In the camp of dreams he s sitting on his balcony in Aleppo; the lights of his city now dimmed the street blackened and empty
the clatter of crockery indicating life goes on somewhere; in the dark a distant rifle shot a shell preceded by an ominous whistle
for someone is leaving the planet; a child perhaps, his mother waiting for him her throat dry, knowing not his fate perhaps already a shroud.
The old man stares from a tent in Italy plucking an oud; across the road a bakery missing the scent of rose water and pistachio the picture album in his mind needing revision.
I was born during year four of the reign of Emperor Tiberius Claudius on the outskirts of the empire in Brooklyn. I married my high school sweetheart, the girl I took to the prom and we were together for forty years until her passing in 2004.
We had four kids together and buried two together. I had a successful career in Corporate America (never got rich but made a living) and traveled the world.
I am currently retired in the Tampa Bay metro area and live alone. One of my daughters is close by and one within a morning’s drive. They call their pops everyday.
I try to write poetry (not very well), and about family. Occasionally I will try a historical piece relating to politics.
:-)
Syria, a country and a culture destroyed, and for what? Was it not better under the Dictator’s rule? Now the Dictator and his allies will win, but what has been won when it is all over? What future is there their for anyone? Rubble and blood and a lost generation to hate.
Pictures in my mind, Frank. Nice work indeed my friend.
Best wishes, Pete.
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Syria, a country and a culture destroyed, and for what? Was it not better under the Dictator’s rule? Now the Dictator and his allies will win, but what has been won when it is all over? What future is there their for anyone? Rubble and blood and a lost generation to hate.
LikeLiked by 1 person