A Small Sampling of My Published Poems
*****************************************************Poems published at Moongate Internationale
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The Pony Cart
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Carla
Irrigation
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Aspens
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Poets Against The War
Anne Selden Annab
Mechanicsburg PAAnne Selden Annab has had over 200 poems published in various newspapers, magazines and anthologies including Yankee Magazine, Parnassus, Aim Magazine, the Christian Science Monitor. She lives in central Pennsylvania with her husband and their three children.
Sunrise in Suburbia
in the warmth
of flannel
and a soft sleepy stir of skin
in the warmth
cupping an old white ceramic mug
filled with sugared coffee and cream
my own babies sleep upstairs
snuggled in soft blankets
in rooms brimming with bright toys
while far away from print and film
Palestinian babies shiver with IDF bomb blast
and the grind of military tanks approaching again
My morning their afternoon
My sleep their despair
My silence
more deadly than arsenic or anthrax
as racist insanities obscure
the suffering sweeping our papers, and
films full of fluff as thick as blankets
flicker and dodge bullets so we won't know
of the faraway hunger and hopelessness
Flicker and dodge and deflect justice
wrap our minds with silk and our hearts with stone
so we can rise again to work for this war
our wages taxed to the hilt...
So that faraway children can shiver and bleed to death
glazing pebbles in the rubble of the Holy Land
with bright crimson blood.
The Second Was To Be Filmed
In my horror,
I couldn't quite see
that clearly
the first attack
was to catch horrified attention,
hold us hostage - stunned sickened
shocked.
Fixating an audience
firmly into riveted place,
let the horror play out
a pebble dropped
on a pond...
A match tossed
into Kerosene.
Knowing full well
the eager media can not help but feed
and feed with the crazed frenzy
of starving piranhas.
Knowing full well
that bystanders' impaled faces
will expose the despicable carnage
long before the first official tally
is in.
A needle in a haystack
suddenly transfixing the street
and swiftly piercing
homes
all across America...
breath being basket weave
hold us hostage - stunned
sickened
shocked.
Playing us
with full color film footage
taken from every trembling angle
then stopped replayed
stopped replayed
stopped replayed
in time setting the impact
to multiple renditions
of inspiring song
proving that a swizzle stick snapped
can still stir.
proving that a swizzle stick snapped
can still stir.
proving that a swizzle stick snapped
can still stir.
There Was Something About Those Photographs...
a series of three poemsin honor of Al Awda
http://al-awdasandiego.org/m18/m18.html
#17
In profile
with the flag
he looks sad
weary
the battle is long
although the embroidery is new
we age into what we will be
with a child's heart beating fast
a child's dream of home
holding tight to all we are
knowing we will return
knowing that every exile
is an illusion
and every insult
an excuse to refuse-
& never give up
don't hand tyrants power
not an inch of injustice
will taint love for land
and life
and a child
not an ounce of cruelty
or a pound of pain
will turn my own passion
into greed
and we will return
to plant trees
and peace
and we will return
to take the flag
and free its colors
to become an entire rainbow
and the promise
of home
and your own thoughts
and dreams and decency
dignity
will rebuild
while i dance
with the pebbles and stones
to make a path.
# 19
Black and white patterns
pull our eyes
into words
and words into poems
and people into warmth
"and my heart flies..."
i watch how hands
hold thoughts
symbols
to unfurl
photographs frame
importance
what catches our meaning best
what shows
the shape of our dreams
what proves our connections
and unlocks a future
in eyes looking
for truth
listening
knowing companionship
and compassion
knowing
weakness
and strength
knowing unity
"and my heart flies..."
# 5
Justice for Palestine-
Support The Right of Return!
And we will march
in every way we can
every where we can
letter by letter
in banner after banner
for Palestine
and we will march for all children hurt
harmed by the Zio-Nazi war machine
for all the families
and every parent mourning
and every child's pain
and we will march for all the children
of Palestine
and we will march for all of humanity
until humanity can return
with Palestine
and we will march with every day
for Palestine
and the children of the land
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Treasure
Where once we searched
for cities of gold
El Dorado…
We now scratch in the dust
for pot shards.
digging gently
with small spades
and brushes
to bring forth the foundations
of ancient cities
to prove our own myths
and make sure our own
crumbling words,
(with accents twisting accents
eroding into forgotten dialects)
aren't as irrelevant
as they sometimes seem to be.
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Combat
The mine field
where words where ever
how ever who ever
detonate into perpetuity.
Words have no choice
but to etch themselves into
where ever they might land.
Liquid ink on the page;
the page itself deteriorates
before it's script can fade.
Chiseled chinks in stone;
the stone cracks and crumbles
yet the wedge remains in
air.
Always air.
Rock: Paper: Scissors:
Air
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Write Lightly
Write lightly
as the wildflowers do,
becoming
their own bouquets:
The land a lovely lady
so delicate,
step closely to the earth
ankles touched by bloom
and eyes downcast, delight
little blue bloom
cradles a star flicker.
Red poppies with
papery purpose
daze the heart
as they cluster
like congregations
to singe the air
with brilliant
fresh blood
flame red
soft petal.
I am in silk
inspired by
the small flowers
touched by
their gentle
tenaciousness,
tucked into rocks
everywhere
and flowing out
into fields.
They are of every hue
though the wild mustard
shouts and sways
and seems to push
all else aside
with it's flamboyance.
But the it's
the little bouquets
found everywhere
underfoot,
splays of delight,
that catch my eye.
Floral mosaics.
Everywhere
there is garden
herb and flower flourish-
a brief enchantment
in a desert land
that soon enough
will be all browns
brushed with bare earth.
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The Flute
Books read backwards.
Jaffar translated
Kahil Gibran's The Flute
(The Song).
The text I read in English
was pretty
But Jaffar's unrhymed
pure translation
is so much more moving
the pretty words replaced
with depth
the gasp... the last breath of life.
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Script
What the flowers write
in fragile form
spelled into shape-
stem stalk swim
in the Arabian breeze,
become
the odd squiggles
found woven
in formal rugs
and flow with symmetry
into the classical script
of scribes.
Calligraphy is arabesque
and the script itself shifts,
its characters embellished
and burgeoning
into geometric patterns,
strong rhythms
usurping words.
A Garden
is the echo of paradise,
emphasizing seclusion
introversion
The central fountain
like self
reflecting.
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En'Shallah
Shivering,
stand in wet snow
listening to thunder,
as sleet melts
into rainfall
The sun's glinting light
pulls forth a pretty posy
here and there
until barrages of bloom
rupture the earth.
Day after day of bloom bursting
And the deep indigo
of an oriental night
is beautifully fragrant
with jasmine.
By day the desert heat
comes back
to claim all color,
washing the hills
with brown stubble
which the goats will graze to aught.
Presume, as you stand on barren stone
that soon enough, next spring-
En'Shallah...
This rock ledge will once again
brim
with flowers
and a crumbling castle
will be a thousand urns
of growth.
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A Mother's Hand
Bless all those
who love
and linger in their love
A mother's hand
on a child's heart
gently, ever so gently,
reminding her child
of his sacred place
in the hearts of all.
Bless all those
who know and understand
and keep safe
every child
of any age
and race.
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