PageForAfrica2

Africa

by Regis Auffray

Canada

My sister

Africa

I have heard much about you

We all come from you

We are all part of you

Your beauty

Your mystery

Your history

All this is within me

I know you are hurting

in parts

I wish I could ignore

as most now seem to do

I am lost in the magnitude

of trying to understand you

and what goes on within

my soul

is uneasy

I am insignificant

I am ignorant

I am sorry

I feel helpless

to help

May 2004

Sudan Savagery

by Pam H. Murray

British Columbia, Canada

Beautiful Mother Africa,

My homeland, my Sudan,

How bathed in blood your shoulders are

Because of hate of man;

Your children, being massacred,

Forgotten in their plight,

While, far away, so many have

Their sweet dreams through the night.

Tonight I die in agony.

My legs are blown away.

With my own blood I write my tale

And hope that it will stay

Until one person spreads the word

About our misery

And how this boy of eight years old

Has faced such savagery.

aka rhymetimeblue

Snapshot #8....Malaikah in the Sudan

by Donna Read, USA

Searching For Angels

I was reading...

"There is nothing so precious

as knowledge unless it's the understanding..."

Sand stung my eyes as I looked up,

heard screams. My mother

running, tears staining her face,

told us to go, told me to take my brother

and run.

I stood still,

not believing this could happen again.

Soldiers shooting women, children

just like me. Those who stood still

were falling like leaves, like rain from the heavens.

I did not want to fall.

I ran.

My younger brother could not keep up...

my mother, saving us, could not keep up.

Later, when the soldiers left

and I was alone

choking on the smoke of those

I knew..

I looked for angels,

for understanding

or a god who would explain.

I saw only the sun, shining through

quiet ashes.

Donna Read, May 2004

I am not a very political animal but I can feel the pain of others both here in my small world as well as in the larger context. No blame can be affixed to any of it, after all, we are not long from the trees. Let us all try to live as if we were all the people of the world.

"All pain inflicted on others is a blight on our own souls." This goes to the smallest of complaints to the largest of inequities. There are no innocents.

So, off my soapbox I fall. A small bruise reminds me that I am not exempt.

(Posted on the Atlantic Monthly Online website)

Seattle, Washington, USA

Offertory song for the new millennium

by Dennis Greene

Australia

Give thanks to God for loving men and lambs,

for giving us this Earth to make or break;

give thanks for brains and hearts and blood on hands,

for things that mankind does for heaven's sake.

Give thanks that we who once kept gods alive

with songs of praise and hopes of paradise,

who lit the sacred fires, sharpened knives

and slaughtered countless lambs in sacrifice,

no longer have the need to slit lamb's throats

no longer say our prayers with holy smoke,

much cleaner using greed and Third World debt,

much simpler to say prayers with hijacked jets

and graft, corruption, bribes and well hedged bets,

indifference, lies, half truths, and outright theft.

Give thanks to God for loving men and lambs.

Thank God he's not too fussy which he gets.

The Dance

by Jane Flowers aka Woryn Jay

New Zealand (originally from Zimbabwe)

There's a hotel on an African corner

Where the children come daily to dance

For one little piece of your silver

They sing, they cavort and they prance.

And their antics are really quite charming

They will pose for a cute photograph

And isn't it just so enchanting

How their teeth flash white when they laugh.

The culture shock is your pleasure

The ambience sultry and hot.

And your dollars spent will measure

How many parents are shot.

The Long Leaving

by Katherine L. Gordon

Rockwood, Ontario,

Canada

Rain ages to drought over writhing rows

of plow incisions,

garden gates hinge open

to let frayed garlands

of the dedication times

tumble and drift

on abandoned dream-scapes,

a piped lament divides sky and earth

shredding the flesh of binding,

young girls bow heads,

heavy glory on slim stalks,

weeping through their unbound hair

as the long boxes pass.

The fields bleed lilies.

Katherine L. Gordon, Canada

Copyright, May, 2005

A CROWD GATHERED AT THE WALLS OF AL JUNAYNAH

by Andrew Grossman, USA

www.poeticcopy.com

Physical fitness, mental soundness and social well-being

Constitute the main characteristics of a healthy person.

Not a single person is considered as completely healthy.

Hence, the urgent need to rehabilitate.

A number of primary health care units are operating.

The first step is to walk to the nearest unit.

If you do not know where to find a facility,

contact the local militia for directions.

The militia is responsible for law and order.

It will improve the environment

for the return of normality in the life of the people.

It will help you toward the road of healthy existence.

