POETIC JUSTICE: occupation

Showing posts with label occupation. Show all posts

WHAT IF...

...2009...
Imagine life under these conditions: Living in limbo under a foreign occupier. Having no self-determination, no right of return, and no power over your daily life. Being in constant fear, economically strangled, and collectively punished.

Having your free movement denied by enclosed population centers, closed borders, regular curfews, roadblocks, checkpoints, electric fences, and separation walls. Having your homes regularly demolished and land systematically stolen to build settlements for encroachers in violation of international law prohibiting an occupier from settling its population on conquered land.

Having your right to essential services denied - to emergency health care, education, employment, and enough food and clean water.

Being forced into extreme poverty, having your crops destroyed, and being victimized by punitive taxes. Having no right for redress in the occupier's courts under laws only protecting the occupier. Being regularly targeted by incursions and attacks on the ground and from the air.

Being willfully harassed, ethnically cleansed, arrested, incarcerated, tortured, and slaughtered on any pretext, including for your right of self-defense. Having no rights on your own land in your own country for over six decades and counting. Vilified for being Muslims and called terrorists, Jihadists, crazed Arabs, and fundamentalist extremists. Victimized by a slow-motion genocide to destroy you.

According to Israeli historian Ilan Pappe, Israel has conducted state-sponsored genocide against the Palestinians for decades and intensively in Gaza. In a September 2006 Electronic Intifada article titled "Genocide in Gaza" he wrote: "A genocide is taking place in Gaza....An average of eight Palestinians die daily in the Israeli attacks on the Strip. Most of them are children. Hundreds are maimed, wounded and paralyzed. (It's become) a daily business, now reported (only) in the internal pages of the local press, quite often in microscopic fonts. The chief culprits are the Israeli pilots who have a field day," like shooting fish in a barrel. Why not, they're only Muslims, so who'll notice or care.

What if war were just a chaotic dress rehearsal in a school play
and torture were long philosophical conversations with idiots,
bullets, tiny bits of lint culled from laughing soldier's uniforms,
fighter jets, kites dropping from the shoulders of the sun,
warships, marshmallows floating in a sea of hot chocolate,
and tanks, funny little cars full of tumbling clowns?

O! If only it were so then all of the world's hideous warmongers might be
paper dolls in rooms full of beautiful children, each with a pair of scissors...

THE SHATTERING OF WAR'S CHILD

Small brown rodents scurry across the shell of the span.
A broken and weeping child lies upon the makeshift bed,
And at the shattered window next to the door, the slumped
Tears of a torn fabric drop in the wind.
Soon the door to that other noisy time will thrash and split
And the barrels of the sun will enter without knocking
And demand of them a fresh, uncluttered room.
(Surely the wave of fabric will startle them.)
After a rather lengthy and determined conversation,
The barrels will find reverie in their clatter
And breathe a sigh of relief at their escape.
Across the alleyway a woman seizes her bread and her child
And runs frightened into the abandoned street.
Looking up toward her sister’s shattered casement,
She calls out to her.

The sky rolls in its troops and the moon calls forth its howl.
A new landscape moves in as the rodents groom their nails
And hone their teeth for a grand feast upon the streets.
Tonight will be no different than the last; the dark queen
Will issue her edict to the fangs of night and forth they shall come,
armed and invisible.
With precision they’ll carve the brief respite of silence like a sword
And yet another shattered child will consume the fabric.

AMIRA'S SUMMER BOUGH

On her bruised knees she leans down
near the dying grass, eager to heed the
joyous tears of heavens influence;
dew drops, tiny wishes to cleanse the stained meadow
and blanket all the dead eyes of summer’s prey
(hope sunk by the shadow of heavy tanks).

Dear Amira dreamed of more than war,
more than terror, death and torture,
dreamed of laughter and friends, the tender
touch of her mother’s bosom to her cheek
as she cuddled near in shriveled nightfall
(love blunted by the rasp of bombs).

Anxious, she bends forward with promise in
the gentle curve of her spine. She’s desperate
to feel the coolness against her cheeks,
(no light could hold the perilous bough)
those nights when her mother fiercely hugged her
as unbearable noises began painting the meadow.

© 2008 mrp/tpm

Occupation Orphaned Millions

Rolling along "E"...
Ebullient Skepticism - Enigma4ever - Evil Bobby

FOUR THOUSAND

(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

(click photomontage to enlarge)

BAGHDAD - U.S. officials said Monday they will press forward in the fight against extremists in Iraq a day after the overall U.S. death toll in the five-year conflict rose to 4,000.

