Poetry  -  War




Sing me a song
of Kings and Queens;
falcons rising high,
the thunder
of armoured horses,
anvils ringing.
Sing me that song
as we die into the past
beyond all childhoods,
to the green grasses
and shallow rivers.


August 6th

Little Boy drifting,
swinging down the blue,
do you feel the percussion
of your own waking?
The expansion
of your meaning
through the casing
of yourself and outwards.

Little Boy make sound sleep,
burnish hills with your breathing.
For the Fat Man is coming;
Fat Man who blunders through
and misses his mark
but is near enough
to meet some that
you missed.


Cold War

The death ship is at sea
the rake of its' glittering bow
shadowing the cut flesh
of the sea.

Through the long watches
of the night
its' silent store of power
drives it eastward
to challenge the sun.

Under the shadow
of Armageddon
we move brightly
as spangled fools,
chanting mantras
of forgetfulness.





As the chopper
folded to earth
he leapt and
a rotor blade
took him in the gut.

So he lies still,
eyes wide,
nothing under his belt,
and watches a beetle
struggle fearfully
onto his hand:

Hesitate, tremble,
the wing cases open
and then it flies;
hovering a moment
over his death.