Poetry

December 16, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Patrick Tombola

 

By

Ahmad Al-khatat

 

 

Flooding in Aleppo

 

 

The coming and

Unborn history will

Turn eyes blind,

From the disaster

Flooding in Aleppo.

 

Daily floods everywhere,

Often death purpose,

Nightly dreams disappear,

Regular flying spirits,

UN remains reticent.

 

Every single home,

Flood of tears,

From youthful and

Aged widows,

By photo albums.

 

In damaged streets,

Flood of blood,

Of innocent angels,

From car bombs,

From flying rockets.

 

The blue sky

Becomes the clouds,

And rain warmly,

Peace birds fly,

To pray mercies.

 

Red in exile,

States as warning,

Red in Syria,

Assigned as death,

Leaders keep ignoring.

 

The green soil

Flood of skeletons,

From mass graves,

Of unknown fighters,

With white flags.

 

One dictator leader,

Smiles with fears,

Mothers still weep,

Tears flood hopes,

Tanks kill everybody.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trump sends me back home

 

 

My father once said to my childhood age,

In this great land of America your dreams

Will become real and not miserable like I.

 

Years later my father is now a grandfather,

I am working as hard as he used to before,

Except I learnt how to be more an American man.

 

Elections bring sorrows to my thoughts,

It makes my spirit poor then my knowledge,

Weak and uncertain about most of my belief.

 

God creates most of the humans equally,

Then why those humans aren’t equal to me,

Its because my skin color isn’t of fall leaves.

 

The history class should be business class,

The dictionary yearly prints new words to us,

The natives, and black color skin aren’t deleted.

 

Trump wants to send me back home,

After I grew my heart to be an American dude,

I lost my faith and worked in the bloody army.

 

Trump wants to send my bro home,

His brother died on the dusty border for him,

He wanted a life far from long fights and drugs.

 

We will see who will build the wall?

Your supporters with fake skin color

And unrealistic names build it with regrets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, You are a Terrorist

 

 

This life has never

Changed for a bit,

 

Gadgets devices win

Over manual thinking,

 

Immigrants’ tales aren’t

Lies from social network.

 

Flying bombs in the day;

And fire works in the night.

 

Robot soldiers shoot down,

Anyone with a brave heart.

 

One survivor can’t be a zombie,

But he could a deadly terrorist.

 

Tears and blood are one river,

It tastes the honor of all martyrs.

 

Bullets and bombs are the fighters,

They don’t weep nor speak a word.

 

Grand parents and single parents,

Orphans and kids in refugee camps.

 

They sleep with priceless blankets,

Not warm, windy, rainy, and snowy.

 

The devil is between the weakness,

Not safe, rape, stealing, and hunger.

 

Exile accepts them for a better living,

They learn the language, and work hard.

 

They build one middle class family,

No more hopes to go to homeland.

 

Their kids are born and love his freedom,

Till one of them becomes responsible.

 

Because of your own color?

Because of your own name?

Because of your own beliefs?

 

Opus and congratulations friend,

Unfortunately, you are a terrorist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ahmad Al-khatat

I was born in Baghdad on May 8th (1989). From Iraq, I came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when I wrote my very first poem back in the year 2000. I currently study Political Sciences, and move on to study Journalism at the Concordia University in Montreal.

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