not here . . .

hearing the fireworks at Niagara Falls
thinking of war zones overcasting the globe
bombs, grenades, exterminated lives, blood,
much blood, unimaginable pain and utter fear

seeing is believing, says this language root
yet soul’s eyes pierce the empirical
sees through and through
meets it all eye to eye
and takes it all in
loud and clear

there is so much suffering in open sight
that the mind freezes up,
crawls back to its womb
the heart is helpless
in its despair
and woes

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, June 7, 2019

 

 

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A reminder . . .

[Click Here for Photo Credit]

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“cries”

IMG_20190308_111512_772.jpgi hear cries
the cries of children
i cannot see them but i know
those hefty tears are there to stay
frozen in mid-air, frozen in helplessness
in hopelessness and in utter fiery despair
for we grown ups have chosen to be quiet
yet once again, numb, deaf and delusional

so delusional that we wake up

every single day

to the comfort and convenience

of our petty lives

lives so petty that we insist

to insist on and on

not to care, not to think,

not to sense, not to feel

all along dismissing

what stirs up deep inside

our consciousness,

our gut instincts,

our compassion,

our original purpose: to love,

to love them all

“why?” asks one of those icons of innocence
“what have I done to deserve this fate?”

not in words, as not all know

how to speak yet

their eyes say it all,

eyes filled with salty drops

instead of tummy-giggles,
instead of daily, nightly jumps of joy,
instead of cushioned care-free slumbers,
instead of the tender safety

of love’s embrace

“why?”
why are there so many cries?

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, May 30, 2019

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soul hurts . . .

sex trafficking, say the sources
if not, hunger and thirst,
painful, bruise-filled sleeps on concrete floors
no plush toys to comfort them
not that any one could give back
what their mothers and fathers always have

yes, children are gone,
thousands have disappeared into thin air

supposedly . . .

yes, innocence has been robbed
never to return
even if some of those most precious would . . .

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, May 19, 2019L

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“Mother’s Day” by Ana Juan

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[Credit: The New Yorker; Art Credit: Ana Juan ~ “Mother’s Day”]

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“where have all the children gone”

where have all the children gone . . .

harvesting the “lost” children’s organs,
drinking their blood from fancy cocktails,
robbing the lifeline of the still-developing pure
to abet their miserable thirst for longevity
for their waste-filled useless frames
the rich and powerful are for long on their way,
covering the innocence with the darkest hue of red,
bludgeoning thousands of little ones
who are still unaccounted for . . .

immigrants?
“let’s get rid of them!”

how was the US built in the first place . . .

only the brain-dead are being readily fed
make-believe stories, over-flooded with lies

if they did at some point in their lives at all,
the perpetrators are no longer capable to possess
a trait that remotely resembles one of the humane
so, they devour their stolen feast and move on . . .

in the meantime,
thinking hearts are in pain,
for the lives of all those children
have been proven to be in vain once again

it seems, there is nothing that can be done
where have all the children gone . . .

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, May 1st, 2019

 

Related Readings:

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/us-politics/trump-border-children-immigrants-number-families-separate-us-mexico-a8407111.html https://www.nytimes.com/2019/04/06/us/family-separation-trump-administration.html https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/18/us/politics/us-migrant-children-whereabouts-.html

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The Comfort Zone ~ 1

I remember my initial studies of Western literary traditions. The divide that stayed in my mind was compacted in the statement, “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake”. Later on, I began to write poetry anew. I too subjected myself to such entrapment. Life has been teaching me a different lesson for a while though. Or better yet, a higher level of consciousness has been educating me all over again. My physical and spiritual eyes and ears have opened up to the realities of fellow humans near me, but also in far-away lands. Awareness has come to my doorstep with a vengeance. Every time my emotions prompt me to compile words about my personal being, I pause and listen. Listen with my soul. To the unfoldings all around the world. The suffering of humans is immense. I know, I am physically not able to do anything about that fact. Writing about them, however, is in my power yet. “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake”? I don’t think so! For, there is so much more that I can do to serve as a reminder what each of us is capable. If not through writing, then by listening and reacting to pained voices all over the globe for sure.

(c) hülya n. yılmaz, 3.11.2019

*Posted previously on Facebook.

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