The White House called the grim milestone “a sober moment” and said President Bush spends time every day thinking about those who have lost their lives in battle.

“He bears the responsibility for the decisions that he made,” White House press secretary Dana Perino said. “He also bears the responsibility to continue to focus on succeeding.”
(...U.S. death toll in Iraq reaches 4,000...Bush says outcome of war will 'merit the sacrifice')

FOUR THOUSAND
(a poem by thepoetryman)

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Blind are the men of warring.
Deaf are the men of policy.
Dumb are imperial leaders,
Crippled of a thirst for music.

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Songs go unsung among bones;
No ears heed the joyous choir,
No eyes observe the living score,
No blood left within their delight.

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Leaders, blind and wicked are those
With no wings painted upon them;
Only hoisting their wretched talons
Should the music ever change.

© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman

Rolling along "U"...

un blogger SCEPTIK - UnAmerican Revolution - uncomfortably numb - Urban Unrest

3,2,1, 0... WAR ANIMALS (1 million dead Blogswarm)

(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

'3' Civil War (March 19th, 2006)

I have traveled to the edge of Iraq
And peered over.

She panted treacherously.

It is not strange coming out of
The stifled mouth of national war.
It is not easily uttered, these
Words of internal detonations.
It is not compliant, this laceration
Of autonomy `gainst thy neighbor.

She beseeched the air.

I have traveled to the edge of Iraq
And peered over.

Lunged of war.

~

'2' Your Escape of it (March 19th, 2006)

The nattering jaws are a hearse of warring wits
And within their dry swamp thunders denial
They’re dropping the bombs!
They’re lobbing grenades!
They’re devouring in sneering laughter
And consuming with their cynical smiles

These, our leaders, and their most pestilent flesh
Now harvesting souls for kingdoms sport
They’re dropping the bombs!
They’re lobbing grenades!
They’re exterminating in sinister heart
And demolishing the spirit’s sweet core

We the listless are ingesting trepidation in this
And within our quagmire torment subsists
They’re encasing the bombs!
They’re staining our waters!
They’re transporting terror of a false god
And detesting our darling independence

The feint Iraqi peoples, an urn of absorbed ash
And within the ferried grief crashes internal war
You’re dropping the bombs!
You’re lobbing death’s den!
You’re lancing our prospects in tyranny
And you shall escape us ahead of our end

~

'1' Coursing Upward (March 19th, 2007)

This country needs the truth to be spoken.
Have a reunion with an unwavering light
To chart, ride, and calculate deceptions heavy barbs,
Sustenance weighed for worth and certainty.

We need pledge our suspicion on the breath of man
Prepared to open his lips and cough up
America’s latest shadowy, myth-soiled account.
We need pale all the ears of our streets with hesitation,

With exactness snatched between the rational mind and fear.
Power seeks out the holes in our doubt
And patches them with dread
So good men shiver at their own shadow.

I’m not afraid to pen my doubt upon the screen,
The virtual pages of our present language,
Of man’s bowed and busted logic
Coursing upward, seeking the flesh of truth.

'0' War Animals (March 19th, 2008)

Would I hold my hand thus if I were such a murderous beast?
Asked the wolf…
Would I be thought a monster like you if I howled in horror?
Asked the sheep…
I howl for pleasure, little sheep! I consume to nourish my sorrow!
Scolded the wolf…
I do not mean to offend your howling or persuade your hunger, sir.
Prayed the sheep….
See my opposing thumb and how it can bring me such pleasure?
Inquired the wolf…
See my shivering hooves and how they frustrate me significantly?
Echoed the sheep…

The wind now wails its bitter speech as the wolf skulks nearer.

Come! Let us sit next to one another and we shall drink a toast.
Said the wolf…
I shouldn’t. It’s not right to do so while so many continue to perish.
Replied the sheep…
Thou art afraid of me, dam? Me? A creature with such manners?
Crooned the wolf…
No. I- I- I just don’t think it appropriate to toast on this- of all days.
Answered the sheep…
But this is a day of triumph! Today’s the best day to drink to victory!
Howled the wolf…
There you go again with the howling? I told you my lambs are sleeping.
Whispered the sheep…

The wind abruptly strengthens with the crow of murderous night.

