Martyr #121 (Luke’s Poetry)

A man sits behind a bar,
strumming his fingers;
in order.

Thinking of the past,
strumming his fingers;
he orders.

One beer goes down,
he prays for his sins;
and orders.

Two beers now empty,
he stands up straight;
and thinks.

His money on the table,
his pains concealed;
he stumbles.

Into the darkness,
un-armed and alone;
he walks.

Judgement then comes,
a gun to his head
he screams.

Tied up and taken,
beaten not broken;
he dies.

His name was Omar.
The papers call him
number 121.

A fly on the wall (explosions in street)

There’s a boom!
There’s a smash.
The man falls.

There is glass.
There is screaming.
The man bleeds.

There was TV.
There was couch.
The man cries.

There was son.
There was daughter.
Both died.

TV playing,
in the front room.
The front window,
the man’s wife.

Their children.
A bomb.
The glass window.
The man’s life.

The Weary Man (Luke’s Poetry)

The weary man sits outside his house,
a newspaper spread across his lap.
In the background a radio sounds,
as he awaits the latest news.

He’s barely 30- yet he’s all alone.
Everyone left him years ago.
Yet noise comes from the telephone,
so he jumps up and runs to answer.

It’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,
no phone call- he’s still alone.

He sits down again,
and as he reads the news cries.
He wonders will they ever learn,
before the last man dies?

War still rages as his insides burn
and he jumps up confused and angry:
as the phone rings again.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
the struggle to be sane.
A voice comes from the driveway,
his daughters excited tone!

He survives the fight for sanity,
because he has family, so he’s not alone.