Tag Archives: War

sadness

Tomatoes in the Wagons #stopWar

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When I think of the wars in Cameroon, my mind goes to Asa’s Fire on the Mountain: “Could it be love for your country, or for the gun you use in killing?” she sings.

I think she missed the “greed” question, that could desire to sacrifice human life to sustain the funding of the war, and generate income for some uncanny souls. Well finite are the resources, finite are the humans


Tossed around in the wagons, the tomatoes bounce on each other
Squashed one at a time on a path they didn’t decide
On a path they must follow like human life.
Then the owner calls to the controller
And the engineer, yet noone hears
And squash, splat, squash
Till all left
Is just
One…

(c) nyonglema

joy

Killing an army #stopWar

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The thunder of petals of metal flying in and out of pallid flesh,
Wading in the arid sand in a throng caught in the enemies mesh
Of flying petals of metal, clouds the air in a rare Tarantino moment
Where Beethoven serenades the splashing of blood, the torment
Of the dying shrouded in the music deafening the ears of those
Waiting to die, while their leaders watch on sad but jocose: 

It’s just war.
It’s just war.
It’s just war. 

I remember how Harry killed an army, and it wasn’t just war to me.
Nor was it to his kids who only look to him in a framed army
Picture of a man they didn’t meet, nor will meet, but whose name floods
Their home, and their mother’s eyes, with his only presence being sods
In a cemetery of white crosses dancing away in the silence of silent souls
Waiting for their Maker’s call to walk, but acclaimed by drum rolls
And gunshots, and eulogies and a flag, and a medal they will never wear,
No more salute, not tear to or be tearfully thankful for, nor hear. 

But Harry killed an army.
Killed a whole army.
YES HE KILLED AN ARMY! I’M TELLING YOU! 

Thronging the streets were strong arms, clenched fists and teeth
Swearing in black, masked, calling God’s name swordless the sheath
Seeking blood to bathe the arid air sweeping up the desert dust
Where rubble hid shrapnel from the bones and bodies it had bust
And Harry crouched to flee, taking in rays from every direction
While the air whispered death to the bullets and their deflection

It was war,
It was war
It was war,

Then the glass showed him even worse than the deplorable showed
In fallen humans, hacked, charred, chaffed as if freshly mowed;
Orphans looking for dad and mum in each others terrified eyes
Hurdled behind the next door to be rammed, basically they were dice
Waiting to be tossed in front of a beaten soldier, dreaming of home
And the pregnant mum of the one he’ll share his wheels chrome
On the sedan he bought but barely drove, the house he repaired
But barely owned as duty called beyond the sea, beyond scared.

But Harry killed an army
Killed a whole army,
With a single bullet…believe it!

With a prayer for his family soothing his parched lips,
And adrenaline rushing through love he knew won’t survive this last trip
He lifted his metal friend, and let out a round of death toward
The raised foot and screaming soldiers (Harry was no coward)
Turned to respond as they dropped one by one, as Harry closed in
Bashed the door in, as the voices turned to his direction, and in
That instant, he took those kids through the back door, through the streets
Bullets leaving him, bullets seeking him, solace seeking many weary feet

It WAS war
All out war
But still war!

The buildings played their part, and Harry knew them well,
And sought their cover, as he moved from junction to junction
Knicks on his face, rushing the kids past the arid but bloody hell
Shouting into his radio, adrenaline rushing in every function
But he knew, Harry (he was no coward), he knew where the journey would end
And the scythe hung over his neck, but his objective was at the next bend.
Revenge like a poison had his assailants blinded and slowly dying
But the bullet straight through his neck came had his spirit flying.

But he kept on
He kept on Harry
He kept on…

The thunder of petals of metal flying in and out of pallid flesh
Wading in the arid sand in a throng caught in the enemies mesh
Faded into the distance as the bullet hole drained his life fluid
But he saw his comrades as he let few more bullets, that druid,
And as the kids, crossed the secret camp gates, and Harry hit the ground
The snipers had a field day. He will not hear of the number of rounds
That ended the assault on him and the kids. He will not hear the praise
The thanks. He would not consider that his trap ended most of the frays.
His spirit slowly ebbed away, and the enemy fell, regretting that bullet,
That revenge they sought. Harry was no coward! He stood up to change a bit
But changed the war, getting in death’s way to extend the lives of those kids.

It was war,
But Harry kept on,
Yes, Harry killed an army…with one bullet!

