Rumblings
of War

You can no more win a war than win an earthquake.”
– Jeanette Rankin

The Generaliron cannonballs slam
into soft columns
of boys
slinging broken bodies
across the smoky barren
the charging angry
skip over
these screaming rag-dolls
of grey and blue
as the General surveys
not the hand
of the Almighty
hatred roars
from those on their feet
as frightened sobs
call out from the writhing
in this hell
on this battered glen
soggy from blood and mud
bayonets gash
and twist
amid hurled curses
not driven by the hand
of Magnificence
the General regards
his boys dying to the front
and he fights the escape
from his eyes
of a tear
racing slivers of fiery metal
rip and tear the young
who bury fear
in the collective strength
of insanity
not from the hand
of Glory
In the center of madness
on furrowed grime
a baby sparrow
struggles
lost
and a General
trudges onto the field of war
passing the dead
as tiny balls of lead
spray muck all about
not fired by the hand
of God
calloused fingers
pick up this creature so small
placing him gently
in a downy nest
on a young tree’s bough
as the carnage hesitates—
this moment,
for the courageous—
hand of Love

— LD —

New Mission every Saturday

Scuttlebutt


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