Dry

A poem

Photo by Mockup Graphics on Unsplash

I am dry, I am telling you, my friend
Dry as sticks in the desert
Ready to burn for warmth in the night

I am dry from bleeding my worry
She could have died, do you realize
I am dry as a dead tree

No leaves, no sap
Hollow on the inside
Dry as straw lying in the sun

Waiting to be gathered
I am dried out from hearing of death
In war zones, in gun-toting lands
Where the bullet is king

Dried from the news of children killed
I am dry, don’t you hear me
Women raped, men raped

War crimes, suicide, murder
Dried from pouring my love out
Like an oasis, but effect no change

I am dry I cry out to anyone who’ll hear
Dried by what humans do to humans
In war, in jail, in the system

I am dry and can be dry no more

Published in The Lark

Let Me Sleep

A poem

Photo by Михаил Калегин on Unsplash

Now I lay down, please let me sleep
I’m tired of famines, floods, and wars,
from my own life, my body keeps the score

People starving, blown apart,
wars made to satisfy greed,
I’m reeling from it, let me sleep

I need to hear good news, now and then,
too soft for the harsh world I see
it takes its toll on me, please let me sleep

I want to lie in peace, let me sleep
I’m tired and weary of this world
I’ll lie down now, please let me sleep

Published in The Lark

Purveyors of Death

They arrive each year, by first class

OR in their private jetsSometimes, hundreds of the family

Come to shop in Kensington

Staying in their otherwise empty

Apartments.

Londoners are priced

Out of their own home city
Dictators and despotic sheikhs

Kings of absolute monarchies

Descend upon the annual arms fair

The weapons and armory that

Control nations and crush dissent

The tools of war, which fuel more conflict

Are here to be bought, adored objects of lust

The Grim Reaper attends too, many of him

Gate crashing their sumptuous banquets

As guests of Her Majesty’s Government

Civil disobedience at it’s best, they spread

Information about child deaths, orphans of war

The maimed, the displaced, the refugees

In cloak and hoods, with scythes of truth

During the day, these folk with conscience

Will have laid in the street to block limousines

Or to stop the arrival of an armored tank for sale

They chain themselves together, and then

To a railing or lamp post. The police must

Remove them and this takes some time

Meanwhile, the public look on and learn

Some of these civil protestors are seen in court

Though none yet have been thrown in jail

As some of the weapons on sale for death

Are illegal, banned, or used for torture

Despite this being a fact, no one of the British

Government has been held to account

Strange injustice so great, blood on their hands

Published at Dissident Voice a long time ago.