Resurrection

Syria
the hour of killing
An unforgiving dusk.

Bombs strike hard,
tear down barriers of mothers ,
and burst children like balloons.

Blood splatters their tiny teeth
reaching my doorway.
The newspaper.

The day darkens before it has begun.
Mornings are not mornings
with children archived in graves.

The earth doesn't want mud pits of 2x3.
There isn’t enough rain to wash away this blood.
Kids want marbles, not territory.

Mothers gather the soil of their resting offspring
agonise on how they might de-vein borders
with the beatings of their hearts…

War is and always will be
two-parts human tissue
one-part burning asphalt.

Ivory Fauteuils 

Why do you prefix  'These Bloody'
before Indians, Blacks, Asians?

Why do you label them
as though they were cartons of anathema?

Do you ridicule them because you think White is superior?
Always husking and winnowing anything remotely brown…

Do you know the taste of your tart, ripe tongue
and how it coats the open bones of their self-esteem with loathing?

Stop!

Stop clubbing behaviour with colour.
Stop upholstering your panic to the adjunct of race.

Many shores make a country, many hearts, a nation.
This face before you has a name, do not give it a label.

This face is not a lamb, nor you a lion.
Don't blandish it into your den of contempt.

It won’t be ensnared
even if you asphyxiate it.

Treat colours well. Treat well, these flags of skin.

Else the dark, ruptured tar of your hatred
might erupt, drowning you in a tragic opus
of your own making.

 Trees Speak to me

of the brilliant mica of loved ones, now soil
of rivers palpitating underground.
of tired bones of animals
of lost childhood; erasures and loss
of unmet prayers and apocalyptic days
of frail roots struggling to feed newborn leaves.

Of woodpeckers
hammering block prints on crinkly barks
of crows building nests in Y-branches
parakeets roosting in its arms
making the tree feel like Grandpa.

Of touch.
Turning in a circular, ever widening gyre
speaking of another year of rain
locked in a ring.
The sun’s all-seeing knuckles kneading
life into phloem
murmuring gentle folk songs
of rearing children,
the breeze restful in its arbor
limbs within limbs.