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As the intimately familiar screech
of an emergency alert is issued, a displaced

plastic bottle streams along the flooded sidewalk.
Sudan still does not have sustainable water.

The mouths of widowed women and bludgeoned children
run dry. Darfur is a skeleton.

The death of the last male northern white rhino,
named Sudan, receives more coverage than the genocide.

In 2016, a photographer
received award from the World Press contest

for capturing seven-year-old Adam Abdel’s extensive burns
After his own government bombed his village,

Adam received displacement.
The beautiful skies were grey that night.
So dark it was, but not night though.
Unlike every day, it wasn’t bright.
I got my wrap and hid below.

Far away from my father and mother,
I still don’t remember where they were.
In the other room, there was my brother,
and my sister… I couldn’t find her!

That frightening time, I was four years old,
when unknown army attacked our home.
I thought it was tale my granny has told,
but it was real, and ended with a tomb.

I heard them breaking the door,
with their big shoes full of mud.
I screamed, “Mom, is it the war?”
“Mom, I don’t want to see blood.”

Neither she nor daddy talked.
My small siblings were hushed.
Towards me, a soldier walked.
He grabbed me out and rushed.

I started to scream and to cry.
Looking all round me, I saw nothing but death.
It was my parents, brother and my…
They even killed my sister.. She had no breath.

Outside my old home, I just saw no lane.
Neighbors, trees, pets were gone.
Just mess, I had no words to explain.
The Srebrenica massacre had begun.

I was taken to a far camp,
where men, elders and boys were beaten.
On us, soldiers started to stamp.
I bled, I felt like I was eaten,

Women’s mourns were heard.
Army began to hit them and ****.
Though, they had no word.
From the monsters, they could not escape.

So tired I was, so I passed out.
Never woke up until I was taken,
to some place I never heard about,
It was with almighty God, in heaven!
Today marks the 24th anniversary of the massacre of the Bosnian town of Srebrenica.
Cherries black by water
flowing, berries blue,
the hue of Father sky.
Bluffs and buffaloes
a long time ago, the
Great Spirit permeated
land and lives. Eagles
flew in hearts of men;
honest words were spoken
then. No token treaties,
no entreaties, arrows flew
like truth to hearts of
antelopes. No interlopers,
no antebellum prairie schooners,
no sooner had they come than
bison hooves were no longer
heard. They herded cattle,
making chattel of red men
and women and children.
Wild dogs knew better.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and a human-rights advocate for his entire adult life.
Connor Anon Mar 4
It ignites inside them; it does boil and swell,
Another emotion man attempts to quell.
But this vapour of hatred and these bubbles of wrath,
Seem determined to scorch those that dare cross their path.
Flames stoked by abhorrence, froth stirred by malice,
"How dare the heathens encroach into our palace?"
This typhoon of sentiment, this eruption of conviction,
I find it to be the source of many an affliction.
Man stands idly by, gawking in shock,
The opportunity passes with the hands of the clock.
The lid though of iron can't contain this hot steam,
The sensation that boasts it would tear at the seam.
Guilt simmers; hope evaporates in shame,
One more missed prevention, yet no one to blame.
Man exclaims rather loudly, "Next time I will help!"
As the downtrodden perish, with a suppressed yelp.
Hatred kills.
Gandy Lamb Feb 22
Kurdish Genocide
People gunned down left and right
The trees are watching
Trees are pretty
Wanderer Feb 19
Politics jut aren't my thing
I don't care who you vote for
I won't judge you based on your political party

but I do want to say

That is hurts me to see
so many Americans be so callous and rude
to others based on their religion or race
to watch others suffer
in countries where their leaders
are committing genocide
and when their last hope is
to run away from their home, family
everything that they've ever known
in hopes of finding safety
in hopes that they may be able to survive without fear
but then they are met with cruelty at our borders
hate in our country

What does America stand for
if not freedom and hope?
Is the American dream dead?
so if we
stand still
smell the heat

of an enemy's
bullet through our veins
for once

court outcome
of supplanting views
imbibing another's sweat

casuist's bile
scrawled on prison walls
of savaged confines

they salute
their spiel
with the same

toxic hold
as we concoct
world views

venomous elixir
polymorphous maze
shadow of a sphinx

looms clearer
as steps leading
to torn pages

of feted book
uncover dichotomy
of a self split

so that shooting a child
of shunned genes
amounts to nil

for in but a blink
his uniform
arrives home

to stroke the
golden locks
of his only daughter

playing Chopin
Please see subsequent post 'dynamics of genocide'
penned as a bit of free expression,
more a rant than a poem,
but can provide some
background information to this poem.
I very much appreciate your thoughts and feedback
on either or both posts.
Big thanks...
let me rant awhile
for what good it may do
to open the valve
if only briefly

for as one wave
after another
of sheer indignity
is reported

survivor guilt
courses through me
yet even this
was not mine to choose

for I don't happen to
have been born
or black -

and that doesn't make me
more -
or less -
worthy of dignity

but I can observe closely
what it is like
to be pilloried
and persecuted

for one's peaceful contacts
and communications
holding personal beliefs
at odds with a regime

and a rage
courses through me
on contemplating
'man's inhumanity to man' -

though written long ago
that the world would be so,
where hatred would replace
kindness, love, empathy

I deplore the way
an ideology
of one disturbed,
possessed person

can lead to millions
donning a uniform,
henceforth labelling
one sector of humankind

'persona non grata'

to be mercilessly pursued
in legitimized genocide,
even savaging
little children

frightened lads
caught on the run
made to hold arms
for food

mamas with babes in arms
forced to watch them
dashed to pieces
then buried alive underground

their infant cries still heard
while their mothers were ***** -
as beleaguered, beautiful Estonia
was brought to it's knees...

and I weep and rant
feel knives in my gut
blood pulsing swift -
then take hold of myself

seek to understand,
if that be possible,
even a smidgen
of such distorted thinking

to delve into the mind
of a hateful deviate
for but a moment
and remain intact

so I scan his written mantra
and come to see that
all deeply held convictions
must have at its core


lest it attract the weak
and easily led,
or those forced into submission
seeking to simply stay alive

and they find themselves
taking part
in a forest fire
of polluted propaganda

a flood of merciless
while their deluded leader
continues to spout forth venom

in the distorted notion
that they would actually
be acting in society's
best interests

or worse still:
'in the name of God'
(Acts 5:39;
Hosea 4:1-3)
This post was initially placed
at the end of my previous poem,
'mandated thuggery,'
but became so lengthy,
that though not my usual,
tightly honed offering,
I felt it may resonate
with some poets here on hp,
hence I gave it space
as a post in its own right.

You may wish to see my previous post
a poem that was based on these thoughts

I deeply appreciate your sharing
what you feel on reading
either or both of these posts
Many thanks
My right hand is very good at it

You ask people

They say it's in between the sheets.

Real love is dead. We murdered it through death camps called elementary schools.
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