a dance to all innocents
by jeanne rene watson
Thursday, January 29, 2004
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Our fathers' winter path . . .
until ... somewhere in country
soldier gripping the wheel of a 1972 mustang
... damned basket
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The evening detonated, shadows simper, but the world didn't end last night.
Still . . .
Mediterranean breezes drowsily push a gossamer morning across the sky,
to blanket the newly consecrated pavement, spread with hatred's blight.
And . . .
Harsh reality breaks, intermittently stabbed by the sun's razor like brilliance.
In that light's blaze, cut with wrathful shards and mangled metal,
the pavement runs with tears, and starkly reflects untold shattered dreams
of interrupted innocents, birthed in their father's ancient debt unsettled.
Countless . . .
Bitter seeds to fertile ground, Nefetari's tarot can reap no other hand.
The world did not, yet, die last night,
but death consumed a generous plate,
And the demon tongue gutter licked
the venomous river, slithering red bright.
So witnessed . . .
Her steady hand wiped anxious beads . . . threw back the wind-tossed hair.
One shy nod to the already dead, so baneful and nefarious her heart,
or . . .
blind with a babe's illusion, a Jeanne d'Arc, laying this life and soul bare.
To run her blood and flesh, to sear her hate in man-made martyrdom.
Screams lifted higher than the twisted bellows of fire and smoke,
and the street's marbled columns that rose to the sky so eerily beckon
the wail of sirens, the wail of men, the mother's dirge grief-choked.
Lovers fell to their knees, framed in the wondrous muted evening light.
The children play tag by a funeral pyre.
Their demons spread a welcoming embrace,
and dance a dance to all innocents,
while tossing a charred limb into the fire.
jeanne rene 8/03
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|Reviewed by Regis Auffray
|Stark, real and poignantly sad, Jeanne. Our world is in chaos. I wish you love and peace,
|Reviewed by Jim Dunlap
|It's a crazy world we live in. Now the suicide bombers are mostly women who are abandoning their children to kill somebody else's.|