Sunday, 20 December 2015

No bombs will fall here tonight

As I sit here, in this comfortable house,
and I know that no bombs will fall here tonight,
it's hard to imagine, but I know that it's true
that a mother is grieving, a child screaming too,
and I don't want to think about how it might be,
to have my child in pieces in front of me,
and I don't want to think about doctors in tears,
as they try to fix babies and children.

And the babies are screaming,
and the infants are screaming,
and a young boy is screaming,
and your taxes, my taxes,
pay for these bombs,
and someone gets richer,
here in the west,
and news stations speak of precision strikes,
and the papers talk of collateral damage,
still the children keep screaming.

And I sit here safe.
No bombs will fall here tonight.

Saturday, 12 December 2015

Open your eyes.

Open your eyes.
Too many children lying
broken on the ground.
Too many children are
Floating, sinking,
Washing up like driftwood on beaches.
Open your eyes.
Too many children are
Walking vast distances,
Crossing closed borders and
Sleeping in tents in the mud.
And parents mourn and move on.
And the media mourns and moves on.
And the ghosts of the children
Float in the air, float in the water,
Small fingers reaching out uselessly now.


Sent from my iPhone