Skip to main content

FLIGHT OUT

She eyes the richness of faces longing for home, rucksacks and rifles tossed over slumped shoulder, traces of flags and banners and wood; fruitless. This flight out will be the last toward survival. She will not be going, she still looks for her children, she is citizen of the killing zone. Her husband’s fate went uncounted from the outset of steel-humanity’s broil. Saddam broken, alive, murderer waits, tamed in a ruler's land by would-be king of another.

She smiles upon them as they exit breathing sighs of relief danced in mourning. What will become of the roses and the waters? The ancient ruins, the culture shattered? Might it request another day of its soul? Will this become death’s chart and dark-boiled lure? (A few of sands ruddy cheeked questions birdsong aloft of the broken firmament.) She smiles and waves goodbye to friend and foe, liberator and murderer, husband and wife, brother and sister, uncle and aunt, love and hate.

A distinct, sudden, and brief click sensed under the engine's breath over a moment of moistness and the blinding flash.

Copyright © 2006 mrp

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

........•SHRIEKING MACHINE•........                  •HEAD-LINES•                           •RIP•     ---(“Russian missiles blast Ukrainian military academy and hospital, killing more than 50, officials say”)---    There are no more lessons to learn here, no more beds to hold the human wounded, just missile’s shrieking their grotesque ode, The Death of Humankind! RIP, children of God…    ---(“Hundreds attend Mercer Island vigil, march for murdered Israeli hostages”)---    Dear mourners, this is the brutal vacuum of a genocidal, terror-filled, indiscriminate war-machine made of fear and we are all hostages to its deafening roar! RIP, children of God…    ---(“10-year-old allegedly confesses to fatally shooting 82-year-old man and his daughter”)---    I must confess, this is part of war’s shrieking, children lost with a we...

sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman

Per Plex Ed

            PER+PLEX-ED When you haven’t heard the truth in so long, when you do, it rings a most familiar s ong. That’s the human song, the truth rolling out exactly when it should.      (If a truth is told and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound only to the one that spoke it?)    Yes, but our ears aren’t strong enough to hear it.     [a perplexed silence] © 2017 Mark Richard Prime