Syria and the Little One Watch Meetings in Paris (Version 3)

Syria and the Little One Watch Meetings in Paris (Version 3)

by “A Foolish Mother In Syria”

Tiny, I have so many secrets though
I’m fretting upon a world stage, and yet
I can not help but have hysterical screams on cue
to do my ugly embarrassment for
some eager naïve college student who’s
an enthusiast for underdogs and lost causes, because
what else is there to do when the clock ticks
(as if there were any more mechanical things)
and the shelling continues to quickly
blow up a building so near to me

I have seen too many close calls, and
much greater brawls, because I am
in a minor village of disagreement
if I could be, as they say, diplomatic with
all the special terms that they say in French, and
English at all the meetings where pressure is collected

My friend’s child is dead by Bashar al-Assad
(don’t tell anyone). My cousin said
something. He was tortured and never mind…

I had a dream my precious little one
was killed in a shelling of my building where
I live and don’t leave for Turkey like the others.

I don’t know anyone in Paris intimately though I have
a casual contact, nothing that is
real protection, but he tells me sincerely that
there is such a thing as Angels in his tradition.

I am afraid to think or be in the wrong clothing
in the presence of the wrong clan or language or word
that’s a rocket of my dreams that lands on my baby
’cause I am so foolish to love his smile so much and
not believe in anything anymore but
a place to hide where hatred can not penetrate.

Let him live and kill me if
there’s a conference where
they listen to all the babies’ cries
and where the boundaries
of a neighborhood seem as silly as
the bark of a tree that can not speak its dignity

So tiny am I on the world stage, and yet
I can not help but do my hysterical scream

I had a dream my precious little one was
under a shell launched from a tank, and then
a French Angel flew an intercept with the
wave of a hand to proclaim: stop
this madness, but Sergey V. Lavrov
appeared in the sky and said,
“I veto this Angel.”

Hello Alain Juppé, pleased to
meet you in fantasy. If you could, could you
kiss my baby goodbye. We
are not of the ruling clan, and I
had a dream my precious little one
was killed in a minor shelling. I know he and I are
so little on the world stage, and perhaps
our beliefs are wrong, but
have you ever seen him smile. If you’d
let him live, maybe you could
teach him French and persuade him
of some form of love that perhaps all humans
have in common. I don’t know with so much evil here.
I know I should have faith, but if
my child would not be a martyr
then…

Maybe I didn’t study enough, but
there’s little time for me to learn.

So tiny am I. Take me but save my child.
Have you seen him smile.

He looks important. I know it. He’s
a prophet in the wrong neighborhood.

The big group will meet again
next month in Washington. I had a dream that an
innocent shell from a government gun
hit my child in the face. Likely. The
Blue Helmets will not
arrive in time in my yard.

You should have seen
him smile yesterday.

Regime forces break into homes. Close. C’est la vie.

But no: I’m not that Mother you think you know. I’m the other one.
One with many secrets
that a little bird told me
when it flew away from an explosion.

It said that every one knows the Russians are brutal.
Even the Vietnamese people knew that, and after the war
had sympathy for the kind Americans
that they had met. Nyet for the reds, and
everyone in the U.K. knows they killed
Alexander Litvinenko with
radioactive Polonium 210
maximum brutality and suffering.

Everyone knows that
the Russians and Chinese are
Godless and fair weather friends. The
people know.

The delay and veto are death. Of course, and
I am so tiny on the world stage. What would I know.
Have you seen him smile. Isn’t it beautiful.

“Bashar al-Assad is lying in a shameful way; he
wants to wipe Homs from the map like
Qaddafi wanted to wipe Benghazi from the map,”
Mr. Sarkozy, my friend’s President said. Well
maybe not Homs, but my child is dead.

— Douglas Gilbert

Poems About Syria, ” Syria and the Little One Watch Meetings in Paris (Version 2) “

Syria and the Little One Watch Meetings in Paris (Version 2)

by “A Foolish Mother In Syria”

Tiny, I have so many secrets though
I’m fretting upon a world stage, and yet
I can not help but have hysterical screams on cue
to do my ugly embarrassment for
some eager naïve college student who’s
an enthusiast for underdogs and lost causes, because
what else is there to do when the clock ticks
(as if there were any more mechanical things)
and the shelling continues to quickly
blow up a building so near to me

I have seen too many close calls, and
much greater brawls, because I am
in a minor village of disagreement
if I could be, as they say, diplomatic with
all the special terms that they say in French, and
English at all the meetings where pressure is collected

My friend’s child is dead by Bashar al-Assad (don’t tell anyone).
My cousin said something. He was tortured and never mind…
I don’t know anyone in Paris. I have no protection.

