Poems

The trenches are dark and lonely, full of heart shattering memories,
I trample over the losses of soldiers that lay in silence, and streams of human blood,
When the moon is high above, rats scuttle down the trench, nibbling at the soldiers feet, devouring human flesh,
As blood tears down my arms the pain grows worse and worse,
The silence of death brings loneliness to my veins, and fear consumes my hope,
When I dare to look out of the trench, No Man’s Land is in sight,
When I take a closer look, the field is a sea of death,
Sweat slides down my face as bombs drop from the sky,
The explosions make my heart beat as fast as lightening,
As I grip onto my gun, I kneel and say,
“Please God give me luck, erase my fear.”
As the sun rises upon us, a theory is in thought,
What if every soldier that falls to the ground brings a poppy to life….

“CIVIL WAR IS OUT!” they screamed,
With trembling fingers, and quivering lips,
I vulnerably clasped my throbbing ankle, wiped my blood-smeared knee
Wrenching my dictionaries from the shelf, I zipped my tan Naugahyde bag
And my chest heaved with immense grief, as I hysterically hobbled out
Cringing as the scorching flames engulfed the school building
Tears trickled down my cheeks, as I gasped at all the incarnate art works falling
With bare feet, I breathed in the odour of perspiration and blood
Stepping over the lifeless bodies, of deceased ones
For Civil War had broken out
I watched sharp, rugged stones blind little eyes, as little, bruised infants
Sat with their dirty little fists, a petrified look haunting their eyes
I pushed through the swarm of people, and dashed towards the railway,
Which was now only fit for the hands of the white,
The porters clustered around, bewildered and befuddled
As people invaded the trains, shattering the windows
Tall, powerful men with iron sticks, and metal handcuffs
Dragged the family of negroes, from within the train
They pulled the mother apart from her baby, and shoved the man ahead
And clinging onto the compartments, with an old rusty chain
Was a beautiful little boxcar, with little handprints, yet it was veiled with dust
“That’s for our lunch boxes and baggage” explained a servant boy,
I nodded gratefully, and climbed on
I buried my fair head, within my knees, reminiscing the cherubic faces, of my students
And sobbed my heart out, devastated
“Where’s the teacher of the negroes?” barked a rough looking policeman,
As the servant boy urgently pulled the windows open, and thrust piles of blankets within,
“I don’t know sir,” replied the youth. “I expect she’s with one of them”
And as the policeman marched away, I felt a familiar rustle of soft feathers,
And smiled at a familiar, bedazzling beak
“Hermes!” I whispered, as relief surged up my spine,
For Hermes, our messenger pigeon was finally here,
Pulling out my parchment, I scribbled messages of trust,
And tied them onto Hermes’s slender ankles, with bits of twine and thread,
“Go to all my dears!” I murmured softly, “And lead them over here”
“We’ll make a break for the border tonight! And shall truly savour the nectar”
“For the grass is certainly more lush and greener on the other side”
His beady eyes twinkled as he extended a wing for me to stroke,
And soared into the twilit sky,
I beheld the purple shadows which danced on his wings,
And smiled, contented
While Hermes knocked on the windows of the abode of the negroes,
Skimming past the ferocious guards, who scowled around, grimacing
Armed with daggers, their dark arms bulging with glistening biceps,
He extended an ankle in peace
As the anxious mothers unfolded the parchment,
They nodded, and gestured to their children, to follow the beautiful bird
Followed by one of the guards, the children ran after Hermes,
And were ushered into the boxcar, by the servant boy
I gazed around at my students, pulled them under blankets,
Lisping my thanks to the benevolent servant boy, I pulled out my dictionaries,
And passed them around smilingly
While the white passengers got onto the sleek sleeper cabins,
I held my students close, and murmured softly, “We’re off to Sweden, now”
For even though I was white, I had chosen the black
And that night, while the moon’s silvery beams, slithered into the boxcar,
I mulled over my continuous whirlwind of questions,
Martin Luther King yearned for that day, when his black brother could sit with the white
I hope he yearned for that day too, when a white teacher, could sit by the black children
And help illuminate the path towards a brighter and better tomorrow