Flensed

by Greg Molyneux

A figure flickers between the urban streetlights
darting from one pool of shadow to the next.
Hair blacker than dried ink trails languidly
rejecting the silence; the audio shrapnel.
This is the long quiet between explosions
the time of stray bullets, the overdue attack, the ambush.
A measured breath quietens the quickening pulse
the murmur of suburban noise grounds her.
She remembers; I made it out alive,
even if life and living are different
and memories cut like knives.
The war zone is long past gone
but not the depth of her sorrow
like the lowest point of the ocean swell
sinking the boat which floated her
or the bearded sailor who saved her
and brought her to the Lucky Country.
She made it, but not her husband;
the teacher, volunteer, medic.
She made it, but not her son;
the boy who waved to soldiers.
She made it, but not her daughter;
the girl who bandaged her toys.
But she made it
in the Lucky Country.

..ooOoo..

Hope

by Michele Poole

The night falls without a sound, fearful am I,
evil haunts my mind like an ungodly force.
Planes, missiles, soldiers,
rubble, screams, rockets firing.
These are my dreams, erupting in the night.
Tragic ending of my generation destroyed,
swept away by madness, all hope is disappearing,
like a never-ending black hole.

Around, the dark memories gather,
mourning of my husband. My dread grows as the
angry hand of Heaven falls against my heart.
It mutilates me, and darkly my life’s blood drips
to the wicked earth that is my prison.
In my madness, I cry out, while Hell laughs cruelly.
I hear the screaming of kids, buried
underneath the rubble.

I see an electrolier, silently still, not moving.
My phone is my connection, to the living and the lost.
Freedom is an imagination, a place to hope,
something to dream and explore.
I am seeking Asylum.
A place where my children can laugh, play and
discover. A haven that they are not
afraid of death.

I dream when the torture in my mind, escapes
like an animal released from its cage.
My child asks, “can I take any toys?”
My son says, “we can learn English.”
I mourn within, leaving my mother.
“I’m too sick to travel,” she says.
The night falls in a heavy, suffocating
cloak, soulless are we.

The salvation for which I pine.
“It’s time to go,” I say to my relatives.
My passion for life throbs no more. How could
you tear us asunder?
I watch the crumbling buildings, the bombed
shopping centre, the playground with the
eerie spirits of time passed.
The decision to leave this forsaken place.

Memory of my husband having breakfast,
Then, with a click of a finger, disappears,
with a black hood on his head,
his helpless arms tied around his neck.
I still hear the screaming of my children.
He promises them a pony.
I feel the angels surround us, crying,
saving us from ourselves.

Hope is far yet, within reach.
I am seeking Asylum.

..ooOoo..