Yes. Please forgive me, sheep…. …Your lambkins are precious to you?
Posed the wolf…
All babies are precious, wolf. Are yours not precious to you?
Raised the sheep…
Of course they’re precious! I would, without a doubt, kill for them!
Charged the wolf…
Of that I’m sure. But haven’t I asked you to keep your voice down?
Sighed the sheep…
Yes. But aren’t you sufficiently fearful of offending me, little ewe?
Urged the wolf…
I have not offended you, wolf. It is you that will not do as I’ve asked.
Rejoined the sheep…

The wolf now howls with a beast’s bloody bravado!

I do not believe this- Before me is a sheep that’s utterly lacking in fear?
Marveled the wolf…
I’ve fear enough. It is your opposing thumbs that are rigid with terror.
Said the sheep.

The wind stops its screeching and the sheep suckles her babies.

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

Economy Distracts Americans on Iraq War Anniversary?

Rolling along "N"...

Neo-Resistance - Neural Gourmet - New World Order Reports - Night Bird's Fountain - No Accuser - No Cure For That - No-More-Ignorance - Not In My Name - Not Much, But All Mine - Not My Tribe - Nothing Aside - Nutopian

WHO SHALL MEET THE LOOMING STRIKE

Who hears the coming toll
clanging down upon existence;
the hell’s bell strafing the motherland
in shock and awe’s comeuppance?

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Not nearly enough of the breathing.
For the idle flesh... it’s now beyond remittance.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

For whom should it toll?
And for how much longer?
Ask the twisted faces... staring back in anger.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Behind us, the screeching gloom hunched in wait.
In front, that goddamned piece of paper
of which... we’ve made a solemn pledge.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

What should each of us do?
And why should each of us do it?
Ask the occupied... that kneel in rigid prayer.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Who should heed the gruesome chord?
And who should meet the looming strike
of shock and awe’s reward?

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Not nearly enough of the living.
For the fallen... it’s now beyond their giving.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Who should stand and hold back hell?
And who should end its surge?
Ask the million ghosts... clanging on the bell.

(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

3,611

Once Upon a time...
The Bloodthirsty Murderers of a Million

(One year ago today) THE SENSE OF THE WHITE BIRDS

O! White birds fly down the raging river line
And white hot are the sun’s rays bathing the shore,
And I think of this war and of my own borrowed complicity
That will be my shrieking, loathsome marrow felt forevermore!

You cast it masterfully, dangling your lure
Of every feeble people’s swindler in your damn book.
You’d rather not have “pull out” swim the raging water,
But it’s out there! The nibblers bleed from your despotic hook!

I think of all the Iraqi people, and I weep.
And of their homes and shame at having believed in us;
Freedom, democracy, clean water, safe streets, living;
I think of your lies and at once am asphyxiated by our oily lust!

O! The white birds flying the river can see it,
They can see the shoreline and they can see the nectar,
They glimpse a fabrication in America’s half-truths,
For they see the ancient beauty of Iraq swilling in fumes of war!

The bird senses our pandering, illicit ambition,
The looming and buckling hell of shorelines stony crust
As the warring winds change course for eastern shores
And would hold you from humanity if given reign over the quaking dust!

LEAVE

EXPAND THE POST +/-

(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

We are happy that we got rid of Saddam but we will never be happy to give away our country in return.
Sorry if our flesh harmed your knives... is that what they want us to say. Is this what they came for?
The failure of this invasion is a victory for FREEDOM and a defeat for radicals in U.S. and later in Iraq.

Order the troops to leave Mr. President. afraid for the safety and the future of this place... leave 20 thousands of your soldiers on both Iranian and Syrian borders and let us take over our own country. THIS COUNTRY WILL BE FREE... whether you take your troops out now or by the efforts of the good people of Iraq and America. Sooner or later they will leave, and Al Qaeda will be defeated by the efforts of the good sons of Iraq... by the way, the state dept. must coordinate with the immigration guys to issue the Iraqi politicians visas and residency in U.S. (off course many of them have US passports as you know so those dont need these arrangements).
(Read the whole post.)

After reading this post I responded thus…
Hope you and your group are safe and sound as I write this.
There is no greater heartache I would imagine than to watch all this unfold in your
own homeland. The death alone is staggering. To watch as your culture is torn away
for oil; for hegemony. You can disregard those that say you are foolish to want the
US to leave for it is the only way your country will heal. The delusions of Bush and
his supporters will soon find themselves hungry with regret and filled with sorrow.
Your post has stirred my muse and she is stringing words together for my next post.
I will spread your message far and wide. It is perhaps the most worthy message for
it weeps for true freedom and with the knowledge that only those experiencing such a boiling heartache could possibly understand.

