"iraqi" poems
Smashing boots on doors,
splinters fall like rain.
Smashing boots on doors,
children feel the pain.
Smashing boots on doors,
granny's years of age.
Smashing boots on doors,
Mom and Dad in rage.
Smashing boots on doors,
panic sets the stage.
Smashing boots on doors,
Iraqi freedom fades.
Smashing boots on doors,
like thunder in a storm.
Smashing boots on doors,
an innocent family torn.
Smashing boots on doors,
a brand new hatred born.
RW Dennen (c) 11/24/09
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
In Baghdad where rivers flow
And the Iraqi people glow with
Glorious history shown
Historic sites well known
They capture my heart
A city where history does bide
Baghdad is the place to be.
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 12:23 PM UTC
Learn to recognize lies, while they stand at
Their podiums, and proselytize,
Like so many Sunday preachers,
You can see it in their eyes, and
Their shifty ****** features, though
Their words seem sincere,
Their subtle cues, serve as
Teachers of their inner intent, so
Don't forget your diligence, and
Let them **** your dissent, with
Empty promises and rhetoric, to
Fill your head with lies about,
How war is for the betterment, of
Nations abroad, the sentiment
Is laughable, the premise is a fraud.
Cause when it all boils down, and
When push comes to shove,
Democracy has grass roots, it's
Not imposed from above, and
At the end of the day, money is
The factor prime, it's the secret
Justifier for this terroristic crime,
First, they bombed Iraqi cities,
In a trial of "Shock and Awe"
That killed even more civilians,
Than what 9/11 saw, and
Once the cities were demolished,
Halliburton then rebuilt them, and
Reaped enormous profits,
To the tune of 40 billion, and
Among other things, in this
"Just" war's spoils, were
The underground oceans,
Flowing full of crude oil, and
We all fund these atrocities,
These lies, these hypocrisies, well
If you decide this ain't the type,
Of thing that you can stand for,
Write "exempt" on line 7, of your W-4
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?
Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.
The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.
T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.
Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.
Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.
Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.
Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
[After Flanders Fields, by Major John McCrae, 1915]
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields,
the beaches of France,
Palestine groves,
Malaya's tropics,
Korean mountains,
Egypt's deserts,
Cyprus' beaches,
Borneo's forests,
Aden's marshes,
Falkland's heaths,
Balkan's tundra,
Afganistan bush,
Iraqi highlands,
[Keep list open....]
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
Soldier Boy in Iraq,
sleeping with your gun
nestled by your side,
pimples on your face,
a foreign place
to rest your head,
and your bed
is as harsh and unforgiving
as the desert sands.
You fear maybe the next bullet
may be for you,
nothing new
in your mind.
You've seen your kind
fall before.
Iraqi faces,
some grateful,
some hateful,
give you odd and curious glances.
Women and girls in veils,
tales of woe,
tales of fear.
Men and boys draw near,
captivated by the Yanks
who dare to be here.
Soldier boy in Iraq,
say your prayers.
Draw close to God,
and He will draw near
to you.
Your mom is looking forward
to your letter
and you think it's better
to waste no time
and write it now.
Nov 24, 2009
Nov 24, 2009 at 1:07 PM UTC
David slings a rock
Cop holsters a glock, Lizzie Borden packs an axe
Mac he packs the knife, Billy battles with a club, Tommy’s gun is a sub
Kelly’s got 1 too, Bazooka Joe Is Gum, Peter Gun not, Colt 45 is not malt
Nor a horse, hand grenades, canons w/big ***** Doc Holiday had TB
Rock Hudson *** James Dean crash his car,Hank Williams in his bar
Natalie Wood don’t float, Cain killed brother, Juliette poison her lover,
Whitey Bulger, he killed and got paid, deadman walking gets to eat
Rodney King he got beat, got beat Mama Cass Elliott choked on ham
58,000 gone in Nam, 4 dead in Ohio, Kamikazes fall 1941, again 2001
Iraqi leader w/ a rope, John Belushi too much dope, C. Manson is alive
Michael Jackson isn’t, Saturday night special is very ordinary
Fast and furious is the crime, **** Clark just his time
Pirate victims walk the plank, THINK,
Next I’ll come rolling up in a tank
Hear the whistle of my missile
***** Harry had the biggest
The Derringer is small
Smokey Bear forest fire
Greek funeral is a pyre
Too many +’s or -’s
Is electrical surges
Woman and child
sing the dirges
Walking dead
Are zombies
Fat man and
Little Boy
Are atom
Bombies
as for me
in a blaze
of glory
BOOM
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
When may I?
Not now under the
lampscope in my
G.I. gear—little doughboy
to hashtagged Iraqi vet.
Not now with my
hand tentatively against
your sickly body.
"Two weeks.
We're sorry."
Not now as the pallbearer,
my clutch like vacuum-sealed
lips parted for
you.
Held back by what is left of your
afterlife pride.
Not now as I watch a hurricane
gradually run aground,
wondering if the waves will crash and
if the sea will come inland,
flood your grave
in wet kisses.
If only it could stop howling for five seconds,
just to hear me.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
THAT FIRST GULF WAR ON T.V.
