A balcony breeze blows through the pansies,

their stand of saucy faces bouncing back—

as I push back at you who’d argue “‘we’

fight them there to protect you from attack.”

Worry we’ve bees to pollinate the peas,

and that the winds are getting out of whack.

Jeez.—I pity the poor Iraquis

their lack of by-your-leave: “He’s a maniac”—

Your do as you please. Bring you to your knees?

They die to send you packing—Not to backpack.

A fool could see, their own country they’d seize,

sitting on the right place to be; hence, the slack.

Skeered when we leave Sunni/Shii will come?

Quiver—tiger lily! Quake—snapdragon!

Sun block, a sudden downpour, pansies pressed

the worst yet; add the havoc of the hail;

and the third storm warning this week—I’m stressed

(and the cat)—and testing closet detail.

Afghanis to fear here?—Give it a rest—

we’ve tornados up-ticking on our tail;

and Taliban only soil their own nest;

and a training camp an air strike will nail.

You picked the half Afghanistan  to contest,

without whom, the Pushtoon, you’re bound to fail:

Try broker a peace helps them sort the rest,

yields Al Quaida; and quid pro quo prevail.

See these down-to-earth clansmen at our doors?

Sure as their landlocked country reaches shores!

What’s left of the pansies’ bold blooms unbend

bowed heads, bruised, yellow, purple; stems not spent

left leaning from the West Wind’s rightward trend;

as you call me “Pansy Left” when I vent.

When I deadhead the broken bits they’ll mend,

(the way you still love me when I dissent);

as I breathe a deep sigh for the godsend,

we missed, again, an act-of-god event.

Me!—fighting the wrong folks helps you defend!

(whom they never thought of and now resent)

and grows more foes—I’ll call “Help!”—You will send?—

bogs down, and leaves bad guys about, hellbent.

This Pansy knows that wars are obsolete.

The real war’s with non-state forces, my sweet.

© Helga Ross 2008