I don't know what to think of this.

[GaYellowDawg]

I just had a stream of consciousness thing going and wrote it down as it came out. I decided to share it. I hope it's worth sharing.

In the sand of Iraq
Blood is spilled,
And although the sand drinks it,
It is not the sand that thirsts.
Some in America thirst for blood.
Their thirst has not yet been quenched.
Some in America thirst for wealth and power.
Their thirst knows no limits.
Some in America thirst for peace.
They receive no relief.
Only desert for them - but this desert does not burn.
It freezes.
From the coldness of a leader,
And the coldness of his followers,
Who care nothing for warmth -
The warm blood spilled on the sand.
And the sun beats down on the sand there.
Down on the broken bodies.
The same sun sees the broken crosses
Half the world away.
Broken bodies. Broken crosses. Broken hearts.
There are those who call themselves patriots.
Yet they do not serve.
Yellow ribbons. Yellow hearts.
There are those who ask for sacrifice
But do not contribute.
There are those who call for blood.
But they do not offer their own.
There are those who will not burn the flag -
But will cheer when it is ground into the earth.
It does not matter to the flag.
The flag may be picked back up.
Its red stripes will no longer be splayed on the earth.
The sand will never relinquish its blood.

[silverlib]

1. Great -

do you mind if I pass it along?

[GaYellowDawg]

5. Don't mind it a bit. eom

..

[pamela]

2. I like it.

A lot.

"Yellow ribbons. Yellow hearts.
There are those who ask for sacrifice
But do not contribute."

[nofurylike]

3. great! thank you! eom

[halobeam]

4. heartfelt, so deep...

very nice.

and thanks

[i have issues]

6. Wow!

That is super! It reminded me of some train of thought poetry I came up with right before the invasion...my humble try.



My garden


As our stolen leadership breaks our hearts,
with a stroll through future graveyards.
We watch our friends cook their dinners,
and commercials, inducing guilt over
stuffing vs. potatoes.
My garden doesn't care about this place
I call home, these trees
surrounding me, seem unaware.
The kitten, white and springy, dreams of bugs and breeze,
tail twitching, sleeping deeply.

In a darkend room, small men play god, "there are always casualties."
Ideals bred through lack of glory.
Outsiders;
the truth of human beauty
is too distant.
A small boy belittled. An angry drunk.
Humiliated wife. "no matter."

My car is dirty today... Christ, the taxes are due.
There's laundry to do. And what's
this thing?... A thought.
Arabs ride camels'
don't they? Camels eat grass.

There is wild grass
in my garden...
Full of living things. Noises created, not by me,
nor him,
not talking to me, nor him, but amongst themselves.
Small men in shadow plot my gardens demise.
My kittens fur forms a ridge down his belly.

Somewhere, later, a small cry sings out,
inside a grocery list, a gas receipt;
a tiny thing. A sense of unease.
I look closer at the supermarket bill,
that seems different somehow... My newspaper has a different heft,
lighter, yet more full of weight. Television drones on,
a noise that cancels itself out. And yet, by it's silence,
it speaks to me in stilted vocabulary.

The kitten leaps at a bee in my garden, then stops
and lays still, small face skyward.
Contrails crisscross
the blue, framed in green, a place that doesn't
include planes, miles up.
Only birds and breeze, and bugs
and earth. He cleans himself completely,
then sleeps. I smoke,
downwind (so as) not to disturb; and
listen to salsa on a strangers stereo.
A tranquility that
belies my unease...

The lights come up in a darkend office,
where deals are made, hands are
shaken. Pats on backs resound with Roman glory.
They'll sleep well tonight
in the bosom of history's misdeeds
Mistaken for honor,
Mistaken in peace.
The white kitten sleeps on.