.
the seeds of acceptable hate...
between the folds of faith and belief
tucked neatly in cushioned corners
lie the seeds of acceptable hate
through quaint pleasant rituals
and joyously hummed words
dumbed down thoughts
and dazed faces exude
righteous sweetness
belief wrapped in glistening foil
faith painted in gaudy colours
conceal the murmurs of hate
of embraced intolerance
and welcomed bigotry
the seeds of acceptable hate flourish in
damp fungal minds
as indifference flowers into the silence of
frozen apathy
with blooming petals of finely measured
howls of rage
while the ever smiling faces beam with deep
pride
drenched in all the pious tears they've
cried
and so it is that the viral seeds of
acceptable hate
thrive among the genteel folk that quietly
gaze
in silence at the slow creeping of the
horror
as more seeds of hate are sown with manic
zeal
and in the shrieking of this cowardly
silence
the seeds of acceptable hate
continue to thrive
and germinate
leningrad freetown soweto hanoi beirut kabul basra gaza
a child of war
as she lies bleeding
the girl who skipped and hopped to school
all of nine and a half years old
with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that
was
her father's pride
as she lies bleeding
the warm bullet lodged in her torn stomach
she stares at her skipping rope
as her blood soaks it the colour of the
cherries her mummy buys
as she lies bleeding
she sees the people through the thick black
smoke
blurred visions of scattering feet and shoes
left behind
hearing nothing but the pinging in her
blown-out eardrums
as she lies bleeding
she slips away quickly and then she is dead
a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old
girl
whose laugh was her father's pride
as she lies bleeding
for even in death she bleeds some more
the warm bullet wedged in her torn stomach
steals the light from her bright little eyes
as she lies bleeding
in jallianwala bagh in '19
jenin in '02
as she lies bleeding
this little nine and a half year old girl
whose laugh was her father's pride
we know she'll bleed and bleed some more
tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn
with that warm bullet in her stomach
ripped open and torn
as she lies bleeding.
Bio:
I am a 39 year old man and take a keen interest in reading history as well
being appreciative of fine writing, wherever it may be
found. My 11 year old cat has, thus far, been
my harshest critic! I enjoy writing for the
simple joy of writing, as well as for the catharsis, by verse, that writing
brings out.
I grew up as a child of a South African family who has forced into
political exile during South Africa's struggle for freedom and racial equality.
I subsequently gre up in India, Egypt, Finland and finally South Africa.
My father represented Nelson Mandela's African National Congress (ANC) in a
few countries before we finally returned to South Africa following the release
of Nelson Mandela and the negotiations for a new South Africa.
(author retains copyright)
