A poem about the second Gulf War by Michel O'Leary
i
The last train is about to leave
In fact, has left . . .
The cradle of Western Civilization
Is under siege
As the Euphrates burns, a river of flames
Set alight this past decade
By the twin towers of a double burning bush
The new manifestation of Western Civilization
Is engulfing and eating its own parents
New kid on the old block
With raging hormones of revenge . . .
The last train has pulled out
From the stations of My Lai and Lidice and Fallujah
It doesn’t matter who’s killing ya
If you’re being killed –
Talking to someone who fought in Vietnam
Who witnessed the murder of women and children
He claims the SS troops were more honest
Than the Black Hawks of the neo-con men . . .
ii
My love comes to me
And baring her beautiful breasts
Before my loving gaze
And soft caress
She gives me the gift
Only a young woman
Can bestow on an older man . . .
The strange healing, and holding up of a mirror
The touch of the goddess . . .
And no matter how humble
His or her beginnings have been
That gift of love, of aroha
Although tainted by temporal concerns
Cannot be lost, as the flow
Of life loosens itself
From its strictures . . .
iii
The doors after perception, open
As does the grave
The tomb beckons to . . .
The hikoi of Hope
The procession of Enough
The long line to the Unknown Soldier
Wending its way through the Wellington
Like a river of remembrance . . .
When its all over
The soldiers remind me of death
My young love reminds me of life
But now she is gone
And who will say
“Did you miss me?”
It doesn’t matter who’s killing ya
If you’re being killed –
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