Christmas in Baghdad

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Is this the place where garland grows,

Among the olive branches low?

Splattered, cindered, clay abode,

Am I so alien?

Encircled those, in khaki drab;

Paying homage to the bags;

Which hold remains of brave, young lads;

Will I feel again?

 

Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,

Which only shine in day, not nights;

Illumination betrays the plights,

Should we become aglow.

A tree of polypropylene,

Adorns the tower, so serene;

A branch of steel hid in-between,

That only gunner knows.

 

The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,

As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,

Indifferent as they observe,

Fading of the Star.

A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’

Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,

Iraqi winds displace his stand,

Re-formed in Kandahar.

 

T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;

A day ahead of promised leave,

When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,

Took leisurely patrol.

In Tikrit, where he was born,

Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,

They’d set-out on this early morn.

Assessing evening’s toll.

 

Among the buildings, scattered ruins;

Charred men--shadows, on the dunes;

From temples soar cremated plumes;

One hour had gone by.

In the distance, beyond the spire,

Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,

Incessant screaming of the dire;

Then screams dissolve to cries.

 

Approach, inside a city square,

Where once a fountain teemed, right there,

Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;

A family splayed together.

Rank and putrid pieces strewn,

Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;

Attending Allah far too soon--

All their hands were tethered.

 

Domestic dogs, now on their own,

Fight for human flesh and bone;

Such holy image sets the tone,

As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.

Eric stumbles, exploded knee,

Bearing witness to comrades, three,

Souls reclaimed near instantly;

Christmas in Baghdad.

 

Is this the place where garland grows;

Among the olive branches low?

How I miss New England snow,

This Christmas in Baghdad.

Author's Note

Copyright 2010, Fegger

Reviews

[Mason]

breath-taking. the flow and rhymes are very well established. I was almost brought to tears by this, rarely can writing give me the imagery to do that. very very well done

[My Fair Lady]

Tears. Simply tears.

[Blindsighted]

Oh, my. This is amazing! Great rhyming, figurative language, and imagery. I love this poem, it really was great.