In blissful ignorance I cheered
Along with the rest of the American idiots
Bomb those **** Iraqi's
Oh you can't mess with the USA....
Then it happens, the media focused in on a truckload of orphaned Iraqi children
They were just innocent little kids
You could see the trauma reflected in their shell-shocked eyes
I cried with self-loathing, empathy, Stop, what are we doing...
I just wanted to hug those children and make them all better
This was the turning point in my world view.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
A torture to an Iraqi schoolboy
Unsure of his way to his dwelling,
Fatigued, out of breath, shattered,
The desert wind blowing so unkind
Down the narrow roads as a voice
For help a mournful call
Reminding us how lonely he is,
Father missing, Mother *****
And the Iraqi girl friend dead,
Troupes watch in silence from roof
Date palms line up the shore in grief
Leaning towards the dead sky,
Silently with prayers
While the dawn wind blows.
While the dusk light fades.
while the dark night falls.
-Williamsji Maveli (Williams George)
www.williamsgeorge.com
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
a 2nd reiteration
listening to
dropkick murphys'
song
*i'm shipping off to
Boston*...
you ******* quasi-paddies
and Iraqi Aladdins
have ****** up "my"...
******* jukebox!
no music video ever came
with a ******* news channel
recommendation!
wankers!
sprat boilers!
brat spanking fetishists!
give me my ******* jukebox
back... you *******
toddler's little pinky
wankers off!
it's not enough that
the blood starts to boil...
my thinking becomes
all scrambled!
i turn into a Danzig hunger-strike
when i don't get
to listen to new music!
wankie ***** wankie *****
sure...
but when i **** off while
taking a **** and taking a ****
i don't make a *******
video out of it, do i?!
juggernaut... juggernaut...
juggernaut...
say it thrice like Beetlejuice...
and... well... shazam!
a rhino appears!
i'm taking prisoners...
the ones attached to the charge,
as they scream...
pretending to... "tag along".
give my jukebox back you
******* invertebrates!
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
Our Masgouf
The fish has wings, and she feels our pain as a sister. Yes, we are the fish’s brothers and any halo occurs in the clear night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here, and see the first cookbook; it had appeared with the seeds of this earth. It had slept in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which was shining as a morning sun. In the heart of (800) recipes in that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. You may know that Masgouf had resided as a moon in our dreams, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume as the butterflies. Our Masgouf, as well as, the face of our river, is pure, but smoky, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants which dance as a fairy at its small bank. Because of this warmhearted brightness, you may like to sit under our smiley tent and musing our truthful Masgouf.
The Dolma’s Master
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses. My mother was a good Dolma’s student, so she had learned its chants expertly and wore her wedding dress early.
The Kebab Glory
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with Kebab’s Sumac. My dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian, can’t be transfigured without a soft lap, and any saying disagrees this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
wailing soul's slow coach, or...
bredda gravalicious-
two songs you won't hear that much often;
it's not so much being pretentious
as it means being informed -
well, songs are sang,
politics are weaved - the haggis is ate
like a habit rather than a celebration,
people tend to harvest-fields
like they tend to boredom,
but then man can't be coerced into
perpetual work - not twice outliving the
chance change from labourer to priest,
while the lord of the rings
was written with collision between
genitalia revision of the sexes varied
between the female (Egypt's) and male
(former Iraqi and to come Israeli)...
the boxing match was waited for...
which revision of the snippets akin to
the Dobberman's ears' was welcome more?
i guess neither - pagan celebrations
of ******* insignia,
monotheistic celebrations of doubly-phallic
insignia hidden in what became
both the ******** and the niqab - by the english
tongue dubbed "satan's postbox".
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
OUR MASGOUF
The fishes have high wings, but they can feel our deep pain like sisters. Yes, we are the fishes’ brothers and any halo you may see in the dark night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here and see the seeds of this earth in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which its recipes were shining as the sun. In that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. It is residing in our dreams like the moon, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume with the butterflies. The face of our Masgouf is pure, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants dancing as fairies at their small riverbanks.
THE MAGIC DOLMA
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses.
THE KEBAB GLORY
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab, and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. Our souls were kneaded with the sad Kebab’s Sumac and the tears of war. Our dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Yes, you need the Iraqi sad smiles to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
I would rather be
A star swirling in unconscious ecstasy, or
The air captivated by gravity, or
One single wave as it shies from the shore, or
A pebble cemented into the sidewalk path underneath a leaf
as it’s cracked and crushed under the heedless, preoccupied nature of man, or
A humble crease of a sick rose’s petal, or
One coffee ground stuck to the bottom of a yellowed, chipped mug,
Because it doesn’t matter, it does not matter.
Nothing truly matters.
Whether you’re privileged or impoverished,
Content or depressed, dispassionate or obsessed,
A ****** or a giant, timid or defiant,
Powerful,
Crippled,
Insane,
Naïve,
Whether you’re green with jealousy or environmental tendencies,
Whether you Fight,
Fight for world peace,
Fight to end, to **** Hunger,
It will not matter.
Because Man is addicted to conflict.
