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Sharina Saad May 2013
The fierce looking man entered my home
Taking my baba, my mama,
My life
Continuously kicking, spitting on us..
I hold my brother close,
Whispering God's words
As warplanes return above our heads,
Darkness, light, explosions, destruction, screams, sirens,
One more, ten more, hundred more
Souls taken,
I squeeze tighter,
Continue to whisper
Allah please save us...
with hardship comes ease ,
One day soon,
The new green, white, and black
Will show his face no more;
I will bring home my gold medal
To a Syria free, free, free
I pray to Allah please free Syria
Mohammed Arafat Jan 2019
I start having nightmares before the beginning of any war.
During my sleep, I remember my sisters and brothers,
who played, smiled, loved, and were loved before.
I remembered my mother and the rest of the mothers.

During my sleep, I thought of my school,
the kindergarten and the friends of my niece.
I thought of my swing, my toys and the big pool.
I realized I would miss living free in peace!

The war waged, and I saw what no one has seen.
In front of me, they got ready for the battle.
They brought tanks, guns and an F16.
With hate, they were rushing just like a cattle.

Guns made in East and West pointed at me.
I saw no birds, but warplanes flying over the skies,
bombing, not caring about a he or a she.
I saw blood, felt sorrow and heard cries.

They destroyed my family home,
burnt my books and broke my pen.
They murdered my brother’s spouse,
and threatened to **** me again and again.

Black smokes surrounded me from everywhere.
Big explosions hitting here and there sounded.
Toys broken on the ground, balloons flying in air.
Despair spread, fear planted, hatred rounded.

Despite the war, I raised my hands and prayed,
that I get back to my home where I played,
that peace come and never be delayed,
and that my freedom will never ever fade!

Mohammed Arafat

15-01-2019
This poem is the experience of every child found her/himself in a war waged by merciless decision makers all round the world.
Faleeha Hassan Apr 2016
During moments I yearned for forests grown for me alone,
Caressing them in a dream,
I could sense the throbbing of the heart
Hidden beneath my ribs to bless my journey.
Summoning me with a pulse that he recognizes in me.
I heard the noise of abandoned smoke from a moment of care
Join with me,
Forcefully traversing desires to the hidden-most one.
My spirit swung toward him,
Creating a tingling
On lips that devour breaths alive.
I felt ashamed,
But the eye,
In moments—I scarcely know what to call them—that took me on another route
Toward the television, saw warplanes . . . spray death on them.
At that moment,
The fire of machine guns raked all the bodies,
And another fire raked my body when I trained my eye on him
Hesitantly inclining his head
Toward a shoulder unaccustomed to the secret of the stars of war
Or to insomnia.
Oh . . . . I leaned on it!
And when he caressed a dumbfounded person
I felt his fingers like coiling embers inside me.
Bashfulness seized the excuse this caress gave . . . and vanished,
Eliminating distance till the two of us were one.
And the eye—he moaned: May love not forgive her the eye—repeated another evasion
Toward a drizzle of men flung about in the air by just the rustling of a pilot penetrating a building
To fall on screens as the debris of breaking news.
But his breaths . . . shattering the still down of the cheek,
And turning their picture into mist as
Eddies of the screen’s corpses . . . varieties of death that they brought them.
The spirit that became a body,
The body that was sold for the sake of a touch,
The eye that was concealed in his image
And that approached the firebrand of conflagrations.
Everyone drawing close to everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone.
But the thunder of their machine guns splintered them:
Corpses piled on corpses,
I mean on me,
The eyes of those in it were extinguished.
They slept in a trench of silence.
My eyes’ lids parted in a wakefulness obsessed with them.
I rose … and embraced the chill
That the screens brought me in commemoration of Stalingrad.
………………………………
Translated by William Hutchins
this poem published in (http://intranslation.brooklynrail.org/arabic/poetry-by-faleeha-hassan)
MasterPlutonium Nov 2014
A NEW DAY ARRIVES ON THE BLUE SEA,
THE LIGHT TOUCHING THE SAPPHIRE WATER.
THEN, WITH THE RUSH OF WAVES
BREAKING UPON ON THEIR METAL HULLS,
FOUR SHIPS OF GREY-PAINTED IRON & STEEL
CUT THROUGH THE WATER OF GLASS.