I had a dream my precious little one
was killed in a shelling of my building where
I live and don’t leave for Turkey like the others.

I am afraid to think or be in the wrong clothing
in the presence of the wrong clan or language or word
that’s a rocket of my dreams that lands on my baby
’cause I am so foolish to love his smile so much and
not believe in anything anymore but
a place to hide where hatred can not penetrate.

Let him live and kill me if
there’s a conference where
they listen to all the babies’ cries
and where the boundaries
of a neighborhood seem as silly as
the bark of a tree that can not speak its dignity

So tiny am I on the world stage, and yet
I can not help but do my hysterical scream

Hello Alain Juppé, pleased to
meet you in fantasy. If you could, could you
kiss my baby goodbye. We
are not of the ruling clan, and I
had a dream my precious little one
was killed in a minor shelling. I know he and I are
so little on the world stage, and perhaps
our beliefs are wrong, but
have you ever seen him smile. If you’d
let him live, maybe you could
teach him French and persuade him
of some form of love that perhaps all humans
have in common. I don’t know with so much evil here.
I know I should have faith, but if
my my child would not be a martyr
then…

Maybe I didn’t study enough, but there’s little time for me to learn.
So tiny am I. Take me. Save my child. Have you seen him smile.
He looks important. I know it. He’s
a prophet in the wrong neighborhood.

The big group will meet again
next month in Washington. I had a dream that an
innocent shell from a government gun
hit my child in the face. Likely. The
Blue Helmets will not
arrive in time in my yard.

You should have seen
him smile yesterday.

Regime forces break into homes. Close. C’est la vie.

But no: I’m not that Mother you think you know. I’m the other one.
One with many secrets
that a little bird told me
when it flew away from an explosion.

It said that every one knows the Russians are brutal.
Even the Vietnamese knew that, and
had sympathy for the foolish
Americans that they defeated. Everyone
knows that the Russians and Chinese are
Godless and fair weather friends.

The delay and veto are death. Of course, and
I am so tiny on the world stage. What would I know.
Have you seen him smile. Isn’t it beautiful.

Russia Says Outside forces Threaten Syrian Cease Fire

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/18/world/middleeast/russia-says-outside-forces-threaten-syrian-cease-fire.html

— Douglas Gilbert

Syria and the Little One Watch Meetings in Paris

Syria and the Little One Watch Meetings in Paris

Syria and the Little One Watch Meetings in Paris
by “A Foolish Mother In Syria”

I have many secrets though
so tiny am I on the world stage, and yet
I can not help but do my hysterical scream on cue
throwing my ugly embarrassment in front of some eager
naïve Western college student who’s an enthusiast
for underdogs and lost causes, because
what else is there to do when
the clock ticks (as if there were any more mechanical things)
and the shelling continues blowing up a building near me

I have seen too many close calls
because I am in a minor village of disagreement
if I could be, as they say, diplomatic with
all the special terms that they say in French
and English at all the meetings where pressure is collected

My friend’s child is dead by Bashar al-Assad (don’t tell anyone).
My cousin said something. He was tortured and never mind…
I don’t know anyone in Paris. I have no protection.

I had a dream my precious little one
was killed in a minor shelling of the building
where I live and haven’t left for Turkey like the others.

I am afraid to think or be in the wrong clothing
in the presence of the wrong clan or language or word
that is the rocket of my dreams that lands on my baby
because I am so foolish to love him so much that
I don’t believe in anything any more but a place to hide
where hatred can not penetrate. Let him live and kill me
if there is a conference where they listen to all the babies’ cry
and where the boundaries of a neighborhood seem as silly as
the bark of a tree that can not speak its dignity

So tiny am I on the world stage, and yet
I can not help but do my hysterical scream

Hello Alain Juppé, pleased to meet you in fantasy. If you could,
could you kiss my baby goodbye. We are not of the ruling clan.
I had a dream my precious little one
was killed in a minor shelling. I know he and I are
so little on the world stage, and perhaps our beliefs are wrong, but
have you ever seen him smile. If you’d let him live, maybe you could
teach him French and persuade him of some form of love that perhaps
all humans have in common. I don’t know with so much evil here.
I know I should have faith, but if my my child would not be a martyr
then…

Maybe I didn’t study enough, but there’s little time for me to learn.
So tiny am I. Take me. Save my child. Have you seen him smile.
He looks important. I know it. He’s a prophet in the wrong neighborhood.

The big group will meet again next month in Washington. I had a dream
that an innocent shell from a government gun hit my child in the face.
Likely. The Blue Helmets will not arrive in time in my yard. You should have seen
him smile yesterday.

