by Carolyn Martin
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Palestinians make long trek back to their demolished homes in Gaza —USA Today, January 28, 2025. Photo by Mahmoud Issa (Reuters via USA Today) |
The father writes he’s home again
with wife and three kids.
Ceilings, walls, and floors still here, he says.
Our souls were kept safe.
The garden is green, he says:
a color gone from their eyes for years
and his three-year-old is confused.
She falls on stone pathways and, rising up,
can’t find sand to brush away.
His sons lie in bed at night
where ceilings block stars
in the cloud-curated sky.
He asks them if they’re afraid.
They dig up bravery and ask,
Our tent. When are we going back?
After their lifetime away, the father wonders,
How will I ever teach children of war
to live in a house again?
with wife and three kids.
Ceilings, walls, and floors still here, he says.
Our souls were kept safe.
The garden is green, he says:
a color gone from their eyes for years
and his three-year-old is confused.
She falls on stone pathways and, rising up,
can’t find sand to brush away.
His sons lie in bed at night
where ceilings block stars
in the cloud-curated sky.
He asks them if they’re afraid.
They dig up bravery and ask,
Our tent. When are we going back?
After their lifetime away, the father wonders,
How will I ever teach children of war
to live in a house again?
Author's Note: This poem is based on a message I just received from a contact in Gaza.
Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired––and resting––in Clackamas, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications throughout North America, Europe, and Australia.
