Blades whirl through pretty air, cutting forward and up
To bring man and machine on high
And watch all those below
Steel and fuel and fire and hate
Passed through the valleys, and rivers wide
Watching, watching, ready to pounce
Guns blast, shells fall, laughing galumphs of rage
“HA-HA!” they cry, thirsting for more
While on the ground men die
They got their desserts. They have their reward
Death to those who don’t heed
Death to all who don’t see
Steel and fuel and fire and hate
Force is used to beat the weak
The weak whose lives mean naught
Blades glide through pretty air, relaxing forward and down.
Guns away and noises cease
Broad are the grins. Clap the hands – well done
Drink. Drunk. Sex. Sleep.
Silhouettes against the lights loom large
Security patrols machines
Wild dogs bark. Far sirens blare
Between machines a phantom floats
Mere inches above the ground
Ancient one, the wise, the dead, the death
Wings as silent as thought push
Gently beneath crescent moon
Dark eyes see the deeds and hearts.
Do not accuse. Do not forgive.
A pardon you must not plead.
Knowledge will suffice.
Knowledge will suffice.
Bodies of men in woods far flung
Young and old their limbs askew
Blood pours out and feeds the earth
Mother cries. Father weeps.
Daughter begs.
Sons’ hearts grow harder for loss.
We will avenge. By strength of Allah
To war with infidel man and beast
Our dead one day we repay.
Steel and fuel and fire and hate
Bullets the air rend whistling up
Campfires warm the outside alone
The heart' frozen pain it can’t warm
Wash. Pray. Sex. Sleep.
Between angry men a phantom floats
Mere inches above the ground
Ancient one, the wise, the dead, the death
Wings as silent as thought push
Gently beneath crescent moon
Dark eyes see the deeds and hearts
Do not accuse. Do not forgive.
A pardon you must not plead
Knowledge will suffice.
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This is the poem that got me going. In a creative writing class I had to write a poem that had to be at least 20 lines and contain an animal. I stressed over the assignment for a few days because I'd always told myself I was no good at poetry. Then an image came to me. An owl floated in between the helicopters I used to work on down in Italy. It was something I'd seen once. And there was the image of the helicopters rising into the air. Once I started, I realized I was perhaps on to something. It hasn't really stopped much since.
ReplyDeleteAlong with that, at the same time, there were a few discussions going in my life about poetry. A story on NPR told of how there need to be more poets because the age of the novel is going away. I saw and interview with Steven King about the necessity of poets and short story tellers to get busy. Tom Wolf said the same thing in a separate interview. I was in the middle of this assignment and a tap was opened. Since then I've been pouring over poetry books to see what the masters do. It's been a wonderful experience.