(c) nyonglema

 

 

sadness

Just one day #worldRefugeeDay

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You know that one thing that rents your mind space like a blink,
The tornado of meaning as predicted by feelings and yards of ink
Was a mere heave, and the elements paused to listen to nature breathe
And you’re back to the cocoon whence Nemo got word from the white rabbit.

You’re back to the cocoon whence Nemo got word from the white rabbit,
Oblivious of the maggot feast of society and the prisons of habit
Where hopes meet dreams, and share Hennessey, the other Salmiakki
Some Sake and Odontol in coffins of fun, trust, love…apparently

Some sake and odontol in coffins of fun do, but trust and love apparently
Don’t suit that “Day” set out to deal with what we deal with currently,
And won’t fix anything. But you know most things are so important to humanity
That we set one day out for them, so we don’t forget how important.

That we set one day out for it, so we don’t forget how important
Maimed families from months of murder seeking new grounds to haunt,
Survivors who have everything they’ve lost stored in camps on the outskirts
Of life’s comfort, hidden from the sun’s rays, all crimped together are.

Off life’s comfort hidden from the sun’s rays, they stay all crimped together
Looking to the world which flung death at them, ruffled death’s feathers
Till he came hacking at innocent children watching death unfold
In gory Nandinis of blood, concrete, dust, metal and screams

In gory Nandinis of blood, concrete, dust, metal and screams,
With the distant gaze of art show rooms, I see shattered dreams
And dedicate this one day to something so important to these maimed families,
And dedicate the other 364 to making weapons and wars to maim families.

(c) Nyonglema

This is to refugees, women, youths, parents…all those things which seem important to humanity that we celebrate them once a year, and destroy them the rest of the year.

anger

Another type of love #politics

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They said they loved us.
They said what had hovelled us this long
Would melt in the ideas they’d put to physical form, fixing the forms, printing new laws to make more feasible new morns where dreams grow, where the beams of oppression become beaming faces facing greatness in all facets of a society phasing out the old, and phrasing in the new, and enacting, and without feigning bringing hope and growth anew.

They said we’d love it.
They said the picture would be bling
To the point of our dreams’ Everests, that they’ll brave the storms of whether to go with the hot or the cold, with the dry or with mould, or the new or the old, or whatever internal or from other holds could chip at our wishes, that they’d protect us, shield us in a new shell more robust than the previous, and keep our homes, culture, and aspirations safe anew.

They said they loved us.
The said we’d love it,
And this they said in words we’d listen to and miss the meaning shrouded like a zombie’s soul within idioms and colourful slogans painting derelict walls of our city gloom, and filling the air of family time with promises of Utopia today, Utopia tomorrow after Hell yesterday, and trickling out as if not premeditated and making us believe in Canterbury tales anew.

But now they hate us,
And hey! We don’t love it,
This stagnation like mosquito larvae infested ponds leaking putrefaction to our already putrefied systems, with corruption and stealing…no… embezzling being the order of the day, and deleting competition or young petitions to fix the predicament with silent words halted by violent wars. This stagnation so old we’ve lived that it even starts to feel like new.

Oh how they hate us
And hate that we don’t love it,
For to lord it over us longer they need us to be coy, kowtow, and shut up like Guantanamo torture secrets or that moment in a gory movie you are caught up between darkness and the bloodied blade and to speak your mind would Soweto you and your family in one instant, and depending on the riches you had, it will be featured, or not, on the news.

Oh how they hate us,
And how we wish we could change this
Situation with feeble will to exchange our lives with joy in the future generations as others before bothered to, feeble strength we are deluded to have whereas Gandhi taught us all by shooting up the opposition with words and Christ-like pain affliction and acceptance.
(c) Nyonglema

joy

Your breath #refugee #humanCrisis

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Thanks to @CrisisHuman for pointing out that “refugee” is just a bad way to disguise human beings displaced from their homes due to other human beings. We live at a time where more and more humans are losing everybody and everything, and have only the choice to leave to live. To all humans losing all, never lose hope….and to all of us, when will our greed stop?

 

All I wish is to feel your breath in the morning.

The morning bombs thundered our bonds
In shards of glass, piles of dirt and torn mounds
Of once friends, while we planned quickly to abscond
To anywhere Death wasn’t the only sound in the towns.