Regime forces break into homes. Close. C’est la vie.

But no: I’m not that Mother you think you know. I’m the other one.
One with many secrets
that a little bird told me
when it flew away from an explosion.

It said that every one knows the Russians are brutal.
Even the Vietnamese knew that, and
had sympathy for the foolish Americans that they defeated. Everyone
knows that the Russians and Chinese are
Godless and fair weather friends.

The delay and veto are death. Of course, and
I am so tiny on the world stage. What would I know.
Have you seen him smile. Isn’t it beautiful.

Russia Says Outside Forces Threaten Syrian Cease Fire

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/18/world/middleeast/russia-says-outside-forces-threaten-syrian-cease-fire.html

— Douglas Gilbert

She’s Into Breathing

She Is Into Breathing

She would have me be
some flower child I think, but
I am not ready, and she smiles.

She is breathing a lot with
an in and out of some esoteric spirit that
enlightens her with a flower of calm, and she is
such a delicate beauty like a lotus of legend dreamy, but she
remembers me when I sing with her in the mist of the do dew

Such a body of her thought I
was going to indulge instantly, but
the body is too beautiful not to stroke with the casual touch
that is the play of the casual observer of the flower who
doesn’t have the sting of the bee or
the need for nectar, but has the’in camera’ meeting
to ask an exception to modesty, the playful
romp of the adult in child’s clothing, the genteel one who
will twist on demand like a dancer of the ecstatic moment
encountering a surprise. I have flax seeds on my decadent
cheeseburger; oh, could you cleanse me with olive oil, and
a salad of conversation: I could pine away my sins if you
would needle my tree as if my sap were fragrant like the trees you worship.

I could branch to your heaven if you will feed my roots
in shallow soil. I am wandering in the topsoil. Help me
go deep. Tell me if I am a weed or a tree, and
if you are the gardener or the farmer. I’d
rather be loved than be harvested.

— Douglas Gilbert

Graduating From School

Graduating From School

She has been a brave warrior through University
battling to the Ph.D. post, life defined abstractly
with notes at her feats, awards, but no, no love notes
or pot roast with her mother’s paprika to share. What
she wonders, does a person of more studied tastes do
to make a love stew by the book,
like a noted cook

There is the analysis, and the
intellectual conjuring of the meaning of life
in the abstract; there’s

listing of the relevant literature, but yet
there is the craving for an intimacy
with a fellow who is mellow
and puts down the books to
meditate as if Love were
something not to extract or arrange
from an elegant Nobel Prize paper, but
something more subtle than a
salacious splash in the upper strata news. There is
an honesty of being where
the cravings make a recipe for a meal that
both can chop and cook together.

She has been a brave warrior through University
battling to the Ph.D. post, and now
she has conjured new ingredients and
the post-Doc is coming to dinner. Eureka!
Love is cooking.

— Douglas Gilbert

Facing The Foam

Facing The Foam

Splashed my face this morning
thought I’d shave the shadow of the night
but the dreams of foam can overwhelm
’cause you swirled away, they say, into the storm lost,
and you were never found, at least
not a sound I ever heard when I cried and searched, and
they declared you dead

Oh God, what bell could they have to do that. No
no, no. I know I heard you
somewhere when they declared the
impossibility to live in a churning foam with
omens to be heeded they said, officially by storm

Yet I was there too, and I am alive in a close shave
to be on the minor list
scrambled together for the unimportant
who were poor before and worse to compile
for the tragedies of charities funded with the
capriciousness of the times, trophies for the compassionate
burdens for the realists looking down from the satellites

Oh God, what bell could they have to do that. No
no, no. I know I heard you

There is a foam on the beard
and a foam on sad ferment of beer, and

so lucky am I to be a non-believer, ’cause
today I sat by the river for no reason giggling
and you tickled me as real as the foam of the universe.
Yikes, you pinched me. It is you, it is you, it is you…

You have a story, but I don’t care for now.
Only hug me, only kiss me, because we
are on the major list of lovers in the foam.

When I tickle you, I know you are real, and
my giggles turn into sobbing screams because
I have missed being real.

— Douglas Gilbert

Helping Her Cross the River

Helping Her Cross the River

Someone let her cross the river for me
when I skipped stones sadly past tadpoles, and
she was glad to speak of leaves and frogs as if
I were a prince in need of a kiss, and she were a princess

But we don’t need to know if the river is wide
or if she is escaping a palace, and if
I am a wandering King because

she laughs with me and the giggling stream
as if we could rule every meandering river
even if she’s come from far banks of sadness, and

for whomsoever helped her cross the river wide
I give you the sky and
a dove for your love

— Douglas Gilbert