Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
Diane E. Dees
Diane E. Dees is a psychotherapist and writer of short stories, creative nonfiction, poetry and political commentary. She lives in Louisiana.
History Lesson
Ancient heads of stone have fallen, Shattered by the desperate mobs Who, for decades starved and battered, Took no comfort in their relics.
Liberators ignore the past; Ancient heads of stone have fallen. The book that tells of Babylon Is missing pages forever.
Gone the Korans, gone the tablets-- Taken quickly in broad daylight. Ancient heads of stone have fallen; History no longer matters.
Our oldest civilization Now a mass of shards and rubble; Those who clean up take no notice. Ancient heads of stone have fallen.
Dream State
I dreamed the Evil Ones crept into my house While I was sleeping. They turned on my computer-- And amid the familiar hum, I heard the rip of pages torn from books: They opened all my cabinets and pantries, Tasted Mediterranean olives, tossed Kosher salt over their shoulders. They went through all my dresser drawers, Slyly inspecting my underwear, Trying on my jewelry, crushing the African necklaces In their hands, ripping the Australian pearls from their string, Stomping the French glass beads with their ornately carved boots. After they stole my hard drive, they left a message In blood on my mirror: Infidel. It was only a dream, yet I can still trace Their scent: Obsession.
Update on Afghanistan
The girls in Khost eat poison biscuits carefully prepared by the Taliban; their mothers set themselves on fire, though liberators can't smell the smoke.
Carefully prepared by the Taliban, the fires rage across the towns, though liberators can't smell the smoke because they cover up their faces.
The fires rage. Across the towns, the women's scars hidden from view because they cover up their faces, still afraid to face the mobs.
The women's scars hidden from view, unseen by victorious liberators still afraid to face the mobs that stand outside in seething rage.
Unseen by victorious liberators, schools still shut out groups of girls that stand outside. In seething rage, brutal policemen patrol the shops and
schools. Still shut-out groups of girls are raped and inspected for chastity. Brutal policemen patrol. The shops and streets, where Afghan daughters
are raped and inspected for chastity, look much the same as their mothers' streets. Where Afghan daughters, not allowed to talk or work or sing,
look much the same as their mothers. Their mothers set themselves on fire. Not allowed to talk or work or sing, the girls in Khost eat poison biscuits.
NOTE: This poem was originally published on WinningWriters.com.
The Finer Points of War
A twelve-year-old boy, kidnapped in Iraq and held for ransom. The family paid-- his sexually abused body then found in a plastic bag, hanged by his own clothes. "This," says CNN's talking head, "isn't regular warfare--it's barbarism." What I would like for him to tell me is which part of the whole affair is regular: the bombing of families in their homes, the raping of children, the blowing up of buildings? The murder of members of one's own religion, the deaths of soldiers through roadside bombs? What of the torture of prisoners, the abandonment of veterans, the assaults on our own soldiers by our own soldiers? I am not schooled in the fine points of atrocity-- where is the expert to tell me whose blood flows in a regular stream down a street of debris and despair?
