Lost Cities of Syria by Anita Nabonne

The land is in mourning,

pewter and cold rains

drench flowers

belonging to a summertime

long gone;

a time shudders back there

quietly awaiting an end.

Life after life falls

away from abandonment,

and hope, perhaps

absolving those that could

end or ease their suffering.

Tiny fingers release,

with last gasps, a clasp

and bitter struggle with white lights

and dreams in an idyllic garden

once tended for a burgeoning future,

both of which are smoking

and can survive no longer.

Slowly they close their eyes.

O lost and tranquil peace,

how weary they must be

and wonder –

is this perhaps death?

 

Anita Kulkarni Nabonne writes poetry, stories and verses for children and has had articles published for Conservation. She has appeared in anthologies by Forward Press and Dogma. Six poems were published in  Winamop magazine and a short story published by Fiction magazines. Three poems appear in Praxis magazine (Poets for Peace collaboration) and soon a poem will be included in an anthology to be released.

From the North East of the UK, she lives with her American husband.  Her blog is https://writingasitcomes.wordpress.com/

Where are all the White Roses by Anita Nabonne

He remembers

snowy white linen,

exquisite tablecloths…

and laughter as his trembling

fingers play with idle

shirt tails;

 

snowy white linen

folded back on tables,

smoothed by callused

hands while his eyes

were busy, drawn

to the streets –

still not hardened

to war, still dotted

with flecks of hope.

 

Today, outside

of his dark, crumbling

recesses where only

his mind is safe to wander,

life tries to carry on,

but its shoulders

are hunched from fear,

legs are paralysed,

tired, knee deep in rubble;

dereliction rises

along with memories

that were smells

of hot coffee

and fresh, frosted rolls.

 

Voices chatter briskly

as stretched nerves

are released temporarily;

screams tether

their hearts once again

to people they once knew

two minutes ago;

perhaps blown apart,

or maybe it was children

all along, simply playing where

they shouldn’t –

perhaps memories are

confused – perhaps.

 

Instantly, familiar sights

and sounds become

scattered roses

in a mind’s eye

to replace images of blood

and to lessen the pain of

cruelty and death

as the dusted air’s blooming

flourish wafts around

mouths and noses

that many years ago

would happily only hold

those old aromas

of vibrant life, warm bread

and fresh coffee

served on snow white linen.

 

How many tears

make it enough?

How many children

will it take to stir

our blood before

there aren’t enough

red rose petals?

 

A keen writer of poetry, stories and verses for children, Anita Nabonne enjoys writing to raise money for charity, once writing small booklets of illustrated romantic and children’s illustrated poetry which were printed free of charge by kind businesses. She writes articles for Conservation, three of which have been accepted by a Conservation blog just starting out. She prolifically writes diverse poetry and conservation pieces for her own blog. Early internet years saw pieces published in a few anthologies (Forward Press anthologies and Dogma. Recently 6 poems were accepted by Winamop online magazine and a short story was accepted by Fiction magazines. She lives with her American husband in the United Kingdom.

Blog: https://writingasitcomes.wordpress.com

Syria – Face in the Crowd by Anita Nabonne

Too many cold and lonely faces
in the crowd on board a cheerless boat

on top of a heartless ocean where swells
of desperation toss them up and down.

Innocent children’s squashed playtimes
scream wild excitement, confusion and fear?

A small babe, wide eyed, unaware, bereft
of warm suckling – sits on his knee,

still safe but the boat bares a heavy load,
much like their hearts.

Too many desperate families –
so much desperation in their eyes.

Rubbing together thin bones does not a fire make
and lost, wide eyes lower in bewilderment.

Faces in this crowd are turned to the world ahead
of them; hands held aloft is despair like a beacon

beckoning death, floating in the twilight -some dying –
no one will see them – there are too many.

Pleading, tired hands trace the waves
as they watch crying souls departing.

The ocean swells with bodies
scarred and torn – they at last are now free?

He holds aloft his small shivering bundle,
arms stretched high from the gaping mouth

of a hungry sea whose scoundrel’s dimples distort
when rain batters it with torrential madness

punishing him for wanting to be safe,
punishing him for wanting to be free,

punishing him for wanting a new land
punishment for him and his family.

Grasping fingers can almost feel the sand,
taste the food they will never eat, smell clean beds

they will never sleep in beyond those insidious
shores where their dreams lay basking.

Some more will perish; defeat and resignation
takes up precious space. Hope, life and longing

fall away like paper petals strewn,
petiole are too weak, pot bound and cramped.

This tired boat struggles to keep afloat
remnants of their life – life needs room to grow.

He cries for someone to take his son
before he kisses him and slips into the abyss.

..

A keen writer of poetry, stories and verses for children, Anita enjoys writing to raise money for charity, once writing small booklets of illustrated romantic and children’s illustrated poetry which were printed free of charge by kind businesses.  She writes articles for Conservation, three of which have been accepted by a Conservation blog just starting out. She prolifically writes diverse poetry and conservation pieces for her own blog. Early internet years saw pieces published in a few anthologies (Forward Press anthologies and Dogma. Recently 6 poems were accepted by Winamop online magazine and had a short story accepted by Fiction magazines. She lives with her American husband in the United Kingdom.

Blog: https://writingasitcomes.wordpress.com