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The Russian Soldier
December snow and frozen tracks,
the photo stark in juxtaposition
with the kiss on the World Cup.
Joy on faces, as human as joy
can get, then one notices
the snow
covers the tank and the soldier.
Whose son is this? Whose brother?
Only a scroll before, we were
elated,
the heroes caught in a shot of
victory.
A flick of a finger, the click of
a finger,
is all it takes to capture
what we live or die for.
A Journalist's Well-Rounded Day
We rarely
get killed anymore.
Whatever
glimmer of truth ekes through
gets shot
by brute force decrees.
A morning
could be a free walk in the park
target for
bird droppings and happy dogs -
here boy!
The muzzle's on me!
While
pro-government channels feed a great breakfast--
peppers.
lettuce. pork fat. olives. and cheese.
our
mealworms scraped from park chats,
(under-cover
with covert handshakes)
taste good
with grits and dandelion leaves.
What
strange creatures these writers are.
No stomach
for indoctrination?
Watch well
as we buy our bottled water
and feign
contentment,
Ignorance
is a commodity sold carefully.
Maybe I'll
swim today. So much water,
so little
time.
What's on
TV? Oh, him again.
No, her.
Him. Her? Are autocrats drag queens?
No one
would believe...
The
bullhorns blow out our credibility.
So bring
on the concert. A soprano will do.
Maybe a
silent movie on the evening square.
They'll
take a photo.
Everyone
smiling, holding hands.
Clan Battles
Tramping on the moor, do we
consider the blood under the heather, a Scottish romance flower...
and gorse, our sunshine in rainy April?
Do they rise from the glory or gloom of a MacLeod or MacDonald tartan
rotted in murky corries?
Now, the burns are for livestock and poetic rambles,
not gutters to purge a hillside of human folly.
Paths and roads carry us, unobstructed,
past breathing bones
with candles that flame only for those who pause.
