Refugee Camp

Our roofs were torn away, often violently,
We were asked to pillar their rooms,
Saying they’d provide us shelter.
We were atlassed upon, we shrugged, taking,
To our roots, in our green earth, though not for long.
We were weeded out, and seeds sown,
Of landmines and grenades well planted.
Toxic fumes to kill “pests”, ya that was our new name,
Birds in the air, to rid the field of worms, that's us again,
Seeds watered red through trenches blown apart.
A rich harvest of camouflaged crops and corps, they got.
They seeded and weeded us again, more ruthlessly.
When they said they’d picked crops with corps,
They did not say they made corpses of both.
They said we’d be planted, back where they took us from.
Yet they took from us, where they took us from.
Rootless and roofless, we are, left hanging in their gardens,
Of barbed fences painted green. While the world looks on,
And showers accolades on our leader, only we know,
Refugee camp is a euphemism for a butcher’s yard.

Sixth Sense

My eyes opened, to see a butterfly
On the wall opposite me,
Where from, to where was he?
Why here was he, in all the world?
Was it black with red spots?
Or red with black spots?
A closer confounded me more.
Vigilant wings, that stir storms,
Coiled horns, that build bridges,
Thoughtful eyes, sad and deep,
I caught his eye, to enjoy the limelight,
What was he wondering about?
Looking for his dinner petal, or wondering,
Where the next tornado’d be?
Love lost, or discovered yet unfound?
Maybe it was the last one,
When I thought out loud, if he wanted to woo
His dear girl, one with spots to complement his,
The fellow nodded his head, saying yes,
But the moment I asked him if I could help,
He took off, clearly answering me,
Maybe his sixth sense told him, that
I had not, a sixth of his sense for romance.