The Weed and The Rose

“I haven’t seen you before. How did you get here so quickly?”

“Me? Yeah, well, I decided to grow overnight. I’m expecting my friends soon”.

“Aren’t you a weed?”

“Aren’t you a rose?”

“I think so. Passers-by say there are mirrors for that sort of thing.”

So, what’s the difference?

“You look like a tart; I look like a lady”.

“You are a bit thorny today”.

For Yemen

Dead eyes see nothing,
for life has gone from their bodies.

Their blood mixes with the dust
as the Earth tries to cover our shame.

The broken bodies of unjust wars,
their silence goes unnoticed by many.

You fear the ghosts of the dead,
yet you turn away as bombs kill the living.

A selective concern for war,
there is always a right side and a wrong side.

Funnelled news distorts your mind,
thinking too deeply cuts into internet shopping.

You curse Russia for the war in Ukraine,
yet you don’t know where Yemen is on a map.