Red mist of war

Polished speeches,

corners sanded smooth by advisors.

Brass bands on parade, children waving flags

applause is just another form of marching.

The ones who promise victory

stand far from the red mist of war,

but stand close to the mic or in front of a green board

and draw arrows on maps like the weatherman on TV.

Cowards call from balconies define obedience

as patriotism and silence as virtuous loyalty.

They stand at fresh graves, claim to speak for the dead,

tell us their sacrifice is not in vain

and that their deaths demand more deaths.

Mute earth opens mouth unable to speak.

History demands the young must disappear

into the smoke of battle

so fat old men can talk of false gods

and profit on soldiers blood and guts and gore.

In the barracks, mornings begin with beds made,

sheets pulled tight, boot shined and laces tied,

letters folded carefully in breast pockets,

creased photographs carefully stored in wallets.

Bugles blow mess call over loud speakers.

Soldiers laugh and call out names across breakfast tables.

Everyone complains about the coffee,

shovels down runny eggs, sausage and toast.

Someone promises on a cell phone

to be home before the leaves change.

Across the parade grounds in air conditioned officer clubs,

officers eat steak and discuss acceptable percentages.

Generals recite code names, discuss operational goals

and the names of divisions and corps.

On TV, leaders call for victory

invoke lost heroes and the need for more sacrifice.

In corporate conference rooms, men discuss production numbers,

convoy safety of international shipping lanes,

industrial indexes, shareholder confidence,

and the necessity of war.

They invoke heaven to sanctify armament contracts

and praise the gods they’ve cast in gold.

Later, they discuss in muffled tones

the latest scheme to keep their children out of war.

Consultants craft battlefield scenarios

that play well on living room screens.

Marble markers adorn thousands of hillsides,

commemorate names families carry in their hearts.

Mothers draw circles on calendars for birth dates of loved ones lost;

who will no longer make wishes and blow out candles.

Children collect commemorative coins to hold

and learn names of family members they’ll never meet.

Finally, when enough lives and taxpayers’ treasure has been traded,

someone will call a meeting and declare it a success.

Banquets are held, architects of ruin raise toasts,

clink crystal glasses without spilling a drop.

Politicians make grandiose speeches

and tally the interest on their thirty pieces of silver.

Mothers place photographs on mantels.

Children ask grandparents to visit school on parent’s day.

And widows whisper lover’s names

to the silent, empty side of the bed.

7-23-26