Poems on War
SteveShear.net
The Bombing Of Baghdad

Without invitation or fanfare
the sun emerges, ever so quickly,
washing away hidden shadows of night,
and painting the endless sky streaks of yellow,
as crimson clouds explode across the landscape
casting their own shadows of darkness,
omens that another day may never come.

As dawn marches across the battle laden sky,
symphonies of complementary colors
invade the sleeping soul of the City,
dancing and prancing in the mourning air
to crashing cymbals and beating drums,
and to high pitched cries of violins
playing out continuous crescendos
blindly, and often without resolving.

Once the noon day sun spills its vengeance over
the heart of Baghdad, this heaviness of day
chokes the life out of crying violins,
and buries this magnificent City
within the seared silhouette of itself,
and does so with the empathy of stone.

Encircling winds pull the last remnant
of self-righteousness out of charred remains,
thrusting it deep into outlying voids,
and the vortex created around this
once ancient empire of myths and magic
creates a vacuum so utterly strong,
that the Sun is sucked right out of the sky.

And with it….the light of Day.



The Echoes Of Dying

The echoes of dying, like thunder from lightning,
follow the bombings of morn. Dreadful and frightening.
The screams that are heard they echo on air
and the world, made aware, displays scorn and despair.

In reply to those acts that are made in god’s name,
the cities are trashed in a villainous game.
The screams that are heard twice echo on air
and the world, made aware, displays scorn and despair.

In public response to blood on the sashes
a bus is reduced to bodies and ashes.
The screams that are heard thrice echo on air
and the world, made aware, displays scorn and despair.

With rage in their hearts and blind to each cry,
the people have chosen, an eye for an eye.
And the screams of despair ...
Are lost in the air.

Then again and again
as if no one could care.



Without Warning

Without warning I feel
  the fall.
Quickly my head
         drops through my belly,
like a needle through a drapery of dread,
bouncing,
                       bouncing,
up,
                down,
up
down
           a rock
s k i p p i n g      across water,
a thud, a jerk, spinning, spinning,
                                     to the right,
          to the left,
up, 

                 down,
merging into the sound of metal
crashing, crunching,
a flimsy out of control gyroscope
under the massive weight of mighty Zeus.

Cold rain beats against my brow,
                lightning explodes
                         overhead,
echoes  ohsohs,  ohs,  of thunder
                 drive across my eardrums,
heavy bolts of electricity,
thunnnnderous claps of energy,
a drenching
                 down
                         pour
                                 of God’s wraith,

and then DARKNESS, and silence … and
                peace



© 2010 Steve Shear