Afghanistan

I was not there

when on his quick road to hell

he detonated the bomb,

death strapped to his chest

like a medal for martyrs.

I was not there

when you offered prayers at the mosque,

did not hear the explosion,

did not sink into blackness,

did not wake to the horror,

did not see as you tried

to piece your children’s bodies together,

did not see you searching for limbs,

little body parts scattered

as if confetti of war. 

I was not there;

your screams passed without hearing,

your pain without feeling,

I just didn’t know.

I was not there but have read of you,

now know of your story,

know your grief is enormous,

know you sink into sadness,

know you can’t afford surgery,

know that poverty steals you,

know you still pick glass from the soles of your feet.

I was not there but have read of you,

I am moved by your story. 

I think of you, feel for you,

picture the horror in my mind.

The terrible truth is that although moved,

soon I will  unconsciously filter you out.

My thoughts will become full of a new outrage,

a new disaster    or petty things,

little petty things that don’t matter at all.

This is the scheme of things;

this is how we operate – to stay sane,

to not be constantly afraid… to have hope…

to deal with the next day and whatever it brings.

I wish you had this choice. 

Anna

Written for Susan’s Midweek Motif at Poets United where she asks us to write about Truth, thanks for the inspiration Susan.

Also shared with the good folk at Real Toads, hosted by Rommy – cheers Rommy, and also the good folk at dVerse - cheers for hosting Grace.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  Carlos Adampol Galindo

Drunk

Old sot he is, drunk of drunks,

professional proper up of bars,

jars, jugs of, pints of ale, chased

down with a tot or two or three

or maybe half-full glass of warming whisky.

He smiles that inebriated smile he smiles,

guile he has, animated, bothers others,

other patrons with his drunken idle chatter,

slurring each and every word. 

They’ve heard it all before,

his inane views on world affairs,

how his wife bleeds him of each and every penny,

so skint is he, so stony-broke,

hasn’t any coins to rub together,

pours out his empty grasping heart.

They know his game and play it,

just to get rid of him,

buy him another pint, tell him “Now fuck off!” 

He laughs out loud, slaps their backs. 

“Cheers mates!”  he grins as he swills down

another dose of that lovely golden nectar.

He is not done yet,

watches eagle-eyed as others leave,

checks their glasses, downs the dregs,

smiling smugly as if he has won some clever game. 

Bar emptying, he gathers up the glasses

hoping for a freebie for his effort,

but now so unsteady, he falls,

smashes glasses as he hits the floor.  

The barman (now pockets full enough)

finally chucks him out.

He staggers out, smug and happy, singing loudly, heading home.

At home his family wait,

shivering in their frightened bodies,

quivering in their troubled minds,

fear showing in their blackened eyes…

they never win his mindless drunken games.

He always wins.

Anna :o]

Brenda (cheers Brenda) at The Sunday Whirl has us writing using the following words: Bar, check, animated, wait, loud, laugh, drunk, queen, eagles, family, win & hearts.  (I must admit to being naughty as I didn’t use ‘queen’ - as I would have had to force it in.)

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary – cheers Mary!

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels.

Water

Exsanguinated,

I have bled out,

arid I am.

I yearn for you,

quench my thirst,

quench my thirst.  

Let me drink of your body,

drink ‘til I’m full,

fill me up; fill me up,

rush headlong,

rush blood–red,

sear through my veins.

Fill me up,

fill me up -

you are my water,

I am your cup.

Empty,

I’m so empty,

empty, I’m empty

just waiting

for you.

Anna :o]

Sumana at Poets United has us writing of Water and perhaps I have gone off on a tangent…  Cheers for the inspiration Sumana!

Image:  Courtesy of Pexals.

Whaddya Think?

There's life in the old dog yet!

I can’t barter my heart for it is not mine to give;

it is his, the love of my life who I stalk with a passion,

my love unrequited as no doubt you’ve guessed.

But I have needs I have wants and I’ve concluded you’ll do

to fill in the gaps gaping wide open, yawning and aching,

and this space deep inside me – I’ve reserved it for you.

I’ll trade you my body for my name on the deeds

on a home for the keeping, palatial not paltry,

and I’ll fulfil all obligations, take my place in your bed 

I’ll be your eye candy your trophy to triumph

over those doddery old fools who slither ever so slowly

in your false little circles, doddery old fools you want to impress.

Dressed to the nines, I’ll be bosom revealing and not concealing

my thighs; will wear skirts that barely cover the clean curve of my arse. 

Think, the doddery old fools, how green-eyed they’ll be with me linked to your arm! 

We can do a prenuptial – I don’t mind that at all for all I want is the house. 

Nevertheless, I will be a spouse to be proud of; will fulfil all your needs,

gratify all of your urges and indeed those of my own.

I shall still stalk him it’s true perhaps as a neat little hobby

for as young as I am I have to consider my future,

for one day you’ll be gone and a side of the bed will be empty…

but til that time comes I’ll be loyal to you until death doth us part,

I’ll be faithful and true, kindly and giving, attentive and pleasing,

I’ll be all that you want, but I can’t give you my heart. 

So whaddya think?  Have we a deal?

Anna :o]

At Poets United, Susan’s midweek motif is that of barter/trade and above is my offering.  Of course it is pure fiction, or is it… maybe I have a murky past…  :o]

Cheers for the inspiration Susan!

Image:  Courtesy of  Pexels