Poetry

Reuters photo

By

Lianne Kamp

Ballistics

When our children die –

every vacant chair echoes their absence – each

empty bed fills the dark hours with nightmares

every room is hostile

When our children are slaughtered –

they exit through howling wounds in the earth

leaving land mines of pain to navigate in our path

every journey is treacherous

When our school children are gunned down –

walls crumble in bleeding hallways – every

excuse is a bullet to the heart of their silence

every breath is blasphemous

Lianne Kamp

I came to Boston many years ago to write poetry.  Although I never abandoned poetry altogether, life had different plans for me. I have rediscovered the importance of writing and over the last year have been published in a number of Prolific Press journals. Mainly, I write poetry to make my world more panoramic by watching it more closely.