A Warm Bed and Rocket Fire

Sit up out of a warm bed, slippers on feet, one, two.
Stumble to the bathroom, get the morning paper.
Fill the tea kettle.

Headlines: “3 arrested in drug deal
gone wrong.”

Set the kettle on the stove.

“Local boy raises money for food shelf.”

Switch on the flame.

“Israel intensifies rocket fire against Gaza.”

Rocket Fire.
Stare at the paper. “Rocket Fire.”

The kettle sings.

Civilians dead.

Tea in strainer, pour the water, steep.

Occupied Territories.
Palestinians needing medical care die at the
checkpoints because they don’t have the right papers.
Papers? Checkpoints? What the hell?

Dump the strainer in the sink as the furnace comes on.

Buildings become rubble, fire and smoke.
Desperation, oppression, sickness.
No money, no work, no healthcare.
More rockets.

I have to remember to go to the store.

The U.S. is one of the few remaining countries
that supports Israel.

My tea, has gone cold.
I have a warm bed and a bathroom.
A paper, a furnace and cold tea.

Palestinians have suffering and oppression.
It’s time the world heard their cries.
Maybe this time the world will hear.

This is a poem along with the one below that I forgot to publish from my old blog. These two are about Palestine.

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