Andrew Grossman,

Williamsburg, Virginia, USA

by Safi Abdi (author)

Somalia

If She Survives (a poem on the predicament of the Somali woman)

Poem: If She Survives

It's her fate to suffer the foolish

The only glue cementing the ruins

A dried flower without the care.

She feeds the baby

And keeps the man on board, too.

An expert in ducking bullets

Graceful to the core

Though offended,

Wholesale,

The woman

In the flowing dress's a veteran,

Voiceless in a tragedy absurd.

Her plight no hairs ruffle

Her hopes neglected remain

Overwhelmed by men

Sightless in the daylight

She hawks her wares

In the sunlit mess;

Knowing God counts her woes.

If she survives this reckless age

It's no thanks to the man on board.

Website: http://www.authorsden.com/safiabdi

IIn the Arena.

by Robin Ouzman Hislop, U.K.

deep in the dark they goad through a tunnel blinking

into blinding explode, wooden spears sinking

blooded brown matted hair, a roaring growling bear

entering arena, where crowds thirst massacre.

we are each one that bear, we are each one that crowd

made in our despair, as we cry out aloud

unto the sun sent day, our lust for spilt blood

on the shifting sands fey, where our lives are rubbed

out. mortal tragedies, destined we compound, bound

in anomynities, to their funeral mounds;

now the gladiators enter the arena:

double, double, double in toil & trouble;

the crowd from their tiers with fluttering banners

mumble, stumble, tumble, crumble into rubble.

Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2004

Poverty abounds

Ch'erie de Perrott.

New Zealand

Ah yes Poverty abounds

as welled brewed pot of coffee grounds

bellies stricken with aching need

from all colours, race and creed

Shame be though as plentiful offers

to fill visonary/missionary coffers

ne'er forth in enthusiasm leaps

whilst wrenching hunger untoward reeks

A Dime a Dollar, Euro or Yen

is all that's needed forthcoming when

humanitarians knock upon the door

pleading freedom and hunger no more

There's plenty to go around

why wait till needy go to ground

dig deep a thought spared

turns needless sorrow to live's reared

Whilst on earth the Lord he gave

his Kingly time to that of slave

he owned nothing of earthly treasure

concerned only for Man's measure

Home and pillow he denied himself

crown O Glory left on heavenly shelf

the greatest epitome of humanity

selfless drudgery were known to Thee

Apathetic excuses render nought

heartfelt causes we should support

while thanking the Lord on daily basis

for we live compared, in bounty's Oasis

Ch'erie de Perrott

Homo Homini Lupus Sustained

by Richard James Van der Draaij

Editor of Ancient Hearts Magazine

Holland by way of the U.K.

Proud women bear the scars of war,

their absent menfolk's hopes and dreams.

The lives of those now lost and more,

still moving gently - kind, it seems.

Men are bigger than they are

when they smite each other down.

God's Kingdom still so very far,

while savagery does wear a crown.

Tears of holy thoughts still linger,

something decent must respond.

Amid the bloodbath points a finger

to Love, of which we once were fond.

Richard James Van der Draaij

Aree

by Virginia Westbook

Des Moines, IA, USA

Aree was a gem among Sudanese girls,
she glowed with the radiance of ebony pearls.

Her skin was as smooth and dark as the night,

her smile, the essence of warmth and light.

One night Janjaweeds stormed through her village,

killed her family and took all they could pillage.

Aree tried to run but she could not escape,

Eight Janjaweeds beat her, then took turns in her rape.

A woman named Casma found Aree near a shed,

where vicious Janjaweeds had left her for dead.

She removed duct tape that had Aree bound,

then picked her up from the damp filthy ground.

Casma knew she’d better not wait,

Aree seemed to be in a graven state.

The woman dropped down to her knees

and prayed, “Lord help this child, please.”

Aree withstood more then any child should take

she had courage and a will that was hard to break.

Aree’s temperature was 104° yet she felt cold,

her fight was valiant but king death took hold.

Aree hung on through great chills and moans,

this woman-child, now only skin and bones.

Finality flashed across her small ashen face,

She was buried in a white dress trimmed in lace…

Aree saw her sisters, and grabbed their hands,

they laughed, they pranced on the cool wet sands.

Death and sorrow are things of Aree’s past,

She’s with her family now and is happy, at last.

6/21/7

V. K. Westbrook

A Song Of Africa

by George Carroll

USA

We haven't ignored

The plight of

Those on a distant shore.

Whose starving masses

Lay dying in the dust

No food or grain in store

The swollen bellies

And tearful eyes

That tomorrow may not see.

And many have sung

A song to this sight

That moved the world's

Heart over night.

Many lives this song saved

For the money people gave

Brought hope where existed none

We can only hope and pray

Starvation has had its day

And our love the battle has won.