THE FIRST IS A NOBLE AND MAGNIFICENT WARSHIP,
A GREAT MONSTER OF IRON, FURY, AND GLORY,
A BATTLESHIP THAT WILL SPARK YOUNG BOYS IMAGINATION WITH COMPLETE FIREPOWER, KNOWN AS THE “GUN CLUB”.

FOLLOWING BEHIND IS AN CARRIER
WITH MANY WARPLANES THROTTLING
FOR LAUNCH, ANXIOUS FOR COMBAT.

NEXT IS A DESTROYER, ITS CREW
TRYING ITS BEST TO RESTRAIN ITSELF
AND STAY WITH ITS BROTHERS IN ARMS.

LAST, BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST, IS A CRUISER,
A MERE SMALLER REPLICA OF THE
BATTLESHIP, BUT NOT BE UNDERESTIMATED.

BELOW THESE SURFACE BEHEMOTHS IS A
SILENT STALKER OF THE DARK ABYSS,
A FAST SUBMARINE, MASTER OF THE ART OF ATTACK.
WITH A SIGNAL PASSED BETWEEN THE
WARSHIPS, THE FLEET GOES ITS SEPARATE WAYS
AND PREPARES TO FIGHT A MORNING WAR;
A STORM OF UNPRESCIDENT CHAOS AND DEATH.

AS THE SUN BEGINS TO TOUCH CLOUDS,
A ROAR OF ENGINES ECHOES ACROSS
THE BRIGHTING SKY,
IN TURN JOINED BY THE CACOPHONY
OF MACHINE GUNS FIRING THOUSANDS
INTO SQUADRONS OF ENEMY JETS.

FRIENDLY AIRCRAFT BLAST IN THE AIR
FROM THE DECK OF THE AIRCRAFT CARRIER,
EAGER FOR EPIC DOGFIGHTS AS ONBOARD
SYSTEMS LOCK ONTO ENEMIES.

FROM THE DESTROYER ERUPT STREAKS
OF ANTI-AIRCRAFT MISSILES FROM
HIDDEN SILOS BELOW ITS DECKS.

SUDDENLY, A EXPLOSION ECHOES ACROSS THE OCEAN,
A SECOND LATER, GEYSERS OF WATER
ERUPT INTO THE AIR AMONG THE FLEET.

RADAR AND SPOTTERS CONFIRM THE
ENEMY ON THE HORIZON, JUST OUT OF MISSILE RANGE.

ON THE COMMAND OF THE ADMIRAL,
THE CRUISER JOINS THE SUBMARINE
AND LAUNCHES TORPEDOES
FROM THEIR DECKS AND TUBES.

WHITE COLUMNS OF WATER AND
STEEL ERUPT LIKE TOWERS AS
TORPEDOES HIT THEIR MARK.

BUT A SOUNDS LIKE SRIENS SCREAMING
ALL THEIR MIGHT ECHOES ACROSS
THE BATTLEFIELD AND LOOKOUTS POINT
OUT TWO ARCHING PILLARS OF FLAME
CURVE DOWN TOWARDS THEIR TARGET.

DOOMED TO ONLY WATCH, CREW
MEMBERS FIRE BULLETS TO STOP THE
MISSILES FROM THE SUB.

BUT THE EXPLOSIONS THAT FOLLOW AND
THE SHOCKWAVES THAT CAUSE GROWN
MEN TO BE SLAMMED AGAINST BULKHEADS
CONFIRM IT; ALL HANDS LOST.

THE CRUISER, NOW FAR FROM FRIENDLY
SUPPORT, WAGES A WAR OF IT OWNS AS
IT BECOMES SURROUNDED BY THE ENEMY.

BUT AFTER MISSILE, SHELL, AND TORPEDO,
THE OCEAN CLAIMS HER QUARRY WITH
WAVES OF RAGING BLUE FLOODING THE DECKS.

