Download - Survivors Poetry

The strife of life I leave behindAbove the clouds I see the topsMy kind of people on the rocksI take a breath and set my lineI want to beat the fastest timeIn a tunnel at breakneck speedCrashing down I take the leadThe target set is smashed apartA dream come trueFirst at LastApril (Fynn) StuartDriftSomething wakening the seahas entered and held me,surrendered and soothedby a rolling tide of wonder,caught in sight and sound,pulled under, until releasedlike flecks of spraysuspendedon waves of memory.Ally GardenerI used to beHe went calm like a curtain of muslin.Now and than a moth made a sound.A fly cried from sudden recognition of thedeadly dreadof the shortness of life.I almost wasn‘t aware that I was not aloneand that I did not lay in comfort like if I wasmoved down.He spoke just like I felt.Laughter was coming out of me like ascented steam.I was dying from boisterous impatience,although I was solemnly serious.I was digging blindly into hollows andbulges,I was rubbing soft and hard signs of hisresponse.He combed my hair.Ifigenija SimonovicSundayThis Sunday – I saw the headlinesIn the paper – ‘A Textbook Suicide’,And a large, black and white photo ofA troubled and worried man – David Kelly,Doomed apostle of peace and humanityIn a barbed–wire, cynical world of hatred and war.He tried to stop the Iraq war –`There are no weapons of mass destruction.’But he spoke to the deaf and those of poisoned mindsThat bayed for blood and clambered for oil and greedIn the name of God. Bush and Blair turnedGod’s word upside down and set themselves up asProphets – but they were false prophets.Saddam Hussein had blood on his hands –The blood of innocent Kurds, but did weHave to have our own holy warAgainst the ‘axis of evil’? Our own fatwa?David Kelly was a martyr for peaceAnd like Jesus the government put a crown ofThorns on his head and mocked and pilloried hisPleas for a harmonious world.Later on that day, or was it earlier onI took a small overdose of paracetamol with wine,I had despaired – David Kelly bore the weight of the worldOn his shoulders like Atlas and could no longer cope.Even his own Bahai community doubted it was suicide as theyDon’t condone it – but a mighty machine of evil crushed him,And only small pinpricks have hurt a small mindLike mine that survives and is constantly selfish.Maybe, like Jesus, it is only the truly selfless that dieMay he rest in peace.Angela MorkosI want to think of himI am picking ears of wheat. No knife. Getting blisters.I am picking field poppy. Also no knife. But petals fall,so I am leaving red trace.Yarrow has hard stems. Dandelion bleeds whiteand my palms are yellow, sticky,and there is black behind my fingernails.A blue butterfly is circling around me. I go quietand I want to think only of him. Blueness can‘thurt,unless it is ice in the eyes.14Ifigenija Simonovic