Poetry, January 2004, www.aljazeerah.info
Human Price of the Israeli Occupation of Palestine
Israeli daily aggression on the Palestinian people
Mission and meaning of Al-Jazeerah
Cities, localities, and tourist attractions
From the Desert
by Lisa Walsh Thomas
Jan 10, 2004
God puts the guns on pause,
forgets Baghdad,
rings up an old friend.
It's an N-scale toy train layout,
state-of-the-art, the whole works --
this world, in my eye -- he whispers in my ear,
(as if he were spared
the maiming of Eden).
He talks of bright little houses with windowboxes,
little talking people,
a donkey with a straw hat, red silk rose,
lakes of milk,
hills of sweet cornbread,
an engine that blows real smoke,
tracks that go over the hills here,
and then
beyond a gray curtain.
Behind the curtain,
acting on a tip,
doing what gods must,
his fists clench,
pretending to grip
the mean stench of little houses,
little people, the donkey,
until they are cornbread dust.
Ride, ride, we ride the little train
to God's abandoned hideout,
brain-belittled travel;
we blow the whistle
as we crash through the gray curtain,
unravelled,
leaving little houses,
little people, the donkey,
all their souls
dipped in Baghdad ashes.
Behind the curtain
a rash of cool in black;
the train tracks end in nothing.
We close our eyes here,
remember the angels of childhood,
stop the bombing,
save the world,
remember little houses,
little people, the donkey, now hurt,
will lust for them,
will fall upon the dirt
and clutch our selves to their remembered selves,
confess we scratched the ground for more,
a palace, a giant, a horse.
Just another wasteland,
heaven now scratched by shrapnel,
blood-soaked games
that call forth dollars
with impressive names --
duty and freedom.
Our silent land,
this desert of decayed bodies,
aches
for God's own sand, a well,
longs for music, a new deal,
a skinny cat to save, wrongs to break,
a flute to sell,
a bone to heal.
Alone in the wilderness,
God moans from the dark
that the tracks go somewhere,
leave a mark, provide a clue.
A thready voice, notes askew,
whispers from the hills:
God don't know squat,
sold us his bones.
___________
Lisa Walsh Thomas is a veteran peace activist, poet,
former teacher and arts columnist. Her book of
dissident poetry, "The Girl with Yellow Flowers in her
Hair" is available through Pitchfork Publishing at http://www.pitchforkpublishing.com Li can be reached at saavedra1979@yahoo.com
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| Earth, a planet hungry for peace |
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| The Israeli apartheid (security) wall around Palestinian population centers (Ran Cohen, pmc, 5/24/03). |
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| The Israeli apartheid (security) wall around Palestinian population centers in the West Bank, like a Python. (Alquds,10/25/03). |
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