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They ask me about Palestine,
what we have there,
what we live for,
and why it’s so special?

I shake my head,
looking for the words to explain:
We have both the bad and the good.

We have an occupation to oppose,
and to end.
We have checkpoints restricting our movement,
armed soldiers ready to shoot.
Armless citizens
trying to avoid being shot
while protesting the decade-long siege.

We have fighting factions—
brothers, uncles and fathers—
who warn us to keep our mouths shut.
Jails and jailers waiting for us,
if we speak up.
We have users, abusers and losers.
Corruption and patronage.

Hate has invaded us,
but we still have love.

We have an endless, azure sea
that gives us at least an illusion of freedom.
Fields of the world’s brightest red strawberries
and ancient buildings whispering
about a history once noble and proud.
Close-knit families, with faces of children still hopeful and proud.

We have a beautiful capital with a golden dome
that lights with the sun when it appears from the east,
where worshippers gather from everywhere.
Friday’s call for prayers merge into Sunday’s church bells.
In the same capital, we have Muslims, Christians and Jews
who drink the same carob, eat the same hummus,
speak the same Arabic.
White, black and brown tourists come and go,
Smiling and buying from the elders of Jerusalem.
In it, we have mosques, churches and temples,
where those with righteous hearts
kneel to God at dawn and pray
that hate one day will end.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem is written for those wanting to know the reality of the Palestinian case
Every day
I listen
I reply

Every night
I enjoy
Moon light

And my diary
For a same reason

Now, tell me
If something
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: Living a moment
Shlomo Jan 27
Perpetual occupation. Thoughts o’Disgust.

A path into oblivion. Who can we trust?

5% of the world population.

20%, prison population.

More thoughts. More of disgust. Despair. Hope? Less.

And less! Each day I think I forget. Its there.

Orange TV show personality.

As the leader of the free world?! What kind

of world is that? What am I supposed t’think?

Oh right. Because he’s free to tweet trash, garbage,

putridness, calling everyone out other than himself,

calling people dogs? That’s freedom. No thank you.

In the meantime, go fix your ******* self!

Before you try to fix everyone else.
My first attempt at an iambic pentametre.
a name is a name
like a worn down rug
given to us all by
unknown strangers.

thereafter, quiet puddles of
insemination and conception
and incubation and cold birth

thus a christening is born,
a label of identity deeply
sotted in our developing minds
and we bear that name like an
itchy tag on the back of our shirt
throughout time
throughout seasons
throughout our entirety
and down the streets
of hot asphalt
and frozen concrete,
in the burning sun
and in the blanket
of lightly falling snow,
we carry our names
under the rows of
coned shaped lights
shone down
through lampposts.

and we give out our names
without hindrance
like a banana peel
to the garbage can,
whether it’s in front
of kindergarten classes
or in front of a judge at
the next court appearance,
at parties or at the corner
bar or AA meetings or on
social media or at church

signing away our names on
checkbooks and grocery bills
and bar tabs and restaurant tabs
with 20% gratuity and UPS packages
and certified mail and co-signing for
car loans

with our names plastered everywhere
on advertisement and airline tickets
and subpoenas and insurance cards
and drivers license and income tax
forms and a summons for divorce

as we enter the adult world
we are given another name, a
label based on the skills of our craft
and the money we make, a becoming,
an occupation if you will, a doctor,
a lawyer, a pornstar, a fortune teller,
a massage therapist, a cartoonist or
the worse of them all... a poet

and then the day will come when the
crowded grandstands will watch your
bones being flushed away in the dirt,
laying down backside in your cozy
casket facing the sun with your
glitzy name etched upon your glitzy gravestone and he may never know
your history
your secrets
your purpose
but your name
will still be there,
I dream a dream of skill,
I gather pictures of best practice
(methods best enacted off the couch.)
I house,
crisp corners, soaring beams and posts
where gawkers marvel, ‘cos
the high is feeling good. I see
the woods
and watch the owners.
(What good grip they have! enough to claim
what they could never care for-
let the lessers sing their lives!)
I drive a drive
not fast enough for fastness-makers,
flaunting logos, polished chrome,
I drive a loan.

None say it, none will ever hear
these soft confessions to
the “here” I hold right now
in its un-good. I slip
a “should” on, halfway,
dumping it for snacks and cons -
I run for miles
to lose it on the lawn.

And as I break, I pause to
watch a bit to see how not to fail.
I land in jail. The wardens
never speak to me,
the only copy of the key
described in stories, but
they’ve scattered every page.
And every day I fail
to reconstruct it out of naught,
I age.
Jon Thenes Jun 2018
For my health and away from chaos ;
I must leave this employment ;
It is a marination

Spare me my lungs
And my worn upon readers
Part from me the company
Of these sippers
These social fighters and patterns

Be gone
Let out
A restitution
in statutory
there a
transitory program
swift to
encircle firm
when ridicule
compel a
moratorium where
Russia still
a democratic
likelihood in
arms race
soon retire
for Holy
Land again.
Robbie Gunn Feb 2017
I knew you brief
bad diet

listen to the radio station
very nice man
no fabrication

not just a drunk
but a man with ideas
just to many beers

self expression was the way
a poet
and a DJ
This poem was for my fathers funeral
My dad-
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