Off to the east, a wind-spawned Eye
leers at an ocean too often bent
on annihilation. Already warring waves
whip themselves into a fever
before churning to stone.
Peace never appears to be an option.
Ask the booted man a tornado left
sifting through razors labeled splinters
wet to the bone for a doll, an album,
a photo has not been retouched
to the point it mushed to pulp.
Ask the woman waiting for a letter
from a husband never to come home,
mass destruction being mass destruction.
Children keep asking what can be done.
Wind picks up, throws down, picks up,
throws down, always down, always down.
Our nature the weapon feared most?

But hark! To the west, a downgraded eye is resorting
to TV.  Finally makes that King person’s show.  Oprah 
follows 60 Minutes.  Inspectors insist
the orb is squinting through cloth been rented.
Being DMZ'd by forces somehow forgot
to equip themselves with the kind of weapons
always set on auto.  Ammo never runs out.

Farther west, remnants of rain hang in
ragged grey threads, trying to stitch sky to earth
to sea. Like it’s going to work.
But its drumming is steady and sweet,
now it has had a taste of peace.

D r u m, l o v e, d r u m.

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2004

    All Rights Reserved