How to Build a "Bomb"

I wrote this when considering the conditions and fate of the inmates at Guantanamo - and what their release (if it ever happens) may mean for the rest of the world.

How to Build a "Bomb"

Taken
From a field,
Hoe in hand.
I worked,
Rarely praying.
There was no time.
But I prayed for life
For sons
For hope of education,
Food, shelter, and happiness,
For my children
And their children.
In a dark room now,
There is only time
For prayer
And questions.
and pain.
Before
Work, family, God, sleep.
Now,
Pain.
I know nothing.
Tell me anything
I will confess it.
I pray,
I pray for sun,
I pray for hope,
I pray
For revenge.

Unholy War

A meditation on war - and the young men on both sides of the guns brought this out...

Unholy War

His finger curled
Tightly, ready, steady,
Though his whole body shook.
Thoughts of school
Games, girls, and gatherings
Shadows in his distant past.
His eyes squinted,
Ardent and angry
Believing what he's told.
About the enemy, the infidel
In his sights.
He heard the call
The 3rd of five
"Allah u Akbar".
And suddenly
With a relieved sigh
Both were granted a reprieve.
The soldier and the boy-
Each are both
Fighting a war
That can never be holy.

Her Children

On Father's Day (coming up) - an oder to "step"-fathers...

Her Children

Her children
Sometime nuisances,
Looking up at him
Like baby birds waiting
For the worm to drop.
Her children
Hyperactive and energetic
All play and no think,
They dig holes in his yard
Where his garden used to be.
Her children,
Constantly asking questions
Why is it blue? How does it grow?
He struggles to find answers
And feeds them mac and cheese
To quiet them down.
Her children,
Taken quietly under his wing,
Folded into his life
Intentionally
When they weren't looking.
He moves his garden elsewhere
And buries bones in the holes they dig
For them to find and speculate about.
He works many hours so they can have
Sports and music and art
And dances and parties with friends,
Where they make messes at his house.
Her children,
He has shown them everything a father
Is supposed to be.
To his children.
His children.

Good Boy

Good Boy

Snoozing, eyes closed,
Muzzle slightly open-
You drift in a sea of dreams.
The proverbial southern hound,
You make a sport of lounging
On lazy summer afternoons.
I whisper softly in your ear-
"Good boy".
Your tail wags- even while you dream.

African Lament

We are all dependently arising...

African Lament

Africa, oh Africa
your fertile soils turned to dust
by the sins of fathers
visited on sons by other fathers,
and doubly on mothers, sisters, and daughters.
Western hearts are grieving.
Western voices crying out -
we must do something, we must help.
But where do your guns come from?
your bombs? Your militia funds?
The sleeping giant - we drug you more
Keep you on an IV drip.
And you slumber in a nightmare
Oh when, when will you wake?

Blood

Another meditation on the war...


Blood

Rich, red and thick
Coursing and pulsing
Full of life, pumping
Dripping, squirting,
Onto fields of shining golden sand,
Making viscous red puddles,
Spread like fertilizer
For the blackness below.
Barren fields where no life,
No crops, no joy at the harvest
No hope grows.
There is a reason that blood is red,
And oil is black.