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H W Erellson Sep 2015
salt stings wounds
salt stings eyes, entering, leaving...
healing, healing. The sea will take you away.
I tire of hearing abot these migrants
well they tire of the rick-shaw of an untested boat
of their homes becoming rubble & dust clouds,
of seeing blood in the dirt.
As long as there is war,
as long as there is famine
as long as there exists somewhere
called 'refuge'
then there will be refugees.
Oh child, rocked to sleep by the tide...
you should never have to answer for adult violence,
innocent & sleepy, sinless.
You have been written in blood in the old books
you have been decided for.
Your dice have been rolled by strange hands;
born amid angry eyes,
and so shall die,
washed ashore upon sand,
carried quietly away
to your final crib
to your refuge.
for alan kurdi
check out more stuff at miragesofleavesinspring.blogspot.com
Skendong Apr 2015
Nobody heard them, the 900,
But still they lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.

Poor migrants, lured to a better life –
Now they’re dead.
It must have been too hot for them
In Gambia, Senegal, Syria, they said,

Oh no no no, it was too hot always,
Still, the stranded ones lay screaming.
We were much further out than they were,
And not waving but drowning.
mark john junor Aug 2014
the motionless air hung heavy
with late summer heat
at a distance a woman's voice in song
the rich sound reaching for your heart
with feelings of life lived joyous and bold

i walk the sunsoaked road
to the farm field to find her
where the dusty faces of the pickers greet with smiles
their great baskets filled with the newly picked crop
its thick scent filling the air with intoxicating fresh natural beauty
**** and tangy ripe to the souls tastebuds
they gather round the water spigot
laughing and speaking
a family of strangers
come to harvest the land

they invite me to join them
for the midday meal
so i sit in the shade of a truck
sipping the cool clear waters
eating the thick rich bread and cheese
such people of the earth
their hands worn with its labor
their hearts alive with its loves
such kind souls of the land
sharing their moment with me

the meal done
the baskets for the picking ready once more
they wander back to the field
and she begins to sing once again
as the sweet summer sun lulls me to slumber
her voice a beautiful tapestry woven with her
love of her people and her life
a rich tender sound
she carried me into sweet deep dreams
of the kindness of people who harvest
with their hands and hearts
the bounty's of the earth
(migrant farmers on the sun coast)
Shilpa Shyam Jan 2014
Sometimes as I lay still, eyes closed,
Bathed in memories,
Of riveting detail,
I'm not unlike Gulliver, on an island , pinned down by the Liliputs.
Awake, but, I do not know where ,shackled as I am,in time and space,
by these snippets of reverie,staking claim
to my mind
And I am for now, a felled giant.

— The End —