Warmervista - Hello Poetry

I wonder where they wrote my name and whether it was engraved or casually noted in pen. How long would it take to write the names of every dutiful taxpayer along a sleek metal frame? Or did they write them somewhere inside? Like the first page of a poetry anthology where they list contributors— name after name after name, yours and mine. But one hundred and seventy-five little girls didn’t have time to flip through a shiny volume picking the rhymes they liked. Still, I wonder if one of them might have spotted my name— scrawled on shrapnel, a split-second vision before her pink backpack was thrown. I can’t get that picture out of my mind Of all the little backpacks piled and the blood. As a mother, I would have liked to send those little girls a song on lined paper, Perhaps carried by a homing pigeon Or a dove. They might have opened it in class and said, Look, teacher, look — A mother from somewhere far away sends us love. But the war fiends take our names— the names our children call us, the names our mothers whispered to us in the dark, our hearts, our souls, and they write them like a blasphemous edict on the cold body of a Tomahawk So that when another mother bends to cradle only empty space, I know it is my fault.

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Mar 12

Mar 12, 2026 at 11:58 AM UTC

Culpability (for those little girls in Iran. I am sorry).

I wonder where they wrote my name and whether it was engraved or casually noted in pen. How long would it take to write the names of every dutiful taxpayer along a sleek metal frame? Or did they write them somewhere inside? Like the first page of a poetry anthology where they list contributors— name after name after name, yours and mine. But one hundred and seventy-five little girls didn’t have time to flip through a shiny volume picking the rhymes they liked. Still, I wonder if one of them might have spotted my name— scrawled on shrapnel, a split-second vision before her pink backpack was thrown. I can’t get that picture out of my mind Of all the little backpacks piled and the blood. As a mother, I would have liked to send those little girls a song on lined paper, Perhaps carried by a homing pigeon Or a dove. They might have opened it in class and said, Look, teacher, look — A mother from somewhere far away sends us love. But the war fiends take our names— the names our children call us, the names our mothers whispered to us in the dark, our hearts, our souls, and they write them like a blasphemous edict on the cold body of a Tomahawk So that when another mother bends to cradle only empty space, I know it is my fault.

51

I cannot silence it. Words simmer forth from void to Bone to skin. Seep through Sludge Gold flecked river bottom Rising up Steady and thick with spirit With blood All of your silenced selves Lanced from the wounds of the Midnight hour You clutch your own skin Hot and red Strip away the heavy years that Told you to be quiet. Howl in agony, Sing Whistle the ghosts in through the Windows cracked just so The crisp night air weaves like Snakes of ice Around your neck and now You write You write You write.

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Mar 4

Mar 4, 2026 at 8:37 AM UTC

Write

I cannot silence it. Words simmer forth from void to Bone to skin. Seep through Sludge Gold flecked river bottom Rising up Steady and thick with spirit With blood All of your silenced selves Lanced from the wounds of the Midnight hour You clutch your own skin Hot and red Strip away the heavy years that Told you to be quiet. Howl in agony, Sing Whistle the ghosts in through the Windows cracked just so The crisp night air weaves like Snakes of ice Around your neck and now You write You write You write.

25

The dry land speaks exposed— Cold, crisp, fragile. Thin ice dips and meets river bottom A fracturing like parched skin on bone Whip sound cracks Splitting the blue sky open In a ****** of crows One cries For the absence of snow A sharp echoing decree. “I am sorry,” I call back, but it fades into the wind— A lover’s plea Writ too late.

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Mar 1

Mar 1, 2026 at 4:20 PM UTC

The Dry Land

The dry land speaks exposed— Cold, crisp, fragile. Thin ice dips and meets river bottom A fracturing like parched skin on bone Whip sound cracks Splitting the blue sky open In a ****** of crows One cries For the absence of snow A sharp echoing decree. “I am sorry,” I call back, but it fades into the wind— A lover’s plea Writ too late.

15