Copyright, 2004

George Carroll

DISPARITY’S DESTRUCTION

by Dr. Karen Springer,

New Jersey, USA

They are not like us.

Strange, extreme beliefs they flaunt;

So kill them

To get the oil we want.

They are not like us.

Their skin is black as night;

So rape the helpless women

Until that race turns white.

They are not like us.

So have their children sold

To be camel racers and sex slaves.

We’re entitled to the gold.

They are not useful to us

So look with blinded eyes

As Hutus exterminate Tutsis.

What matter if they die?

They are not our reflection

So we’re wolves and they’re our prey.

Why do we watch these holocausts

Then simply turn away?

Copyright, 2004

Dr. Karen R. Springer

TORTE

by John Horvath Jr.

Editor, Poetry Repair Shop

I fell next to him. His body rolled over.

It was tight as a string before it snaps.

The men all piss

nine miles from here

the haystacks and houses burn

men, animals, wagons, and thoughts.

They are swelling

bodies dreamy eyed

unwilling to live

here in the mountains

among frightening rumors.

For me, there are grasshoppers, oxen, church steeples,

gentle farms.

In the grass, it is growing dark.

And in time, silence drizzles again.

A world of nothing but water!

Water to fill narrow gutters,

bursting, overflow murky

The woman touches her bun

of thinning hair. She laughs.

The traveler stands in frozen tableau

surrounded by drowsy old men

who wish to ask why he returned now.

From early morning they stood at the gate,

shuffling their feet, coughing now and then

Where's my father now? Where? Where's my pride of those days?

I became a rainbow, and he maggoty clay.

You do not fathom it, though you outlive me.

You raced against danger: for as long

as you glided soaked to the skin; but, she feels not a thing.

They were shouting in a language foreign to me,

yet as intelligibly and with words as clear-

shining as the brilliant glitter of the sun

on water.

West…

we have gone

West

["Torte" includes lines from poems by Miklos Radnoti,Ferenc Juhasz,

and Gyula Illyes]

Copyright, 2004

John Horvath Jr.

Buried in the Sand

by Annette Nasser

Massachusetts, USA

Bearded old man, are you

really who you say you are?

Do you disguise the facade

hiding beneath truth or lies?

Innocence looks upon you

yet some say looks are deceiving.

Perhaps you play upon

others' feelings, creating

trust among the brotherhood

only to act upon the naive at the end?

Under the turban, lies

an ordinary, simple-looking, old man.

Beard longer than his hair, laying

gently upon his chest, well-tanned and wrinkled,

he has aged in years

and his stories have been told of the past,

now old, one can view,

hear of his ancient life in appearance.

Does terror lie hidden in his stories told,

to act upon, to have already played?

He looks at all with eyes that see beyond the crowded street.

He stands and while he gazes,

silently, some feel terror; others who stare, see solitude.

He has been through much in his life.

Murder, violence, mayhem and chaos among men;

feudal arguments, undesired,

genocidal atrocities of the innocent

tolerance taken away,

old and young, now buried in the sand.

Annette Nasser

Kum ba ya ya

by Ann Cantu

The Holy Spirit donned Her sunbonnet

And set out to visit the sick,

The unruly and overindulgent

Who had misplaced mercy, grace,

And the lost art of generosity.

When joie d’vive impairs the senses,

Souring the milk of human kindness,

God might go on holiday,

Since no one listens anyway.

Heresy is blaming

Not ourselves, but Divinity.

Why would He let innocent children

Die of starvation,

Or let oppressors obliterate nations?

God’s question is

Why would we?

©Ann R. Cantu

July, 2004

Weeping Mother

by Àmarice Moon Ravenwolf

Mississippi, USA

A mother runs into a wartorn valley, bloodied and in tears

Weeping for her children, murdered in their cradle

She cries "WHY" with all her remaining voice

But nobody heard her call or nobody wanted to listen

And it remained still, in a valley where only the dead have words to say

And where only the dead listen to the living

She was so deeply hurt that nobody thought she would survive

But her remaining hope gave her the power to heal

And to hold her sword to defend her lands and the children who survived

She stands tall and proud, like an image of the Goddess

Her pride, love and courage rallying her peers to her cause

She could have thought there was no hope after her children's death, yet she held up to hope and fought

She could have died from her wounds, yet her will allowed herself to heal

She could have thought that she had no power to fight, yet she took that power

And her struggle kept her alive

She gives us the message to never give up even when hope seems to be dead

To never leave our wounds take us down

And that we have the power to fight to forge a better world

That woman is around us and also lives within us

She is a weeping mother in Iraq or Africa, Mother Earth or the Amazon who lives into our inner psyche

We all live into symbiosis and if we don't fight to defend each other

We condemn ourselves to die

Àmarice Moon Ravenwolf)O( (Melanie)

My Lai

by Namvet Poet

Allen L. Shemke

California, USA

A hamlet in Vietnam –

It was spelled My Lai.

