These are poems about Palestinian children and their mothers...
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Epitaph for a Palestinian Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Find in her pallid, dread repose,
no hope, alas!, for a human Rose.
who, US?
by Michael R. Burch
jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there’s no Room
for the meek and the mild
… and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of “no Room!”
and Puritanical scorn …
under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same—
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:
“who’s to blame?”
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable …
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss …
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears …
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Night Labor
by Michael R. Burch
for Rachel Corrie
Tonight we keep the flame alive;
we keep the candle lit.
We burn bright incense in your name
and swear we’ll not forget—
your innocence, your courage,
your commitment—till bleak night
surrenders to irrevocable dawn
and hate yields to love’s light.
Amen.
Well, Almost
by Michael R. Burch
Jews and Christians say “Never again!”
to the inhumanity of men
(except when the object of phlegm
is a Palestinian).
I, too, have a dream …
by the Child Poets of Gaza (a pseudonym of Michael R. Burch)
I, too, have a dream …
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve such scorn.
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers of Gaza
There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough …
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
Suffer the Little Children
by Nakba, an alias of Michael R. Burch
for the children of Gaza
I saw the carnage ... saw girl’s dreaming heads
blown to red atoms, and their dreams with them ...
saw babies liquefied in burning beds
as, horrified, I heard their murderers’ phlegm ...
I saw my mother stitch my shroud’s black hem,
for in that moment I was once of them ...
I saw our Father’s eyes grow hard and bleak
to see his roses severed at the stem.
How could I fail to speak?
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)
Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure!
Your intentions were noble and ineluctably pure.
And what the hell does THE LORD care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
King of the World
by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child free, for my people’s sake.
And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
back to my palace, for free ice cream!
Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?
If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.
Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)
Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose?
If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;
and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas —and presents—every day of the year!
Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!
If I were King of the World, I would send
my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end …
But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry!
Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry!
If I were King of the World, I’d declare
a year of happiness, with no despair—
only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects!
Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects!
Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects!
If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.
And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!
Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout?
If I were King of the World, I would drive
a red Ferrari, like no man alive!
But behind would be busses for my legions of friends:
we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends!
Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends!
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,
and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!
Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!
Keywords/Tag: Palestinian, child, Palestine, Gaza, children, mothers, death, grave, Israel, USA
Apr 5, 2024
Apr 5, 2024 at 3:17 PM UTC
These are poems about Palestinian children and their mothers...
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Epitaph for a Palestinian Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Find in her pallid, dread repose,
no hope, alas!, for a human Rose.
who, US?
by Michael R. Burch
jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there’s no Room
for the meek and the mild
… and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of “no Room!”
and Puritanical scorn …
under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same—
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:
“who’s to blame?”
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable …
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss …
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears …
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Night Labor
by Michael R. Burch
for Rachel Corrie
Tonight we keep the flame alive;
we keep the candle lit.
We burn bright incense in your name
and swear we’ll not forget—
your innocence, your courage,
your commitment—till bleak night
surrenders to irrevocable dawn
and hate yields to love’s light.
Amen.
Well, Almost
by Michael R. Burch
Jews and Christians say “Never again!”
to the inhumanity of men
(except when the object of phlegm
is a Palestinian).
I, too, have a dream …
by the Child Poets of Gaza (a pseudonym of Michael R. Burch)
I, too, have a dream …
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve such scorn.
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers of Gaza
There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough …
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
Suffer the Little Children
by Nakba, an alias of Michael R. Burch
for the children of Gaza
I saw the carnage ... saw girl’s dreaming heads
blown to red atoms, and their dreams with them ...
saw babies liquefied in burning beds
as, horrified, I heard their murderers’ phlegm ...
I saw my mother stitch my shroud’s black hem,
for in that moment I was once of them ...
I saw our Father’s eyes grow hard and bleak
to see his roses severed at the stem.
How could I fail to speak?
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)
Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure!
Your intentions were noble and ineluctably pure.
And what the hell does THE LORD care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
King of the World
by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child free, for my people’s sake.
And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
back to my palace, for free ice cream!
Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?
If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.
Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)
Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose?
If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;
and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas —and presents—every day of the year!
Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!
If I were King of the World, I would send
my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end …
But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry!
Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry!
If I were King of the World, I’d declare
a year of happiness, with no despair—
only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects!
Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects!
Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects!
If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.
And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!
Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout?
If I were King of the World, I would drive
a red Ferrari, like no man alive!
But behind would be busses for my legions of friends:
we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends!
Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends!
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,
and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!
Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!
Keywords/Tag: Palestinian, child, Palestine, Gaza, children, mothers, death, grave, Israel, USA
These are poems about Palestinian children and their mothers, fathers and families.