Poems

The light-wing glories above.

The dark-ling glories below.

One of them brings us closer to the light,

The other drags us further away.



They whisper Lies.

Do you hear them?

They whisper Truth.

Have you gone deaf?

They whisper Death.

Is there an echo?

They whisper Life.

Where are they?



The light-wing glories above.

The dark-ling glories below.

One of them brings us closer to the light.

The other drags us further away.

Do you remember who spoke first?
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Picture frame, hanging on the wall.

How bright the sheen is.

How pretty the couple.



Picture frame, hanging on the wall.

Cracks appear, separating them.

The wood splinters, and splits.



Picture frame, hanging on the wall.

Spattered with the blood from the heat of the moment.

A silent witness to the crime.



Picture frame, hanging on the wall.

Reflecting the lights that come in from the street,

Through the bay view window. red, blue, red, blue.



Picture frame, hanging on the wall.

Knocked down by the wind.

Surrendering to the elements.



Picture frame, lying on the ground.

Smashed and broken, with pieces everywhere.

Destroyed like the Love it once captured.

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Afghanistan

The sanctuary is there,

The efforts of all our dreams.

The perfect world, at least to our eyes,

Just beyond the iron-work gates.


There are children playing catch in the street,

Hide and seek between the houses,

blind-mans bluff in the park,

laughing and smiling like they were meant to.


Kites soar high above the houses,

Fathers hands over their children's guiding them.

Watching as they dance in the breezes,

their tails waving proudly.


Along main street, merchants peddle their goods,

They sell meat, bread, and vegetables.

Perfumes and expensive clothes for sale,

Dresses, shoes and make-up


A bell rings, calling the children to school,

From inside the sounds of laughter and learning can be heard.

Inside, they learn arithmetic, and languages,

spelling and grammar.


Above, a kite flies too high,

Another one lost by clumsy hands.

Starting it's voyage to someplace far away,

Until it's shot down by gunfire.


People scream, as the bombs drop on them.

Men rush the market, screaming in the name of Allah,

As they topple the merchant's stands.

The school turns into a flaming inferno, a target of one of the shells.


Gun fire is heard everywhere,

with a steady sound of bullets finding their mark.

Mountains once known for their beauty,

now become nightmarish as bombs rain down from them.


No more children play in the streets,

instead they hide in their shelters.

Waiting for the hellfire to cease.

Some hide alone, their parents already casualties of the day.


Kites no longer adorn the sky,

Banned from taking flight.

No longer do their colors show,

No more tails proudly waving.


The only things sold by the merchants now,

are guns, drugs and women.

Burqas, a symbol of the oppressive leadership,

are also a high-seller.


The school no longer stands,

It's bell no longer tolls to call the children to school.

The dull droning of boys learning the Koran wafts into the street,

Reciting and memorizing, no laughter here.


People stumble through the streets,

The men with their beards long and dirty.

The women covered head to toe in their burqas,

Ghosts gliding through a dead city.


And the gates to the sanctuary begin to close,

Heaved, pushed and pulled by these men.

These oppressive brutes characterized by their black turbans,

Criminals who can not even write their own name.