A poem about life and suffering by David Tombale: In spite of us

In spite of us is about looking at the struggles of daily life around the world through the lens of poetry.

In spite of us

In spite of us the days drag on

and the misery slowly grows,

the footsteps on the carpet,

the artillery in the air.

In spite of us a child goes on

in his struggles all alone,

the concrete walls, the stink

of slime, the howls of feral cats.

In spite of us the jungles burn,

the streets turn black and our

people lose their souls.

In spite of us the broken doors,

the screams, in spite of all of us

inside of all us is this yearning

to be free.

A poem about loss by David Tombale: Pitter Patter

This poem is a contemplative piece that explores parenthood and loss. It's inspired by experiences with those who have children and those who have lost them, some intentionally and some not.

Pitter patter

Pitter patter,

small feet on cold floors,
pitter patter,

I hear those feet in my house,
Pitter patter,

those small footfalls echo through my house,

pitter patter,

 a solid sound,
a reality to my tortured mind

but no it's only ghostly,

a fragment I remember,

a sound of laughter follows after pitter patter,

a wild and joyful laugh,

a childish laugh,

I hear it clearly,

as clear as pitter patter but it is not there,

it cannot be.

There are sheets over furniture

and dust on sheets

and still that pitter patter

and that childish laugh echo through this house.

I should not be hearing that pitter patter,

that carefree laugh cuz it has no source,

maybe once it could have been,

it should have been

but Death and God and relentless Fate took that pitter patter

and denied me that childish laugh;

In a house on the lake the doors are locked,

there are sheets on the leather chairs and plush soft sofas

and there is dust on those sheets,

ten year long dust

and in that house there is a nursery

and in that nursery there is a crib,
a plain square crib with angels drawn on its soft white sheets,

where the walls depict scenes of laughing kids,

in that house I sit alone and  listen to the sound of pitter patter

and joyful laughter,

sounds I should have known in reality
But Fate and God and Death took that all  from me.

A poem about child soldiers by David Tombale: The slippery wheel

The slippery wheel addresses my need to work out my thoughts about child soldiers and what motivates a child to become one. It's always been one of the most enduring image in my mind, that of a little boy cradling a rifle in his hands. It's a sad enough sight to require at least one piece.
The slippery wheel

Slippery like the conscience of a soldier
Garbed in wreaths and flags, slippery like
The wheel that turns the trades of industry,
Slippery but never hard like the soil we
Dug to bury his broken body;

Twelve years old and I want to ask what
Are you doing here? Twelve years old
And shooting guns, little boy what are
You doing here? But his broken body only
Stares back at me, no words to speak just
Blood and bone and things he will never
Be;

He lies there so silently, so still, so much
So that I know he’s dead but there are
No echoes, no six gun salute for child
Soldiers buried in jungles in remote
Corners that no one sees;

There are no sound bites or flashbulbs just
This flesh slowly dying, food for maggots
And time and the language of violence, little
Boys what are you doing here? Playing hide
And seek with bullets and landmines while
Your fathers fertilize the soil with their tears
And blood and your mothers, only mothers
Of children they have no love for, forced by
The seed of vile men spurred by speeches
Of hate and I find myself asking once more
What are we doing here?