Words for War

 

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.