Peace,
Thepoetryman

The following poem was inspired from my visit to Inside Iraq.

Leave

Grown teeth and groomed black box
Lighted by the sun’s last step
Moving with a whales majesty
Through the wary sea of red streets.
The royal land now grown slack
To the weight of screeching blasts
Through all the black occupied days
Where shrapnel and glass trump flowers
In all the gardens of home; as your heart
Wants you spirited and questioning this lifting
Of your children, of your people in the dry
Wash of stale munitions; the national pride
Of youth rearing up in bloody rebellion
Against those that would call them sons and daughters.
Alone you can snap it off, pierce the bloody boil
Growing in the teeth and black boxes covered with soil.
This last step is pointed at the fuming flames
And asking, imploring of them to leave.

DEAD MAN MARCHING

READ THE POEM +/-

WASHINGTON (AP) -- The Army said Friday it would apologize to the families of about 275 officers killed or wounded in action who were mistakenly sent letters urging them to return to active duty.
The letters were sent a few days after Christmas to more than 5,100 Army officers who had recently left the service. Included were letters to about 75 officers killed in action and about 200 wounded in action.

"Army personnel officials are contacting those officers' families now to personally apologise for erroneously sending the letters," the army said in a statement.
It said the database normally used for such correspondence with former officers had been "thoroughly reviewed" to remove the names of dead and wounded soldiers.
"But an earlier list was used inadvertently for the December mailings," it added.

It is astounding, senseless, and reprehensible.
Dispatched lifeless things. Painful expressions
landing impassive upon the gaping face of loss.

Words teetering drunkenly, hand to hand to eye
newly dampened with woe and numbing queries
of how, what, when, where, why…

Wounds reopened to the fresh pinch of grief
and the smoldering task of remembrance;
tracing the whispering shape of their face,
recalling the laughter spill forth their red lips.

Slowly now in immense shuddering, like a gale
reaching under the rafters, it lifts them,
forcing love to its knees once again.

It is astounding, indefensible, and rather dreadful,
and there is a terrible irony woven within it;
the fact that the regrettable letters were sent
to those already dead... isn't the real tragedy.

Previous Post - THE WAR DRUMS

COLOSSAL HEAD

Empire tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of Iraq
And children and mothers and fathers are redeyed of seeking.
They wish to converse of loss, of a gut wrenching pain.
They wish to be free of it, to rend it impotent, joyful.

Near the center of life militant troops beat down doors
Calling out its name, “Terror!” “Terror!” “Terror!”
“We need leave this red hell of our making!
We need pack it up and march ever onward!”

The mammoth head spits down upon them
And wags its bloody tongue toward the east.
It is hungry for more; ravenous for unholy kingdom,
Dried lips smacking its unquenchable thirst.

Kidnapped by its own gluttony it tosses back
And still, redeyed children and mothers and fathers seek it out.
They’ve not had their words yet, they need them.
They wish to be free of it, to rend it lifeless.

Empire tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of Iraq,
(its arms and legs and torso lay dead upon the ground).

DEAD IS DEAD

Rory said:

“Dead is dead whether you are killed in a civil war or not. Broken and ruined is the same whether it resulted from "torture" or "intensive interrogation methods." Incineration by phosphorous feels the same whether you call it willie pete or w. bush.”

Rory, this one is for you my friend…

_________________________

O! How white-hot and dead are these times
We still have some you know
Time
They still have a little
The center of life still throbs within us
seamless
Like a finely woven cloth masking our winter
10, 20, 100,
180 thousand

These others
Broken shells of breath maligned in rage
Soldiers standing in stunned reverie
Protecting their friends from fire
Ingesting the barbs of their own
torturous slaughter there

Phosphorous showering them in shrieking
For a king without a throne
a nation without a leader
a soul
a heart
a prayer

Rifles and tanks
RPG
IED
Tramping wet ground caked in the sap
Of existence and solemnity
Their reckoning-a-rata-tat-tat harmony
Heaps on
with each skull
Each gut
Each leg
Each arm
Each soul

Dead
is
dead

mrp

White Phosphorous Grenade

IraqBodyCount

Rocket Propelled Grenade