Puffy-chested pigeons strut about
as if they held some secret
to this battle ground
holding their stance
like little generals on front line
she, walking crooked,
stumbled upon their little parade
that had no marshal
all leaders and no followers
and it was easy to create treason
in their ranks with a few cracked nuts
she sat and let them feed out of her hand
one warrior at a time
until there was nothing but bones left
for vultures to pick over
Tell the mother, medal in her slack palm,
folded flag to cradle instead of child,
That this is worth it~
No, it can not be said other than to hold
some kind of comfort
in the fact that child meant well
and these are symbols of his meaning.
Tell children, without a mother
and a long wait for heaven
where her hands will guide them,
that this is good and right
and necessary ~
No, they will not understand ~
how can you replace a mother
with a glorious conquest ~ or not.
Tell a sand-blown soldier
holding remnants of a family
that was supposed to be foe,
against his breast
to keep the heart in,
that he has done what’s best ~
He will salute and honor his windswept flag
but not ever will that flapping
mean anything but a small child’s arm
that flailed at its own enemy.
Oh, no, neither side can say
this was ever enough
or reasoned, while hanging on to railing
of a casket of a beloved
or best belief. War is not the answer ~
If it were, why do heart and soul ache so?
Stretch out to vibrate Universe
with earth-quaking love
swirling between bombs and bullets
a shield against sobering thoughts
dragging on our world
oh, hand to touch
tearstained sky
reflected in the silent roll
of sorrow on child’s cheek
oh, lip to kiss crushing blows
sustained by tooth-ground testaments
that this is not enough
oh, heart to handle hardships
of children stooped on sand
with thirst for care, cracked cry,
bouncing off half-dumbed ears
oh, arms to gather missing sisters
cast off by hearth and home
far flung fears, wrapped round her
to spare her from cold care
oh, feet to race to greet our brothers
help with carrying credence
for a harsh and envious environment
with soft and gentle gratitude
for strength they shape the soil
What soul there is to rock what’s new,
to lullaby in age.
An owl sits in nearby tree
his well-spun head and feather cloak
holding a heartful of wild warnings
coming from passed wisdom hen to chick
He perches, watches us intently,
and winnows out redundant news
while casting out his unheard psalms
to gather up his wildest voice
to tell us who and why
What mercy left is his alone
for all has been said
by rioting waters, world-scraping winds,
cleft in crust, and eastern star
When bombs are stilled before the plume,
and wind is held before the gasp,
and sky is ripped by suction’s draw,
and earth is crumpled by our weight
We should listen
to this one last great lover
of dark night dirge
and know god is no longer the answer
Whom?
Who is?
Who?
It is me. It is you. We choose to stand alone
for lack of listening to anyone else that knew
He rises, to speak with the Moon,
and takes our names with him
World is fraught with faith’s fears,
Wrestling with fragile flaws.
What will end our cringing?
When does quaking quiet?
Who first to drop this sword?
We quest for this lost truth:
Why wait for God to change?