It’s looking quite forlorn now

The larder shelves are bare

There’s a rocket in my kitchen

And my kitchen isn’t there


He doesn’t want the kitchen

That father carved in wood

He only wants its ruin

And the land on which it stood


My children went outside to play

And found his cluster bombs

All brightly decked with spirals

To reckon all our wrongs


He speaks another language

Not Russian – that we share

But one that more than has enough

Yet steals my very air


I was a pin upon his map

A million of us were

But now the dust above the ground

Is all the wind can bear


There’s a rocket in my kitchen

And my kitchen isn’t there

Nor my children nor my father

There’s just remembering air


So breathe me and absorb these words

Remember what we were

And hold our home and family

Within a heart not scared to care.


©Copyright Stephen Tanham, 2022

Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, a journey through the forest of personality to the dawn of Being. and

16 Comments on “In my Kitchen

  1. Indeed, a sad poem that hits hard. I think I may have seen the image in the media that inspired it.

    Liked by 1 person

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