The blood-soaked dew stained our silent feet
Wading through the floating rattle from shots
Breaking the harmony of our adrenaline chorus of heartbeats
As we walked to the unknown only fearing to be caught.

The camp’s sunrise with promise showed over the horizon
And we got welcomed to our new life with silence
And hurting souls bundled in teary memories and sad songs
But respite too, and hope, nostalgia, food and tents

But all I wish is to feel your breath in the morning.

To wake and look at your eyes bouncing about in a dream
Of our new home, smiling that we made it out of mayhem
To peace. To see your chest heave, to watch the sweat beams
Glide along the tracks of mosquito bites on your bare skin

To feel the warmth you exude as if 35° Celsius
Wasn’t enough, while your hair moves in rhythm
With your sleepy breath, then you turn, oblivious
To all the homeless with us from various schisms.

And breathe heavily as if a sigh of deserved relief,
With the smile of our would-have-been 5 daughter,
Sleeping my pain away in this instant so brief
But healing wounds which would beat our dead doctor

To feel your breath every morning, my only wish
To feel alive again, after my numerous deaths.

Yes, just to feel your breath in the morning
To know I haven’t lost you too this morning.

(c) Nyonglema

joy, sadness

What would you do if it were you? #refugees #syria #RCA #somalia #eritrea

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There are guns shouting fear through your window shutters,

A bomb blast breaks your neighbour’s home and you’re running down the street.

The kids don’t get it. They don’t get it: why is there blood in the gutters?

Why are hands without bodies, heads with gaping mouths, missing severed feet?

The screaming gets louder, and it’s on your spouse’s and your shoulders

To save them from a threat, unarmed, untrained and the closest

You’d come to death were those Expendables movies in your hard disk folders.

The banks are shut, the bus system is shut, you never even had a Toyota starlet.

What would you do if it were you? If you’re playing metal gear solid in your own town?

Only this time, you have one life, no continue nor save, and to your untrained self are tagged

More untrained and even naive souls counting on you’re strength in this showdown.

What would you do if the only option was either death by exhaustion or having your head bagged?

(c) Nyonglema

sadness

Doh Tita #veteran #warHero #stopWar #death

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Doh Tita in brown shoes, brown trousers, beige shirt,
The only gentleman shining integrity five miles around.
Doh Tita, everybody knew him, even in the town’s outskirts.

Memory of his war-wrought limping gait,
While he bragged of his world war prowess,
Telling of shrapnel, burnt flannel and some fallen mate.

And as he talked, a tear would have been born
On his eyelid; so much sadness plagued his heart!
But he energetically went on, disclosing the cold tales of that morn.

Like a forgotten folder, he sits and ruminates
About unrewarded sacrifice, the lethal hail all about,
At school with his friends, years of training a pellet deflates!

Wolves kill dogs, must man kill man?
Doh Tita would tell of the glassy looks of the stiff
And we’d listen without lassitude to the Shaman.

(c) Nyonglema

fear

Gun protection #gunViolence

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There lay the petri dish in the danger zone,
Fungi flying around to infect those lovely scones
So they put in bacteria to control
And gave each one license to roll
But didn’t plan the proliferation that makes graves of homes

(c) Nyonglema

sadness

Tears and Blood #stopWar

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My scared feet walked to the battle field,
To see for myself the aftermath of a clash of ideologies.
I expected to see casualties of Christians,
and Muslims, clenched firm in Death’s unwavering fist.
All I saw was humans, twisted beyond recognition,
Maimed by hate in different gear, hairstyles, and tools,
While rain drops slithered between the bloody pools,
As if a sad goodbye from the loved ones they’ll kiss no more.

(c) Nyonglema

sadness

Once I held a gun #childSoldiers #stopWar

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Once I held a gun in the bush.
That Ak47 was nearly my size but I lifted it.
I was fierce and fearless to my foes,
Taking their lives before they could reach for mine.

Yes, once I killed in the bush;
The men who protected their villages,
The women who protected their children,
The children who would avenge their orphan state.

At that time I was a hero in the army
So decorated by war wounds and scars
That pain became the objective of my existence
And transmitting it my only medicine.

Now I’m 16 years old and peace has killed the need for guns.
My grades and skill set mean nothing.
All left is the emptiness in the memories of maimed men,
Mothers, and children.What to do now?

AH…Once I was told taking lives was the life I needed,
But now I know there was much more to hope for.
…
Much more to aim AT than innocent targets in the bush

(c) Nyonglema