What’s that got to do with you and me?

“Maybe love is just an economy based on resource scarcity, what I fail to see is what that’s gotta do with you and me…”- Father John Misty, Holy Shit 

I saw a desert sun over poppy fields. My two silly pups mazing through soft grasses and invisible shanty camps like those burnt in Calais. I saw burning in green water and denim pockets weren’t just weighed down by my own hands, but with the knuckles of millions who aren’t allowed to walk and talk how I can.

The world is connected, and the more I think about this fact and the surmounting pressures for a compassion overhaul EVERYWHERE, the more I realise the importance of EACH person knowing how wonderful they are. The world is mine and it is yours and we must be honest with each other if we are going to do anything to spark one floribunda of joy in a strangers smile.

I’m not saying we all turn into that boring cliche of a hippie who just whispers FREE LOVE through a haze of weed smoke (real hippies are punk, all hippies and punks know this). Just care. Smile at yourself in the mirror instead of raging at each pore- don’t deny yourself yourself. we’re all fucked up but that just means always learning. Be patient when your dog won’t stop biting your toes and know the world is bigger than personal tragedies- problems big and small, are cored of tragedy, but clouded- blissfully weighted by the comedy’s ticktock. We’re not floating, we’re here. You matter and so does this fucking planet. I guess this post is just a question really- do you feel scared of the world around you and worry you could do more? Because if you do feel these emotions, then you can do something!!!! “…To get out of the morass of ambivalence, to live according to endless contingencies and potential mishaps, potential unhappiness — is just huge for me.” and me Father John, me too.

Today’s poem is about those souls who need our help, need us to use our computers not just to write poems and websites- but to speak up with them and end all the fucking bullshit.

Al-Rahma[1]

Dead people are better neighbours,
they never do harm
or fight back.  So,
we bury children in corners;
we make parents dead in the street.
Families become time capsules-
some with coffins
smaller.    Some with none at all.

I did not see that myself.
In the corners, on the sides,
between other graves-
wherever there is space.
All children and nearly all Syrian.

“In the past,
Arab cemeteries often
included a section labeled
‘madafen al-ghoraba’, or
‘graveyards of the strangers’, for visitors
who passed away –
a now defunct practice.”

Graves dug
with bare hands,
cardboard boxes hold
milk teeth.

Loved ones squeezed along-
We forget children
have bodies.
We remember and children are
gone.    Just
little bumps in the ground;
hide and seek molehills. Names
overgrown- rough
etchings of hurried despair.
Marble too important
for so many
hopes.
Those skyflying angels.
Our Gods choirs sing
metal wings;
engines whisper
Amen
after storytime.
Some prayer in the
press of a button,
then
dropped.

What we throw out every day.
First kisses, first cigarettes, first time learning
ABC. 1,2,3 –
no mercy.

(Jesus made white and now president too)

Illegible names wherever there’s space,
tucked back where
its easiest.

Sparrowboned frames
of nofuture
don’t have shrouds,
or their mother’s hugs,
or their father’s tears.

“Even human emotions, when you’ve
lost somebody close to you,
that basic right of mourning and
saying goodbye-

           Syrians don’t have that anymore.”

 

[1] ‘Tiny graves: Syrian refugees in Lebanon struggle for space to bury children’, The Guardian- https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/mar/30/lebanon-no-space-syrian-refugees-graves-bury-dead

Author: mollygbeale

POETESS AND FAIRY GRRRL Got tomboy graces and a phat heart singin' "middle fingers up fuck the system" because nothing about you aint' precious

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