resembling patterns of idyllic skies.
Proverbial clouds bordering on tranquil streams;
and of stirring, ambitious dreams.
Picturesque settings of utopian heavens,
and of untainted communal essence.
A handsome father of six enters a convenience store,
eager to bring home what his pockets could score.
As he walks, his oldest son lingers
outside the walls their simple home.
Waiting, hoping, dreaming.
Of what father could bring his ravenous core.
Elsewhere a young child plays with his soccer ball;
Amidst the heat of the morning sun,
he prances across the moving dust
of the beautiful jewel that is their land.
His innocent spirit brightens the crowd of men
who watches him as he creates his own little world,
within the lumps tainting his rubber globe.
Miles away a noble young man kneels
to kiss the surface of the cold earth.
He solemnly prays to Allah, who knows all,
that his land may be granted fertile grains;
that his honorable family be blissful and safe,
and his wife be blessed with fruitful grace.
Miles away another noble young man
graduates from the Academy;
and decides to fulfill his dreams of joining the army.
He receives his honors and gracefully stands;
as he salutes with his sturdy, snappy stance;
As he focuses his cold, stony glare,
his family watches him with an ardent flair.
Their faces spell ambition, respect, and pride,
as their only boy becomes a hero of their kind.
Seemingly plausible pictures of relative beauty;
portraits of society’s sparkling ideology;
But now let me flip the grimy coin,
and expose the yarn’s murky loin.
**********************************
The father of six digs into his pocket,
as he approaches the cashier of the steel trinket.
From his pocket he reveals the barrel of an improvised gun,
and shoves it on the face of the helpless man.
His desperate rage proves his fear of starvation;
of metropolitan rot and ardent desolation.
And as he exits the door (fresh from his act of loot),
he suddenly stops within his splintered boots.
The raucous sound of gunfire renders him frozen,
as he wonders where the noise was driven.
The fire was spat by another improvised weapon,
that drilled a hole on his son’s pectoral tendon.
It was a member of a juvenile street infantry,
who killed his son over childish ghetto rivalry.
A hovering eagle with iron-laced wings,
blocks the sun over the playful child’s waking.
And with steel talons it drops tears of burning shell;
as it sears the land of this modern-day heart of hell.
Frightened and stunned, the boy runs for his mama’s arms;
tightly clutching his miniaturized rubber chasm.
But before he could scream another word,
his ball tumbles away from his little world.
Desperate, he runs after the rolling sphere,
as his mama's eyes widen with fear.
A ferrous teardrop burns the clouds,
as it bursts upon the child's sandy playgrounds.
And as the last strain of life streams
from the holes punched on his broken skin,
the child gives a last glance on his burnt plaything.
The noble people of Islam are said to be valiant fighters;
and in his gallant heart the young man hears distant drummers.
The drum roll of this war that neither he nor his forefathers found,
the same battle that he fights on blood-soaked grounds.
After his prayer he reaches into the scroll folded within his shirt;
and with eyes blazing he sees through the thickening dirt:
“To him who fighteth in the cause of Allah, whether he is slain or gets success,
---Soon shall We give him a reward of greatness”
The Holy Quran has spun many great verses,
yet this particular line harnessed his belligerence.
The words lie printed on the yellowing paper that will soon be torn,
together with the fires of his unwavering scorn.
He gets up on one knee and reaches for his firearm,
for his eyes have spotted a looming bedlam.
He aims at a buzzing fly made of iron and steel;
He readies to fire, (as Allah’s spirit powers his will)
Not sure who is the enemy, yet knows the reason for fighting,
he whispers, “father, may you forgive our grave misdoings”.
He pulls the trigger then proclaims (with eyes darting the skies),
“Red will always be the color of these lands.
From the day I was born, ‘til the day of my demise”.
Hundreds of feet above the ground, a hungry lion roars;
Clad with a camouflage hide and medals made of ore.
Hovering in a helicopter, he spots a group of insurgents.
---Scampering rebels he sees as befuddled targets.
He prepares to jump and land onto the battlefield,
willing to kill so the peace could be fulfilled.
“This country needs heroes to save it from itself,
even if it would cause terminal distress.”
He continues his self-made decree:
“I am a young man of great decent and pedigree,
and this war will be nothing but temporary.
For after this I shall help shape this parchment of humanity,
and mold it into a gleaming jewel of the orient seas”.
But as he jumps a bullet rushes through his chest,
and passes through his ventricular crest.
His young and idealistic heart explodes with gunpowder.
And his dreams get blown into a crimson shower.
His splendid soldier's body now lifelessly dives,
taking with it all the brightness of his times.
********************************************
Now, with vivid eyes and unwashed spirits, we see
the true nature of our sugar-coated realties.
A city filled with fragile souls.
--- A living, breathing, conduit of anarchy and visceral holes.
A metropolis drowning in oblivious slumber,
while the people cry from desolation and hunger.
Listen, and you will hear them whimper and scream.
Listen closely and feel the agony within your bloodstream.
Wars fought by men of the same color,
yet living by different codes of honor.
They clash ideologies and faiths,
fueled by roaring tanks and gunshot wraiths.
Listen, and you'll hear their anger throbbing like drums.
Listen closely, and hear the confusion in their hums..
Preachers proclaiming the end of times,
while pocketing civilization’s unwanted dimes.
Leaders shrouding themselves with golden cowls,
covering the horns that grow upon their brows.
Men engage in battles of belief.
From the sandy deserts to the wet, damp streets.
Cities, houses, families, and children burn.
Their essence sifts, spreads and churns.
I feel the smoke shooting through my nostrils,
as I let the pain of this world run down my bloodstreams.
My soul is now hardened like a solid block of winter.
And I am reborn --- have awoken from this dark anarchical slumber.
I look closely and saw the dark underbelly of life,
and the inky loins gaze back into mine eyes.
It is not Yahweh who feeds the unmerciful dogs of pop culture.
It is not Gaia who scars the sky with toxic fissures.
It is not God who robs convenience stores and shoots children.
It is not Allah who wages war among kindred citizens.
We are...............
By S.Villalobos©
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