THE SUMUS IN HER VOICE SAYS
to Sireen Sawalha who by writing “My Brother, My Land” put the pieces of her brother together again
to all the grave-lorn of Palestine
stones were long weaponized
to tell you
who you were
stones not stories
stones that could have marked
the resting-place
of those you lost
stones used instead
to erect the Golden Riviera
of billionaires’ real estate
L. Frank Baum
the American imperialist
who wrote fairy tales
while proposing
the total annihilation
of those he described
as the few remaining Indians
was the illusionist
who invented the yellow brick road
in Gaza today
the yellow line
is made with concrete blocks
of rubble mixed with sand
cemented by the blood of Palestinians –
rocks
that are moved
by the occupying force
according to their genocidal plan
to devour more and more Land
but
Sireen Sawalha
lets us know
that although
her Black Panther brother
was sentenced
to two hundred and fifty years
in an Israeli dungeon
she who threw stones
was not petrified
and survived
you tried to turn me to stone
and you are surprised
stones bounced back –
the Sumud in her voice says
you hold
the bodies of our loved ones
refrigerated
as frozen as stone
for years
on the other side of the yellow line
but that cold only rekindle
the flame of our Love –
the Sumud in her voice says
you hold us in the prison of those
who are still alive
but who cannot grieve
on non-existent stoneless graves –
the Sumud in her voice says
mother oh mother
what about the body of my brother
was he full?
was he found in one piece? –
the Sumud in your voice says
my words
my story
will put
my brother together
again –
the Sumud in your voice says
(c) Julia Wright May 21, 2026. All Rights Reserved to the grave-lorn of Palestine.
LOVIN’ MY RAGE
To the Mother of all our ancestors, Assata
yes
our ancestor Assata
was right
Love can be acid
Love can be tough
Love can be zig and zag
and rough –
i never felt it more
than today
when i gave up my gentle alcaline
words
to let y’all know
that Love and Rage
are twins
joined at the soul
my Love and my rage
are not
Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
because my rage
is sacred
not evil
i rage
because i Love
and i am capable of Loving
as long as my rage
stands loving vigil
the amount of rage
in my words
helps you gauge
what Love
i am capable of
only true rage
can tell the tale
of how deep my abolition
runs
and my Love is only free
to grow
if rage remains
protective and watchful –
a Revolutionary Love-guard
(c) Julia Wright May 23, 2026 All Rights Reserved.
SUMMER’S SKEWED TIMELAPSES
what need do i have
for digital time
when Summer comes
i ask myself
a candle
burns
all the more slowly
because the sunlit breeze
has whispered a lullaby
to winter’s wind
lazily
a blue fly
buzzes
then exhausted by the heat
like me
falls
flowers
whose name
i have all the time in the world
to look up
hang bruised for a while
after the storm leaves
through my window
day by day
more and more sky
is hidden
by hanging vine’s skeins
suddenly this morning
near my porch
a clump of steadfast irises
decides to embark
on their vibrant life
children without watches
laugh
because there is
a profusion of dandelions
unmowed from the lawn
if i give it time
i will get to see the chipmunk
that lives under
my home
lazily far overhead
the buzz
not of a fly this time
but of a drone
and i wake up to a hurricane
of realization
skewing
summer’s timelapses
breaking
my loyal sun dial
and a clinging claim to denial
meanwhile
across indifferent waters
and tourists’ jetlagged oblivion
mass murdering Israeli and US bombs
fly and fall
indefatigable
in the icy heat of hubris
at the mad speed of digital thought
(c) Julia Wright May 31, 2026. All Rights Reserved to Susan Abulhawa’s playgroundsforpalestine.org, to the steering committee of the Global Sumud Flotilla and to what remains of the family of Refaat Alareer, the poet and educator targeted and assassinated by the IOF.
MAY WE NOT GET USED TO THESE THINGS
to Alex Colston and all the Global Sumud Flotilla freedom fighters who can no longer feel their hands after zip tie torture by the IOF
may we not get used to these things –
a clump of irises
not mauve or blue
as we once knew
but finely veined, tiger-tinted –
a coddled
glass-house type – engineered
by those
with all eyes
on a highfalutin’ flowershow prize
may we not get used to these things –
the charm and the deceit
in the eye
of the storm
may we not get used to these things –
an easy victory
that is a glitzy mask –
a sinkhole
hidden by wreaths of laurel
may we not get used
to the sleepy gaze
of the self-numbed mind
no nerve compressing zip ties
as yet bind
may we not get used
to the four robodogs
manufactured for the Word Cup
by corporate allies
of the Pentagon –
AI barking machines
whose all-seeing eyes
are cameras
livestreaming our lives
and
who promoted to
an angry pack of robotic stares
will be a panopticon
may we not get used
to the tears of a myopic child
in Palestine
who fleeing from a bomb
let his glasses drop
and
stumbles through a hell
he must now touch
to visualize
may we not get used
to our noiseless
dazzling sunlit paths
unbombed
appeased
where bird-watched
American robins hop
on the eggshells
of what the wishful thinkers
still call
Peace –
but for whom and how long?
(c) Julia Wright June 3, 2026 All Rights Reserved to the Global Sumud Flotilla.
