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Listening to Swan Lake of Tchaikovsky,
I tried to relax.
I was petting my calico cat,
with which I share my room.

Storming the Music,
news from the radio,
about the people of Gaza,
messed with my exhausted mind.
Dark holes swallowed my heart,
which beat so fast.

Rockets hither and thither.
Bombs awakening the sleep.
Kids crying and screaming.
Sleepless nights.
Women weeping.
Hospitals ready to receive injuries and dead.
Houses destroyed and collapsed.
Trees uprooted.
That was what the radio reported.

I did not look at photos or videos,
since I know they are the same.
I did nothing,
but raised my hands,
closed my eyes,
and opened my hearts full of holes.

I talked to myself and it believed what I said;
We fall,
but we rise again.
We fail,
but we succeed again.
We get attacked,
but we ask for peace.
We die,
but we live again and again.

Mohammed Arafat
27-03-2019
This poem talks about how I felt while Gaza was under Israeli attacks.
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
08-02-20
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
Continues
For a same reason

Now, tell me
Yours
If something
Different
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.
https://shlomotion.co/plays/the-leader-of-the-free-world/
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
Dad
I knew you brief
bad diet
grease

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- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dD2Tk16O0x4
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