THE DESTROYER, FURIOUS OF THE
LOSS OF HER BROTHERS IN ARMS,
EXPELLS ALL OF HER WEAPONS IN HOPES
OF HITTING AT LEAST ONE OF THE ENEMY.

IN LUCK, THE FOE'S SUBAMRINE AND DESTROYER
BURN OIL AS THEY SINK, BUT FOR A PRICE:
THE DESTROYER BEGINS ITS SLUMBER
TOWARDS THE DARK ABYSS.

ALL SHIPS REMAINING ARE THE
CARRIERS AND THE MIGHTY DREADNOUGHTS
KNOWN AS BATTLESHIPS.

THE CARRIERS CONTINUE THEIR AREIAL DUALS,
LAUNCHING AIRCRAFT BARELY CAPABLE
OF FLIGHT OR FIGHT.

THEN, WITH THE SOUND OF DRAGONS,
THE BATTLESHIPS BEGIN THE FINAL PHASE
OF THE OCEAN BATTLE.

CLOUDS OF FIRE, SMOKE, AND STEEL ARE
BELCHED WITH ANGER INTO THE AIR
AS BOTH SHIPS FIGHT AROUND THE
STILL-BURNING HULLS.

SURVIVORS, DESPERATELY HOLDING ONTO
SCRAP TO STAY AFLOAT, CHEER THEIR FELLOW
BATTLESHIPS ON AS THE GREAT IRON GIANTS
DUKE IT OUT FOR THE HONOR OF THEIR NATION.

FINALLY, THE “GUN CLUB” BATTLESHIP,
EXACTLY AS SOON AS THE GREAT ORB
OF THE SUN BEGINS TO SINK, DESTROYED
THE ENEMY WITH ALL SIXTEEN INCH GUNS
LAND SHELL AFTER SHELL INTO THE ARMOR.


INTERNAL FIRES FINALLY CAUSE THE
STEEL BEHEMOTH TO SINK FOR ITS
CHANCE AT GLORY, VANQUISHED.

“HIT!! YOU SANK MY BATTLESHIP!”
I RAISE MY ARMS IN VICTORY AS MY
FRIEND AND MYSELF PLACE THE
FINAL PIN INTO THE FINAL RESTING
PLACE OF THE MISSING BATTLESHIP.
THUS MARKS THE END OF A BATTLESHIP GAME,
BUT IMAGINATION DRIVES THE BATTLE ON.
This poem was one of my best poems ever. Despite the name, this was originally named "A Game of Battleship." Pardon me for the confusion.
Trumpets' fanfare, riding, riding
'Neath the Blue and Red,
Gallopped Marshal Jimmy Donald
While the Tunak fled.

Marshal Jim rode off the valley
Down to Tunak-land;
Rounding off the sub-bots and
The Kumars' brutal hand.

Raise the standard, sons of iron!
Charge, ye horsemen brave!
Soar, ye warplanes, into battle,
We've got lives to save!

Marshal Jimmy, our commander,
You direct the way!
Through the dim and crooked darkness
To a bright new day.
Terry Collett Jan 2013
In your granddad’s bookcase
was a book you liked
with a blue hardback cover
with German warplane

