"dima" poems
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. Keywords/Tags: butterfly, children, storm, lightning, thunder, hailstones, snow, frost, night, shelter, comfort, safety, rose, fire, warmth, Holocaust, Nakba, Gaza, Trail of Tears, slavery, injustice, abuse, ethnic cleansing, genocide
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
Oh Vova, My little Vova
Sitting on your throne of skulls
You survey your frozen kingdom
and as you always do
You grimace
With bitterness tempered by the ages
Born a citizen of a scarlet empire. now the tyrant of a tricolor nation
You are both the largest and the smallest man
Who does reside in this time-worn land
You rule your potemkin empire with a fist of iron, a gaze of lead and a voice of kolokol-1
Your inhumanity is well practiced
From your days in the KGB
Your “New Russia” is merely a kleptocratic mockery of it’s golden years
A cheap ersatz mimicry
of Russia’s grandest days
Few things could bring your hard slavic face to show
Even the smallest modicum of joy
But there he stands
Dima!, oh Dima
The light of your life
The only man with the power
To make the Czar smile
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
A letter to the man who gave me this life
Did you know,
when you pulled the trigger,
that that bullet would give me a new life?
Did you even know my name?
I am Maryam.
I am Dima.
I am Agnes.
I am Charles.
I am 6 million kids affected by you.
Do you know where my doll is?
She is the only one who wouldn’t leave,
if she were here.
I left her at home,
have you bombed my house yet?
Please!
I am only 11.
I am only 10.
I am only 12.
I am only 16.
I am only a child.
Just a child.
Can you help my daddy?
He only got out of the car for a minute,
when there was a loud bang.
In the quiet,
all I could see were my daddy’s boots.
His face was so white,
his hands getting colder.
He is staring at me without seeing me.
God!
He is dead!
Why would you do this?
These shots,
they haunt my dreams.
When you pulled the trigger,
did you know that I would jump--
by simple sound of a door closing?
I was planting pumpkins.
We were going to make pie.
But now, I am starving.
Stuck in a dark room.
The men come in,
I don’t understand…
Why?!?!
I am only a small girl.
I am only a small boy.
You make fear burn,
as passionately as love once did.
Love,
The Child With No Parents (Thanks)
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC