Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mr Bigglesworth Apr 2013
I was sure I’d have an issue
When you went to Mogadishu
But I didn’t use a tissue
Cos I didn’t even miss you

I was sure I’d feel some pain
When you left here for Bahrain
But as long as there’s a plane
You’d soon be back again

I have to see a quack
Since you left here for Iraq
And now we’re wearing black
Cos you’re never coming back
The difference between a holiday and a tour of duty
clinton rebukes israel over east jerusalem homes obama nasa plans catastrophic say moon astronauts alaska wolves **** woman's teacher out jogging ireland frees 3 cartoonist plot suspects sarkozy and brown attack u.s. over protectionism pope benedict's former diocese rehoused abuser priest chile puts quake damage at $30bn winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela climate change makes birds shrink in north america dr rowan williams is honored for work on russia weymouth ridgeway skeletons scandinavian vikings live bangladesh v england michael schumacher pledges to raise game in bahrain can the u.s. vice-president broker middle east peace? sarkozy's party faces socialist drubbing remote indian state set for development new york dust victims split on 9/11 deal  german tells of childhood abuse by catholic priest a step closer to the american dream? lehman: how $50bn was buried in london ba strike union announces dates in march china's oil demand increase astonishing says iea china warns google to comply with censorship laws net clash for web police projects hsbc admits huge swiss bank data theft phil spector ****** conviction appealed sir david jason to voice cbbc animation climate change 'makes birds shrink' in north america thalidomide effect mystery solved blood pressure fluctuations warning sign for stroke winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela mogadishu residents told to leave somali capital same-*** couples marry in mexico city by mistake i clicked on wrong button and lost everything
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
(Where I worked, they set up TV’s in the cafeteria to watch the continuing coverage of the events of 9/11. I had become known as a sort of poet and many asked me to write something, a poem about 9/11. In the printed version which I handed out to people, they translated into their language the word ‘******’ and into the poem. The company did not like it cause they wanted to whip up the patriotic jingoism and calls for revenge. Thankfully this poem helped to stop this at this factory.)  

911 Thoughts

“Our grief is not a cry for war”
--Artists Network, Refuse & Resist

“..and the poets down here
don’t write nothing at all,
they just stand back
and let it all be”
–‘Jungle Land’, by B. Springsteen


“Beto nki tutasala” (‘What are we doing’)
--Old African saying


New York City 9/11/01:
She walks down the street
numb
peering side to side
pausing,
showing his picture to everyone who looks.
Tears streak her brown skin
as the reality of his loss
sinks deeper in,
yet searching, as if just looking
will make him appear by her side
an ease the vacuum of why that
echoes mockingly in her heart.
~~~
Friends have asked me,
write a poem about these events, Red.
Write about 911,
and the horror from the sky.
Tell us what you think.
Can you give us some hope
that when the dust
and tears
settle from our eyes,
we will still be able to see the sun.
How?
What words can I use to describe
or even surmise all the reasons why.
How do you explain to your grand kids
the war has come home.
They have put us in harms way.

New York City, 9/11/01
Yes the ‘war’ has come home
so many innocents have paid
a blood price for a
globalized monster
grown, nurtured, raised
in the dark soils of the USA.

Southern Iraq, 9/8/01
U.S. and British ghosts
swoop down on a ‘radar installation’
that turns mysteriously into a village.
8 civilians known dead,
many others injured.

Baghdad Iraq. 2/91
Clutching her injured child to her breast,
she flees collapsing buildings
while thunder surrounds her,
she is looking frantically for shelter
from ‘smart rain’
pouring down from the night sky.
Explosions that almost drown out her
screams.
Screams for a lost generation;
how do you rebuild a generation?

West Bank / Gaza, Any day
Young comrades pick thru
blood soaked rubble of once homes
looking for survivors of
‘made in the USA’ helicopter terror.
Or picking up stones to fight off
‘made in the USA’ tanks
spewing out ‘collective punishment’
needed for new Israeli settlements.

Beirut Lebanon, 1980
Safely, miles out to sea,
the USS New Jersey
spits out salvo after salvo
painting the city with fire storms.
Thousands die, thousands more
made refugees in their own country
punished for harboring
Palestinian refugees who refuse to
recognize ‘stolen land’
now claiming to be Israel.

New York City, 9/11/01
The view of passenger jets
lingers in our vision.
Over and over they seem to play with,
dance,
then mingle with those towers
until only twisted steel,
burnt flesh,
and crumbled cement remains
creating a mass grave.


Vietnam, 1970
The village explodes.
Children running
naked
flesh singed, burnt
burning
as liquid fire drops
from high flying 52's.
******; an English word
which in Vietnamese, Chinese or Khmer
Means DEATH!
(Imagine here the words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese and Khmer.)


Hiroshima / Nagasaki, 1945
150,000 human beings now only shadows
seared into the concrete,
human outlines
that still scream their agony
heard even today by anyone
who doesn’t have selective amnesia.

New York City, 9/11/01
What words can explain the loss
of loved ones, friends?
What words can capture
the vacant look of the black woman
seeking her young daughter
who had her very first job interview
on the 104th floor?
What emotions are left
after the search for loved ones
finds only gray dust and charred stench
whether in New York or:
Baghdad, Beirut, Belgrade, Gaza,
Chile, Guatemala, El Salvador, My Lai,
Sudan, or Mogadishu?
What can prepare you for the
sickening sweet scent of
burnt flesh carried on lazy breezes;
of dust coating everything with
the stink of human blood?

~~~~~

And now there is talk of
And preparation for:
Retribution
Justice
Retaliation.
More words that the people of
the world understand all too well:
DEATH! (The words for death in Chinese, Vietnamese, Hindi, Urdu, Ctujarati, and Khmer are not formating when I cut and paste. Imagine them here.)
MUERTE! DEATH!

~~~~~

Every day now the powers that be
prepare us for even more untold horrors;
hype us with red, white and blue views.
Pass on to us today’s NEWS:
“Congress passed new war legislation today”;
“unnamed sources report that”
“a high government official who wishes to remain anonymous”;
“the word at the White House”;
SPECULATIONS: there are 50 governments that harbor or support terrorism.
Several undocumented Arabs have been arrested trying to buy illegal chemicals
INNUENDO: known terrorist are said to have links to Afghanistan.
RUMOR: the next attacks could come as early as 9/22;
Air Force One was threatened today;
terror may come in the form of chemical or biological;
All the conjectures ‘fit to be news’;
Bin Laden is the one, Iraq, Iran,
somebody in the Sudan,
someone, somewhere has to be made to pay.
Conjecture pumped out continuously
24/7
why, we got it straight from heaven
so it must be true!

~~~~~

New York City, Aftermath
For many the future is hard to imagine,
uncertainty weighs heavy
like an echo that bounces endlessly
off tenement walls.
Like the way the “WHY’S”
multiply with each official explanation
and grows from whispers to amplified
crescendos of NOOOOOOOO! NO!
Not in our name.
You cannot exploit our grief,
our sorrow for so many lost lives
into your “holy war of retribution”;
into your vision of “Homeland Security”
and more repressive police powers;
into your call for Justice envisioned as an
Americanized world.
The people of our planet
do not need another
unjust war. And yet,
as long as this system continues,
as long as organized greed,
backed up by Washington bullets reign,
these horrors will continue to
rain from the skies.


Afghanistan, 10/07/01
Today the bombing began.
More horror fell from the sky
as talk of even more countries, people
are added to the “suspected list”.
One thing is sure, those hundreds,
thousand who have already died
had nothing to do with 9/11.
How long?
How many more will die
before we put it to an end?

~~redzone 10.04.01~~ (edited 10/07/01)
(written while using the pen name 'redzone'
reposted by Aztec Warrior 11.18.15)
I wanted to add this poem because many have 'forgotten' who actually unleashed the hooror of ISIS, Al Quieda, and the Taliban on the world. Not enough space to go into all this here, but if you are aagonizing over what is going on in the world, I suggest that a visit to http://www.revcom.us will help to understand not only what and what is behind these horrors, but also a way OUT of this madness...
Ellis Reyes Apr 2013
These words are a sock, soft and warm from the dryer
butterknife
palpable
lullabye
maroon

These words are bits of glass, attacking my ears:
Yaw
Ketch
Blurt
Epizeuxis
Jactation and
Mauve

These words are brass-knuckled fists to the face
Mogadishu
Rwanda
Desert One
My Lai
And
Nine One One

These words are a sneaky cat, slithering here and there
Mystery
Secretive
Lurking
Sly
Shadowy

These words are unknown to everyone but me. Private words for private thoughts.
Uiyak
Jackassdom
Nothingofanyvalue
Donald Jul 2016
I walk through this empty town watching cracks on concrete walls.
Broken object littered in turns, Smoke rising from blurred distance,
The smell of death soar in freedom, as silence and fright flirts the evening skies. I chuck in dizziness, I fall.


2. To the old lady by my side holding me up to my fit.
She, gazing down at me like an object ferried from the Nile to shore
I stare back in fear and dread.

3. Clothed in a dark falling garment,
head beautifully scarfed with dark linen,
She smiles and holds my hands firmly pulling me through like we are dangling from a narrowing bridge. Like this part we stand on- a flit of automobiles speeding through a broken highway.

4. She walks me down the crumbling town
Pointing in every direction and mumbling words with a heavy heart.
The words I can tell- names of folks gone far beyond.
Mohammed Salih, Yacoub Salih, Ibrahim Salih.
..Oh Mogadishu you took them all
She goes on and on.

5. I see fear in your eyes my son, she says
Yes, anxiety rounding your heart for this place you fall through
a different temple, not what you pray to.
A place of tears
Abashed with gloomy smiles, an oasis of stories; strange stories
you can tell with horror.
Son Watch but grow from this cancer
from this dark that has glued us to an Eldorado of death
For we are up in flames, burning every minute, every day,
Waiting for the rain to shower us with her blessings.
Look,
Judgment by man to another man is what you see.  
Look how we breathe, look how we dance in perpetual madness
In the name of God.

6. As we ride along this part you will see
That at the end, a man will **** a man, a woman will cry, a child will suffer, there will be hunger.
It will be called war, a place of unpleasant sounds and unmarked cemeteries.
When you Hold your breath and let go, this voyage will begin and end here.
This is all there is my son, this is all you will see.
A world not far from yours but bleak at night and bleaker in daylight
here in Mogadishu, the heart of the Sahara.
I clinch my teeth and hold her dress, with passion like a child to a candy, We move in silence, cold silence.

7. In the early hours of that morning
I saw a twilight breaking through the dark clouds.
The heavens pushing forth peace to earth that it shone through every household and space.
It was fine and obvious that day had come to life.
My heart lipped, the joy that earmarked my soul, the relive, “enigma” for I had woken to safety.
At last New York my home, Somalia the nightmare that spoke.
You played me gunshots and called it music,
you left me speechless in moments of needful moments.
They said it was a dream, a movie perhaps.
So-long I will never dream of you again.

8. But that voice came alive again and again –
"she" the beautiful one, the one who spoke to me as I lay sleeping through the daunting nights.
Young man, rejoice, but not when this fire burns through this mountain.
For Soon it will catch up every city, every town.
Remember,
This world connects us like beads on a maiden’s waist. Speak and act while you can" for not all Brothers bear the same name. Not all sisters have the same mother,
We may not Dwell in the same town, But we all come from man made by the same God. speak.

9. This is how we are, everyone Born free, born innocent to time, place and space.
Full of good intention for mankind but thrown to the dust.
When we come into this world, we are like the lights that come from above.
A gift to humanity but hacked down by the evil that clinch to a dying universe.
Perdition to blood suckers!! she rants.
Her face red like apples to a wholesome tree. Let your voice be heard son. Of the injustice you see here and in every corner of the world. Speak so life can speak to you in peace.
So you can go to bed and dream the heavens.

10. It is shameful that the man who once lived here wails in the aftermath.
He says, See, This world heard me loud and clear when I came in, but today, I go back in silence with wounds protruding my battered skin; like a ******* thrown in the bin, they leave me, No value, no care for a creation so great so beautifully made by God.
Let your voice be heard my son.  Speak for your safety, speak for your life.  Speak for all.

b. That Sunday morning, I held out my bible on the pulpit and preached the word.
One God forever and ever.
Amen

Donald
This will pass for a short story-
A Mar 2015
She told me she would take a bullet for me
I was left stunned only recalling my hereditary
The horrendous guilt emerging all at once before me
Until I recognized her inactivity and realized she want listening to me
I dropped down on the floor almost instantly
Kneeling on one knee hoping her approval of me
Pledging allegiance so she knew she has the chance to consult me
Every time she recalled her children that neglected her for another woman they didn't know
Or the times she felt enigmatic to disown you
As she calls out your name begging to return home
Hearing your voice and having that bit of hope that one day
You mention her, get back to her and abide in her
playing with the golden precious sand
that make up the land which your ancestors once lived in.

I stare at the ruins that lay before me
A familiar face I stumble across
As I lift the grains of sand hoping its a person I know
Unidentified

I stand beneath the bridge hoping it will echo my freedom just like it did back home
I want to scream a thunder
but knowing its too late I'm pelted with stones
being told to go home
as I sit in font of the TV screen hoping I see a  familiar face before me
My country.

Hergeysa burco barebera ceerigaabo
Our cities names was never meant to be pronounced by you
The syllabols were never meant to pass your diseased lips
And the delicacy not meant to struggle through your rough throat
But they did anyway.
Every night I see the elan in her face
Whilst providing me with the decree of a fast spree from our relationship
The visions we incarcerate together
And the identical marks and scars we endeavor
With out any confession of our pleasure we seek forever
Our heart beat beats twice as fast
Forming a rhythmic percussion

simultaneously taking a breath of Africa
I lay beneath the golden sun as the rays shine through my eyes
Proudly defining the color of my skin
Showing that none other can be akin
As I am the uniqueness of this historical country

Mogadishu, bosaaso, Los anod, barberra
Our cities names were never meant to be pronounced by you
But when we look at our stars one last time
I realized that it has been colonized too


© S Y A
This is an inspired piece from one of my favorite poets. Just kinda tweaked it a little.
Joe Wilson Apr 2015
I shouldn’t really be writing this naïve drivel. I have no idea at all of the hardships these desperate people go through. I wanted to imagine how it must feel though to finally find yourself in front of an uncaring bureaucracy. Obviously I, a secure white Englishman, whose history goes  back hundreds of years in this my home country, am far too safe to understand. My pen came up with this. I hope it doesn’t offend anyone.

The hopelessness…

Invalidated…
It was such an ugly word
So many tall letters
It looked faintly absurd.
But the word simply robbed him
Of chances he had
Struggles to get here
So brutal, so bad.
Beaten, *****  and robbed
He’d slipped out of Mogadishu
His parents both dead now
He was there sole issue.
He paid all his money
For a hopeless sea trek
And got washed up on shore
Now the boat was a wreck.
It was filled to the gunwales
With people like he
Many were lost
As the boat wrecked at sea.
But he never gave up
He just fought all the way
And now six months later
He arrived at this day.
The bureaucrat before him
Had a large black word stamp
He was clutching it so hard
He surely had cramp.


And then there it was
That strange looking word
That made him an alien
Akin to a ****.
So all of the struggles
And all of the pain
Now left him deflated
It had all been in vain.
How desperate he’d journeyed
To leave behind war
What now! Invalidated!
His future unsure!

©Joe Wilson – The hopelessness…2015
Kenn Rushworth Aug 2016
Once felt in the lonely, identical corridors
of hotels, hostels, hallways of homeless flatblocks;
The urge,
The urge to move the moment,
Move the momentum of the meandering life
From work to shop to sleep to work to shop to sleep,
Supplanted by the unattainable mental utopia,
Supplanted by delusions in the colour of dreams,
Supplanted by 10,000 madman notes on the nature of daylight,
Tender sounds accelerated into screams,
Lost in the pylon forest,
Trapped by Tendonitis, Tinnitus, and terrestrial TV,
Stifling the electoral laugh,
Deafened by D-beat, Dubstep, and Democratic conventions,
Bled to death in Bosnia,
Died in Damascus,
Executed in Entebbe,
Murdered in Mogadishu,
Born in Berlin,
Lived in London,
Carried in Copenhagen,
And again in Amsterdam,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Forecast nothing of their waves,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Safely say their real names.
DJ Thomas Jun 2010
Dangerous, well travelled.
Young survivor of life’s
prisons, with little anger
or worries left.
I stopped here again,
to stay in what had
become it’s only hotel.

I walked, tinged pink.
Armed in confident
bravado among the shimagh
branded, AK47 brandishing
troops of War Lords.

To, at night, wonder if
that open roof top restaurant
survived and still served
Italian, then choose the
hotel disco and a drink.

I danced the only White,
lacking little in the rhythm
of my varied partners. When,
sudden alarm, I moved alert!

In shock, the place stopped
to stare at me unmoving,
then at  my partner laying
floored at my feet, before
shuffling away distant.

The barrel was cold -
my neck warm and damp.
Surrounding in this hush
they asked; “Why?”

I requested the return
of what was mine.
Lifted and clamped
in place, she freely
gave back my thin red
leather wallet.

My bruised partner, left
assisted! One more drink
before I too wandered
away, up to my room.

Later, the same
morning, I paid and
left Mogadishu for
the final time.
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010

Part of my past, my own saga...
Alex McQuate Mar 2018
'92
How tired were you,
In '92,
When Chicago flooded,
And Andrew hit South Florida?

Los Angeles missed an earthquake sized bullet,
But got shaken still,
After Rodney King and the subsequent riots.

TWA declares bankruptcy,
Clinton is elected,
Apartheid ended,
A shopping mall is opened,
A no fly zone is placed over Iraq,
Troops in Mogadishu.

How tired were you,
In '92,
Seems like a year that was cholk-full of events,
During New Year's Eve,
I wonder,
Did you tiredly sit counting down,
Just hoping that the upcoming year would be a **** sight better?
Urban Poet Jan 2019
Anabo:

Mogadishu, Somalia 1995.


Gunshots...

Screams...

Silence...

The choppers echoed in the distance. As the missiles erupted.The machine gun fire was muffled by a bizarre sound. That is when my powerless body found the strength to turn around.

and then I saw it...

She was dead.

I failed to keep her alive.

I look at her crimson stained, ornate clothing. With beefy chunks of rosy bowels  pouring out onto the battered floor.


Then I waited for the rebels to come, for me this time...

During those seconds I realize what true fear was. The feeling that was eating and eating at my insides. Gnawing on my soul.

I killed her. She refused to go, so I forced her. I was the reason of her life ending.

Anoba

— The End —