I am Palestine –a poem

I am Palestine.

I duck as rocks fly at me,

thrown by those who scorn me.

Some say I should not exist

just because I follow the crescent

instead of the cross.

 

I am Palestine.

I hold my child to my bosom.

Blood pours from his wounds.

I cry out for help, but no one heeds me

for I follow the crescent

instead of the cross

 

I am Palestine.

My hands are bound behind my back.

The coarse rope cuts into my wrists.

They jeer at me and spit at me

because I follow the crescent

instead of the cross.

 

I am Palestine.

Where are my mother and father?

I am lost and frightened.

I just want to be safe. 

I call out for them, but my cries

are lost in the din of war.

 

I am Palestine.

I live in exile in the desert.

Walls of tanks prevent my return.

No one takes me in,

or even gives me water.

My pleas for help go unheeded.

 

I am Palestine.

My patience has reached its end.

I will not cower like a beaten dog

when they throw sticks and stones at me.

I can fight back too;

I have my own sticks and stones.

Let them know they cannot tread all over me

For my father was Ismail, the son of Abraham, a father of kings.  

I have been here since the beginning,

And I will remain until the end.

Love and Loss

I’ve just escaped from Communication Disorders 261. Honestly, it’s the most boring class ever, and I just totally zone out. Can’t learn anything. The droning did help me to concentrate on something though, so I did manage to write a wee poem. It’s not very good, since I don’t even read poetry.

Love and Loss

I have loved and I have lost.

My days fade into winter frost.

As now I watch the pale sunrise,

I cannot help but recall days gone by.

Those warm spring morns with sparkling dew,

When everything was bright and new.

And there beneath the shady trees,

With fragrant flowers and buzzing bees,

She lay still on the warm firm land,

Her head resting on her hand.

Many a happy day we spent

-For love her hold would not relent-

Romping through the meadows fair,

Until the woody boughs were bare.

Upon a bed of golden leaves,

She released her hold on life’s dry lees.

Still I wandered this cold grey world,

Until the last brown leaf has curled.  

I have loved and I have lost.

My days fade into winter frost.

Well, obviously the narrator is not me. I was thinking about a man who never grew old, and how he would feel if he fell in love with a mortal woman. He feels old, but his body is young, and he cannot die. It’s a sad thing. I wouldn’t want immortality.