1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

« Allah ! qui me rendra ma formidable armée,
Emirs, cavalerie au carnage animée,
Et ma tente, et mon camp, éblouissant à voir,
Qui la nuit allumait tant de feux, qu'à leur nombre
On eût dit que le ciel sur la colline sombre
Laissait ses étoiles pleuvoir ?

« Qui me rendra mes beys aux flottantes pelisses ?
Mes fiers timariots, turbulentes milices ?
Mes khans bariolés ? mes rapides spahis ?
Et mes bédouins hâlés, venus des Pyramides,
Qui riaient d'effrayer les laboureurs timides,
Et poussaient leurs chevaux par les champs de maïs ?

« Tous ces chevaux, à l'œil de flamme, aux jambes grêles,
Qui volaient dans les blés comme des sauterelles,
Quoi, je ne verrai plus, franchissant les sillons,
Leurs troupes, par la mort en vain diminuées,
Sur les carrés pesants s'abattant par nuées,
Couvrir d'éclairs les bataillons !

« Ils sont morts ; dans le sang traînent leurs belles housses ;
Le sang souille et noircit leur croupe aux taches rousses ;
L'éperon s'userait sur leur flanc arrondi
Avant de réveiller leurs pas jadis rapides,
Et près d'eux sont couchés leurs maîtres intrépides
Qui dormaient à leur ombre aux haltes de midi !

« Allah ! qui me rendra ma redoutable armée ?
La voilà par les champs tout entière semée,
Comme l'or d'un prodige épars sur le pavé.
Quoi ! chevaux, cavaliers, arabes et tartares,
Leurs turbans, leur galop, leurs drapeaux, leurs fanfares,
C'est comme si j'avais rêvé !

« Ô mes vaillants soldats et leurs coursiers fidèles !
Leurs voix n'a plus de bruit et leurs pieds n'ont plus d'ailes.
Ils ont oublié tout, et le sabre et le mors.
De leurs corps entassés cette vallée est pleine.
Voilà pour bien longtemps une sinistre plaine.
Ce soir, l'odeur du sang : demain, l'odeur des morts.

« Quoi ! c'était une armée, et ce n'est plus qu'une ombre !
Ils se sont bien battus, de l'aube à la nuit sombre,
Dans le cercle fatal ardents à se presser.
Les noirs linceuls des nuits sur l'horizon se posent.
Les braves ont fini. Maintenant ils reposent,
Et les corbeaux vont commencer.

« Déjà, passant leur bec entre leurs plumes noires,
Du fond des bois, du haut des chauves promontoires,
Ils accourent ; des morts ils rongent les lambeaux ;
Et cette armée, hier formidable et suprême,
Cette puissante armée, hélas ! ne peut plus même
Effaroucher un aigle et chasser des corbeaux !

« Oh ! si j'avais encor cette armée immortelle,
Je voudrais conquérir des mondes avec elle ;
Je la ferais régner sur les rois ennemis ;
Elle serait ma sœur, ma dame et mon épouse.
Mais que fera la mort, inféconde et jalouse,
De tant de braves endormis ?

« Que n'ai-je été frappé ! que n' sur la poussière
Roulé mon vert turban avec ma tête altière !
Hier j'étais puissant ; hier trois officiers,
Immobiles et fiers sur leur selle tigrée,
Portaient, devant le seuil de ma tente dorée,
Trois panaches ravis aux croupes des coursiers.

« Hier j'avais cent tambours tonnant à mon passage ;
J'avais quarante agas contemplant mon visage,
Et d'un sourcil froncé tremblant dans leurs palais.
Au lieu des lourds pierriers qui dorment sur les proues,
J'avais de beaux canons roulant sur quatre roues,
Avec leurs canonniers anglais.

« Hier j'avais des châteaux, j'avais de belles villes,
Des grecques par milliers à vendre aux juifs serviles ;
J'avais de grands harems et de grands arsenaux.
Aujourd'hui, dépouillé, vaincu, proscrit, funeste,
Je fuis... De mon empire, hélas ! rien ne me reste.
Allah ! je n'ai plus même une tour à créneaux !

« Il faut fuir, moi, pacha, moi, vizir à trois queues !
Franchir l'horizon vaste et les collines bleues,
Furtif, baissant les yeux, presque tendant la main,
Comme un voleur qui fuit troublé dans les ténèbres,
Et croit voir des gibets dressant leurs bras funèbres
Dans tous les arbres du chemin ! »

Ainsi parlait Reschid, le soir de sa défaite.
Nous eûmes mille grecs tués à cette fête.
Mais le vizir fuyait, seul, ces champs meurtriers.
Rêveur, il essuyait son rouge cimeterre ;
Deux chevaux près de lui du pied battaient la terre,
Et, vides, sur leurs flancs sonnaient les étriers.

Les 7 et 8 mai 1828.