It's time to pick a new people.
I've seen yours,
who fence their neighbor hens,
and pick feathers from the rooster.
Your atrocities grow each day
while not calling them soldiers,
and labeling them as terrorists.
At early ages we
throw plastic hammers,
and gouge eyes with the arms of Barbie.
The blood of your people is spilled
and my culture colors it more
red than of any brother.
Your sheets on camera a brighter white,
and ambulances louder
than the plucked rooster with cut
beak cut, which can not feed.
Pinned in the crib,
with a mobile that spins 5 Stars-of-David,
you offer pacifiers with the
taste of their own blood,
and wonder why they
toss out the plastic keys
which have not locks.
new shots from your lens,
a sea of red on black-tops,
against your cucumber-green.
Big green Israeli frog
croaking with your Adam's-fig,
wearing a heavy-jeweled crown,
decade after decade
you can't exist,
because everyone wants your oasis,
your olive swamp,
yet you eat anything that moves.
In their play-lot they are making for war,
Now David is the giant
and if he doesn't wake soon
he may die in his night-sleep.
We are waking from your lullaby-story.
I am not your enemy,
but no longer will I be your political arm-rest.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Shout out to the Palestinians. I wrote this in 2002. The world is learning more every day of the persecution the Zionists put upon your people.
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Comments about this poem (Chosen Ones by Jim Creston )
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