Most pronounced it

“Mee Li” (long “i”).

I remember there was

A Captain Medina

And a Lieutenant Calley

Who were blamed

For the massacre –

The My Lai Massacre.

It was in the newspapers

It was on the TV news – for

Weeks it was the scandal –

The talk at the student union.

But in Vietnam, the bodies of

Children, women, and old men –

Victims – simply decomposed.

In Vietnam, the war raged on –

Massacres don’t stop a war’s

Fighting, carnage, and destruction.

My Lai seemed to be when

I started hearing our soldiers

Being called “baby-killers,”

And I started to hear about

The U.S. committing genocide

Against the people of Vietnam.

After all of that, I was inducted –

To Vietnam, to the later war.

Thank God I didn’t have to

Kill any babies over there.

Later, post-war, I worked

At the V.A. with other vets.

I think I saw there a couple

Of V.A. benefit awards for

Vets who wanted to attend

A helicopter flight school

Run by the same Medina,

The Army Captain of My Lai.

Suddenly, the war was in

My head, and memories of

The My Lai Massacre story.

I wondered whatever became

Of Lieutenant Calley, who,

I am told, was convicted but

Later pardoned by President Nixon.

I doubt that we will ever know

All the grim truth and sordid details

About My Lai – just as surely as

Those civilians who died there

Will never come back to tell of it.

A Dark Year

by Sondra Ball, Editor

Autumn Leaves

Pennsylvania, USA

War in Iraq, Afghanistan,

genocide spilling through Sudan:

yet fools still say, "This is not hell.

God's in his heaven. All is well."

Children shrieking in their despair

belie the myth that all is fair.

Yet as I toil and as I brood,

caught in a most unhappy mood;

while hostile armies take their toll,

and midnight reigns inside my soul;

I find that I, just like the fools,

believe that love will one day rule.

A Desert Dream

by Wayne Adams, Fort Dodge Iowa, USA

In a dream I took a journey

to a place unknown to me,

a scene of desolation

I was not prepared to see.

A white desert stretched for miles,

farther than the eye could tell.

It would have looked like heaven,

but for the signs that it was hell.

I gazed out on the horror

and I soon began to weep.

Great sorrow filled my being

as I mourned wthin my sleep.

Many objects lay all around me,

placed there by an evil hand.

I was stunned by the sight

of human bones upon the sand.

No peace was there to greet me,

no life was to be found.

Just stillness, grief and emptiness,

my crying was the only sound.

I struggled to awaken,

but couldn't leave that desert sun,

as if it was to remind me

there was much work to be done.

One thing can be expected

as the fires of hate are fanned;

the death of many people,

and bones scattered on the sand.

I Cry

by Susan Eckenrode

Ohio, USA

I saw ten people blown and burned to bits

because a young man wore a bomb for Cause.

I saw a mother and her daughters raped

because their men would not support the Cause.

I saw the children starving without food

because officials stole to feed the Cause.

I lived with death and dying everyday

because I fought the authors of the Cause.

I feared that I would never feel again.

My crying's proof that I still have my soul.

by Susan Eckenrode

True Madness

by D. P. Robertson

Melbourne, Australia

("Five to six men would rape us, one after the other,

for hours during six days, every night. My husband

could not forgive me after this, he disowned me."

Sudanese refugee woman- Darfur 2004)

What?

Have we all gone mad?

Have we lost our humanity?

When does a husband not comfort

His wife in such insanity?

Where is the safe harbour

When blood runs like rivers

What are these stone hearts

That makes good people shiver

In sadness, so desperate,

In whose blood thirsty name

That makes us all wonder

There's no end to this pain

Through a sea of misery

Of the butchered and raped

When it all happens again

And we all see it too late

But there they will starve

Be tortured and maimed

In the death camps of Darfur

Man is going insane

David Peter Robertson

Each Day

by David Fraser, Editor Ascent Aspirations Magazine

Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada

Each day we drink

the filtered water of the news,

gulp the gossip down,

those headline incidents

of pain and suffering;

tsunami now

lurking for a few more weeks,

the fiery crumbling towers before,

their echoes back and forth each day,

bombs, bullets, body bags

fill the air, catch the eye,

slaughter trees, use up ink

so groups both small and large

can feed their obsessive greed.

A new day’s headline is waiting now

while by the billions

bloated babies lie and wait

to give their water to the flies

each day.