Illuminate ancient city walls
moss-covered, softened, 
no longer borders.
Shine light on statues of other gods
who promised nothing
were equally cruel
yet somehow more humane
understanding as they did 
the human condition, living it.
Make ruined abbeys beautiful,
halo them in luminescence,
let penumbral shadow 
soothe the sight
of cardboard city sleepers
drugged against the night.
Let light 
put aching hearts to rest
for a while
to Save…

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Silhouettes in the garden of the east lawn by Rick Richardson

I am not a silent poet

Who cares about the affairs
of poor women
who work their fingers
to the bone
just ask them
those who have been let down
and taken up
like the hem of a gown
rich ladies wear
at the country club
taking up a collection for the nun
who cares for the orphans
when there is golf
and invitations to dances
to attend in the evening
on the east lawn
by the garden
the master in his white gloves
brushes dirt
off of his evening jacket
and a flash of a silver flask
in the moonlight
like a dagger in the back
of ambassadors
while those authorities on gas
and all of their advisors
go over lists of the uninvited
keeping tabs on who has
and who hasn’t shown up yet
smoking cigarettes
and drinking cold duck
with their fish eggs
as the dark guests
who were never invited
dance alone…

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My Ash-Sham by Sofia Kioroglou

I am not a silent poet

Damascus, the city of Jasmine, my ash-Sham
now in throbbing pain, with intra-ocular pressure,
higher than normal, the omen is permanent vision loss
of a brighter future, our people are blind
Damascus, my Madīnat al-Yāsmīn
traumatized, yet squinting at a sliver of light
peeking through the door, a wished-for chimera
if wishes were horses, the future would be ours to create
Damascus, my homeland, the Barada river
a throbbing jugular, still alive
a knive in the heart, hot burning pain
peace floating driftwood on gory water

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