pictures in it
and you loved to study
the photographs
even though

the words
were too big
or long
for you to read

and on that Sunday
you sat
while the parents talked
and studied

the bookcase
hoping your granddad
would get it out for you
if he saw you

looking that way
long enough
but the parents talked
and the grandparents

listened or talked too
and the book stayed put
in the bookcase
and you stared

and counted the books
on either side
taking in
the various colours

and sizes
on the shelves above
and below
and how neat

they were placed
and tidy
and well polished
it all was

but the book
kind of attracted you
with its German warplanes
with the Swastikas

on the wings and sides
and some pictures
had Spitfires
and Lancaster bombers

with red white and blue
on the sides and wings
but that Sunday
Granddad didn’t

get out the book
and hand it to you.
The Dybbuk  Mar 2017
Oligarchy
The Dybbuk Mar 2017
Molotovs explode, windows shatter
But to them, it doesn’t matter.
Their sheltered lives are bliss, while little children die,
They sit in their bubble baths and let out a sigh.
They burn their coal to heat their homes,
While warplanes fly from aerodromes.
They clink their flimsy wine-filled glasses,
While the earth rots in a shell of gases.
They talk of truth, peace and love,
While praying to the skies above.
They ask for good things, for themselves.
While kids, teenagers, join cartels.
They “Save The Seals”, but they are blind,
The thing that needs saving is mankind.
A thousand cry out, but they claim to be powerless.
How would they feel if they were towerless?
nick armbrister Jan 2018
clip god's eagles
they praise god at every single turn
and worship him like an addict high
blessing everyone and themselves
even their aeroplanes are blessed
with god's name on the nose
this applies to both civil and military
the warplanes especially are blessed
with pilots who are adept at killing
what does god think about this?
or should we ask the devil?
ten thousand killed in the yemen war
blown to bits by saudi bombs
dropped by planes with god bless
painted on their nose
tell me is this a wise thing?
what is holy about these heinous act?
i'm sure god has something to say
when he speaks who will listen?
the heathen muslim saudis
who use fakely blessed jets
to **** terrorists and civilians
and further an unnamed cause
in the name of who, god?
nick armbrister  Feb 2018
Tarac
nick armbrister Feb 2018
Tarac
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dug dug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamoor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occured
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...
Mohammed Arafat Feb 2019
Among its green trees I was born.
On their branches my dad hung my swing.
From its fruit, I ate, and from its corn.
Walking in its fields, I used to sing…
I stopped hearing singing birds
but clashes and bullets.

I stopped seeing flying doves
but warplanes and buzzing drones.
Gaza was, then, besieged…
No life.
No light
but strife, and fight.
I got scared, but my dad taught me this;
"Be a man, be a man, and never less!”
I knew Gaza was always like this,

yet it’s the city we will miss.
I love it, and will always do.
Its soil, its sea, its oil will be free.
Rebirthed it will be and new.
Neither for him nor her, it’s we.
Gaza is not what media tells.

It’s not about battles or fight.
It’s not about bombs or shells.
It’s about asking for my right!

Mohammed Arafat
09-02-2019
This poem talks about my city, Gaza, of Palestine, where sorrow wars everyday. No matter what happens there, Gaza will always be my first and last place!
Rambus  Nov 2016
Nightmare.
Rambus Nov 2016
Last night I could hardly sleep a wink my kitchen sink went “tink tink tink” with water drops on metal, “Stop!” I cried and tried to settle back into bed and off to sleep, and then, just then, I felt a wind cold at my feet—it was the fan, I left it spinning, I pulled the chain to end its sinning, it was Too. ******. Cold!

I snuggled back in and shut my eyes, not two more minutes ticked on by when I heard the buzz of a little fly, I thought: “why, oh, why does this remind me of warplanes up in the sky?” I fought not in war, but more in slumber, I need to upgrade to a sweet Sleep Number! Or some kind of bed that doesn’t creak when I lay me down to get some sleep! I pray the Lord my soul to keep, but if I cannot get this rest, He’ll have to take it when I’m dead, like this fly who just Won’t. Stop. Buzzing!

I smack the fly out of the air, scratch my head, run through my hair, now all is silent throughout the lair—until my cat, out of nowhere, pounces my belly and shoots a glare as if to say “I do not care,” he meows and growls just like a bear—at least to me it sounds as such, but then again, I’m losing touch! The clock tick-tocks, I’m still awake, I lie back down for my own sake, my eyes shut slow, it’s going great—and then, just then: It’s an earthquake! No—it’s just my cat running around on the bed chasing his shadow on the wall, because somehow, light still finds a way into my room at night to entertain this creature. Cat. Please. Stop!

With curtains closed and all gone pitch, I scratch the light right off my list, same goes for that one last itch down on my back—and it got violent, but I got it—now the room is silent! So one last time, I curl on up and drift away, I’ve got to say, it feels great! I thought my soul was about to break, I fall asleep and claim my stake, my dream is—wait, I’m awake!?

It was all. A *******. Dream.

— The End —