War is on the pedestal.
Hatred, envy, greed, lust, and hunger all
FIGHT
To ensure its power.
With every hand that scrambles for control,
With every eye that narrows to aim,
With every breath held for stability,
That pedestal heightens and heightens.
You might as well sigh for the butterfly who killed all those damaged, but innocent individuals.
Its gentle wings, essential to its survival, are to blame.
So you might as well accuse that abusive husband in New Jersey for the Iraqi War,
And that fisherman in the ****** Islands for global warming,
Or that little boy who's crying for the emasculated, shrunken, pathetic homeless man muttering,
“Hope is hope because hope is never hope. Hope like a rabbit, hope hope hope.”
Can you not see?
Can you even Be?
I can only hope for an escape, an exploitation of no conflict or aggravation.
just one wisp of matter with no conscious mind.
I can only point at all inconsistence with determination to prove that the only consistency in this entire universe is simply
ILLUSION.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 9:06 PM UTC
I bury the carnival fish. my neighbor pretends he is casting while my son ***** on the opening of a plastic bag. I take the bag and blow into it then pop it on my palm. my neighbor’s heart is safe but he tries to grab it anyway. the vietnam war is a pop-up book of the vietnam war.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
Not Iraqi, nor Irani
With ancestors, Pakistani
And some fine roots
From India
But my main roots
Arabia
Did spent some time
In Austria
And later on
In Syria
Now heartbroken
And writing poems
In language of
Britannia
I'm heartbroken
Cause I lost you
Your heart is where
I'm calling home
Since its the place
Of which I can
Honestly say
I'm coming from.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 4:07 AM UTC
"Dude!
Did you hear about
That girl at the party
Last night?
She got so wasted!
Jumped up on the bar
And danced and danced and danced!
Dude!
You shoulda seen her!
Them moves of her hips!
Sweet ******* lips!
Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!
Dude.
I'd'a taken her home
And shown
Her a **** good time.
Mmm mmm mmm!
Dude...
Where were you last night?
How come you weren't there?
You missed a helluva time!
Yeah...buddy...a helluva time..."
He taps his fingers
Three times on the marble
Then he looks up
Sighs
Walks away
"A helluva time."
Ross Andrew
McGinnis
Medal of Honor
Jun 14, 1987
Dec 4, 2006
Bronze Star
Purple Heart
Operation
Iraqi Freedom
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
Iraqi Mother cradles child
Sudden incoming bomb shrill
Nothing but rubble
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
Death and destruction
Hidden suicide bombers
"Iraqi Freedom"
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
Have you heard about Sumac? Yes, it is purple, but it is stinging because the beautiful southern nights kissed its lips. The fish love Sumac because the Euphrates carried it on its back for many years. Sumac is so Iraqi so its spirit is kneaded with war stories. Did you know that Sumac and despite its sadness, it indulges in the fragrance of celebration, just like our streets.It is the son of the desert and like our daughters; the daughters of the desert always dream of days without smoke. We inherited Sumac from our Babylonian ancestors who made it with smoky tears, so you need an Iraqi smile to see the splendor of its glory.
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
14 old white men
circle a marble table
high gloss
black, white veins with crystal fleck
holding forearms
and the weight of a nation –
quiet decisions in the glow of a Tiffany lamp
leave nation states fate decided
and the lives of 3000
the initial collateral damage –
savage faces drool and puff
over the ramifications and potential
global **********
breaking on the horizon
if only the towers would fall –
pre-Fall morning
birds chirp as blue skies shine
earliest frost touch the shaded places
as dew, glistening
reflects the new era
post-Newton laws apply
and the insane run the asylum –
free-fall images
and a purple dress plummeting
draw ire… but not to Iraqi civilians
oh, no
my ire is fire in my belly for the sellers of my country
for oil profiteering
and empire building
corporate expansion
and rain water crime –
patriotism died one day
years ago...
it was replaced with blind obedience
and freedom from thought –
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
as a kid, movies were my life,
dramas, comedies, documentaries,
miniature worlds of love and strife,
i sat down and glued
my eyes to the silver screen
to violence and blood
rich reds splashed on green;
as i late-night consumed
an Iraq war drama flick,
i heard history unwinding,
wrapping its tendrils to pick
apart my thoughts one by one
flashback frames spin
past bloodstained orbs,
Iraqi bullets beat a din
in my ear drum echo chambers;
shouts shatter constructed dreams
of innocence,
sweating nightmares, muffled screams
i remembered stray bullets
ridding the body of a wayward child
red inking my green sleeves
as i cradled him, he smiled
and told me his name.
i jolt back to reality
blood forcing muscles to lift pen
capturing the totality
of my anger in writing,
film forcing finger
to tilt stylus to modern papyrus
worried thoughts linger
finger on trigger,
as I write a review,
criticizing needless dredging
of the past, through
cheap, violent thrills
meant to entertain
jaded eyes unfamiliar
with foreign terrain
my fingers move
pressing down with no direction
i transcribe his name
ink soaking a predetermined selection
of grooves, his name
echoes from the past:
Rahim.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:31 AM UTC