I feel, that all
wish to negotiate now,
right now
they negotiate everywhere --
in the cafes, around round tables,
on the heavy fist of politics,
under which lie nations, crushed,
broken to bits,
pretending to sing
the hosanna of freedom,
while blowing bull
at your ear,
when from a distance
everything is so clear.
And a special thanks
to what made me
write my first poem -- the sky and the
underground earth,
which are also negotiating
with the covert lips
of the rain.
The million genocide victims
have yet to find a place,
they wander and holler
in the desert; observe! it's the same language of war
and the same bloody banner
over the turbaned tribe
that tries to look unaware.
Here at home the mafia hustles the forty billion,
in basements, fragile children
are brought to a so-called
kindergarten,
the eternal bellowing of cops
over crimes organized by themselves.
Those who flee, face the deluge,
those who stay, earthquake hastens to cover them
with the gravel and sand of a felon who wears
an official's uniform.
Those flying to heaven,
(empty heaven)
are emptied of themselves,
praying to a worldly horror show,
accepting it as a house
of righteousness,
and roll with joy
on the dank, cloud-flooded floor,
where I'm forever looking
for a hand.
Now, with its fire
the sun starts a new fire in me,
give me, oh Lord
I don't know what,
I don't know whom,
there are youngsters homeless, alone,
aged women wander out there,
there is such waste at every step,
when there's no aim in the land, alcohol
shimmers in silence,
in the pupil's fading eyeball,
look, as the sound of the soil moves,
rising above this ruined soul,
let me doze off beside newsrags
fresh off the press, in mutual denial,
let me have visions --
that on this dying planet
homes in ruins are a thing of the past,
that the negotiating sides
have come together, at last.
By Knarik O. Meneshian
Though the weeds
grow thorny,
and spindly vines
enmesh your tombstone,
you are not forgotten.
Today, we'll pull the weeds and vines,
toss them to the winds,
then plant red roses
to adorn your epitaph.
We'll sow a mantel
of blue forget-me-nots
to shade you from the sun,
and trim it with orange marigolds--
torches for a moonless night.
And in the late, late autumn,
when all has turned
brittle and brown,
you'll not be forgotten.
The seeds will lay at your side
until the spring,
when they'll rise
again
to
bloom for you.
