Disquiet in Wartime

The mailman pushes his cart,
Latex protecting from poisons carried home from afar.
They promised a shield in the heavens to protect us all
From wicked plans of foolish rogues.

The old dream dies hard
That we could all be safe and the children all fed,
With courage and sacrifice private affairs
For the sick, neurotic, and drug-addled brains,
With nothing to fear, but fear itself.

Peace, Peace, Peace, cry the angels,
Lest our blood flow in rivers
And smoke from our fires blot out the sun.
Our angels float above the fray
Clasping tight the memory of a time before —
When flowers grew unattended and
Letters brought promises of happiness
At low affordable rates with guaranteed approval
With only the occasional threat of disconnection and foreclosure.

Some days black rage boils up, joyous from reports
Of collateral damage and hospitals left in rubble,
That they should mock us for a tender humanity
That holds each life dear,
That weeps for children burned from bombs gone astray,
That turned a blind eye to Burundi and Rwanda.
Just once to luxuriate in our common heritage
Of an eye for eye, a tooth for a tooth, terror for terror.

And yet — what can we do? The Evil One pursues us in our sleep,
In our dreams, in our birthday cards and through flowers in the mail.
No peace. No respite. No mercy.
Just mockery of innocence, as if on cue
From a god fresh from mountain and desert.
Innocents in submission to their Creator died that day,
Without mercy even for their own,
What fate awaits an unwary infidel?

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