1,000 years the olive tree stood.
And would still be standing, if only it could.
Some “settlers” uprooted the ancient tree,
whose beauty and majesty they could not see.
The “desert,” for millennia, bloomed with life,
long before “Israel” was founded with strife.
Brooklynites now pave hills and build pools,
sucking up water—those fanatics and fools.
For thousands of years people lived on this land,
and life ebbed and flowed, at nature’s command.
Settlers claim “God” told them to supplant
the Arabs, the animals and native plants.
What type of god would give such commands?
To sow hatred and strife, and deplete God’s own lands?
There is ice benumbing my sinking heart and a chain link binding around my spine.
and it spirals.
It slithers and snakes its way up coiling around my neck.
I can't run.
I can't scream.
I'll just wither and wait.
It shackles me in places and lulls the darkness in to surround me.
The shadows dance and my demons laugh.
This is my decease, demise, departure,dissolution. This is my destruction.
Everything she touches simply burns,
and everything is left in ruins.
She just simply wants to see on the outside
what she feels on the inside.
Then, perhaps she won't feel so alone.
And if she destroys herself,
she won't have to face the terror around her.
The slipping plates of the planet
Grind ceaselessly against each other
In terse and violent tension.
Neighbour against neighbour,
Conflicting caress of rock against rock
Until one gives.
The tension explodes.
Little Boy ten thousand fold
Wrecks vast destruction across
Land, sea, village and city
What feeling, what emotion,
Crashes through the landscape,
Dashing communities, families,
Mother and child, father and friends,
School children, colleagues,
Shopkeepers and trades?
Picked up and tossed over and under
By wave after wave, dragging crushing debris.
A black lascivious tongue
Unfurling its fury, lashing
The skin of humanity
From the face of the Earth.
(And what do I care of the destruction?
Of all the pain it leaves behind?
Of the ever-rising body count
Upon a never-ceasing tide.
I am on my way, surfing
The fury, feeling all powerful
And magnificent, but all the time
Controlled and ruined).
Mother, you ask me to cut the cake
But mother, oh my sweet mother,
I'm merely holding a knife here
Mother you think it's my birthday and I should be happy,
But little do you know,
Mother, my incognisant mother
You see, this here in my soft, tender hands
It's more tempting than the candles you brought,
More intimidating than you sitting in front,
It brings the flashbacks more than a picture does
To you, it's something as superficial as love
But to me, my mother
To me, it's a reminder of all the things I could never be,
That I belong to no one,
And mother, that none belongs to me