Death is late…Re-blogged from writer George Agak’s site, Sliver of Darkness.

I am very touched by this excellent poem by George Agak.      His work is very graphic, and grabs ahold of the reader and doesn’t let go.       It is an accomplishment to achieve such a deeply emotional work of writing, and as you folks know, I am not subject to being moved by hyperbole….so I appreciate what I may call beauty-in-horror.      It is a sad fact that this kind of terrible scenario exists in our modern world.       Thanks for letting me re-blog, George!

 

Sliver of Darkness

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I will write a letter and toss it in the wind
Or strip your hammock and toss in the river
I might be dead when they reach you
Nothing has changed
Yet nothing has remained the same
The gods have been vexed
All this time they’ve held rain

Grass still grows
Watered by endless flow of blood
The valley has changed its appeal
The shades we once rested under
Now home rotting humans
And vultures feast
The freedom fighters have fought the system
Then rebelled against their prior motives
They kill anything in human gait

But still….
The government lives
Not counting the ones lost
They fly outside to drink and dine
Because this nation is rotten
Their appetite might wane

When they took you, bro,
I couldn’t fight them
That’s cowardice I know
But death isn’t for the brave either

Bro, this nation is rich
You could have seen…

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childhood memories of war

Perhaps the most vivid memories of nursery tales were not of bunnies or bantering fairies…but of War and its aftermath.     We here in the United States did not suffer the horrors that children in other countries did, the bombings and air raids and worse.   But such accounts were very much vicariously present.    And directly following the Hot War followed the Cold War, with its insidious psychological terror.

I was eleven when World War II ended in 1945.    What I write here are my impressions as a child.

Here in the Cleveland, Ohio area we had three major daily newspapers in Cleveland,
in the 1940s-1950s.    Subtlety was not a virtue to our dueling newspapers, bent on gathering new and worse  predictions and statistics to entertain and scare the heck out of the readership.     Everyone read the papers…there was no television in the vast majority  of our homes, and except for newsreel productions in the movie theaters,  the newspapers were the major source for information about the “doomsday bullseye” which so impressed us as kids!   We lay on the floor with the front page of the paper spread out before us,   especially the issues with the giant bulleye dominating the front page…we traced the maps and figured out the implications for us personally…we lived  roughly 30 miles from the epicenter, which was presumeably down-town Cleveland.      In those days the  Cleveland area was a major producer of steel and—I was very proud to say—the twelfth largest city in the United States.

…tales of missile silos that later became parks
where ducks paddled in glistening ponds
surrounded by Lilies and Begonias
casting their colors in pinwheel flashes

This  was all a  grim and grotesque point of pride for me (for many of us kids) in the knowledge of having—within our own perimeter—huge metal monsters capable of unspeakable destruction.   This perverse, but prevailing situation had the effect of providing bragging points in discussing the relative extent of our living areas from the Bullseye Center at the heart of the city.   The really spooky thing is that my peers and I understood (mostly) the implications.  We discussed it in school, and excitedly and conspiratorially mapped our own possible destruction and theoretical  survival rather matter-of-factly, if not with particular sophistication.

The encouraging news—such as it was— lay in the conjecture that relative safety
existed outside of a radius of thirty miles… outside of the “immediate blast” area.
After that was a series of concentric rings, inside of which various stages of non-annihilation “might” exist.   This included various degrees of exposure to radiation,
and theoretical projected life-expectancy.

But comfort came in the form of experts’ advice on preparing our underground shelters and keeping them stocked with water and food… supplies sufficient for about two years.    Then came the horror of realization of implications that under the category of “supplies” would have to come stores of ammunition to arm the guns that would be necessary to guard our family stores  against neighbors and friends—and planning for continued survival AFTER the theoretical “all-clear” sirens sounded and we could come out of our shelters and return to — What?

Even us children understood that if the GOOD news was that survival from an atomic blast would (or might) be possible—this was also the BAD news.

 

 

 

 

If Only This Had Been A Rare Face, Re-blogged from “Weirdly Wired.”

This beautifully written and poignant poem is by Nikhil, on his site WEIRDLY WIRED, is re-blogged here with permission. Thanks, Nikhil!

Erratic Expeditions

As Mediterranean waves evaded a violent shore,

A frail face lay in peace, at the confluence of war.

Birds swam seeking refuge in boatloads,

A few sank, like an island full of toads.

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Terror, tears, shock, and blank concern,

How did the world allow its people to burn?

Passionate vows, pious pleas overflew worldwide,

An audacious hope of morality bona fide.


Sadly, that was not to be!

Time, forgetfulness – proved a great healer.


 Haunting face sitting in an ambulance

Three-year-old eyes, dusty and bloodshot with innocence.

Shock, cry, surprise, alarm –  a bit too far,

Unnerving calm and silence – fury and chaos of war.

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 The world’s conscience still ceases to be troubled,

All the piety did not move the world.

No change, no action – not a trace,

If only this had been a rare face.

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The Wannabes Want War …why IS that?

[This is a poem that was published here last month, and I am re-writing it and re-posting it again today.  The original title was A Word to the Not-so-wise.  I have altered the original content and inserted line breaks and punctuation.   The made-up word “Wannabes” refers to the bevy of candidates who want-to-be the next President of the United States.]

The Wannabes want war,
but see what happened last time
they got a war?   A lot of death and
destruction–worse off than before.

The Wannabes say these nations have bad,
evil dictators in charge–who kill and maim
and terrorize.   Their solution?
replace them with somebody worse.

That means it matters little what evils
they perpetrate–as long as they do
whatever  the Wannabes want them to.

Stop talking and trying to rationalize
the need for a peaceful solution.
It’s easier to send “boots” in on the ground,
than to bother with negotiation.

So the saviors get tougher
as the innocents suffer
–too bad if they get in the way.

The Wannabes say: have no worries
about collateral damage,
just go in on a rampage–
let God sort it out in the end.

Meanwhile the Wannabes spout
their rhetoric
and bang the drums
for swift retribution and War.

The clueless, or thoughtless,
glorify hegemonic influences.
As long as the outcome has profit–
who cares how harmonic?

We would all do well to remember
what happened before
when the Wannabes were last in position
to tout their own reckless solutions

–to destroy and bow to promotion of War.

©Sometimes,2015