Moloch, whose Drones
On and on and on
Bombs strewn everywhere—
Hydrogen jukebox an old tune
Before incoming drones, fire from the sky
Chosen weapon of politicians
And video-gamers far away
Who incinerate children
As their parents pray
Beside remote Pashtun roads
We don’t even make exceptions
For Qaddafy’s grandchildren
But the sins of the fathers
Rain down on developing limbs
And minds that explode mid-thought
If we must kill
Isn’t a knife more . . . Abrahamic?
To not obscure the line
Between sacrifice and murder.
Compare The Battle of Algiers
In which cafés explode
As patriots make no distinction
Between women with infants
And despised police.
So the world persists
“THERE HAS BEEN NO TIME IN HUMAN HISTORY
THAT WAS NOT A TIME OF WAR”
Screamed Robert Duncan
At his beloved Denise Levertov
In objection to her pacifist hard line
Particular lives now melt to mass
As any human face is lost,
Any repugnance reduced by distance.
What could be more barbarous
Than aerial bombardment?
On the Wharf
Moonlight ripples on the ocean,
Lights outline masts . . .
How is this night different from
Any warm still night in any beach town?
Fish, ships, and visitors the exchange—
No, not ships but dorries, skiffs, other boats.
The sea calls to sailors, sailors to lubbers.
When is a lobster not a lobster?
When it’s crawfish fresh from the bayou.
Do terms matter more than taste,
Names than remaining afloat?
“Provincialism the enemy” wrote Pound,
Who lived to prove it in Italia
During the Ventennia Fascista
While ships sailed on against the horizon
Exciting children and hybridizing civilizations
By arriving in ports
For barter with exotic brokers
With weird religious beliefs.
So the young, dreamy, and oppressed
Jump on a boat, some ship and sail off
To a yonder shore, a strange kettle of fish.
Now and Then
“…but not in Nottingham.”
Silly sad jingle sticks in mind
as a friend tells me
about his infant daughter.
I wish her childhood
as magical to him
as my daughter’s
remains to me.
“The things you do for love”,
the compromises you make
with Disney’s corporate product
so your child won’t be alone
as inevitably she will be
dancing to a tune
of her own invention.
“My wife wants me to spend Sundays
playing Daddy, but I
don’t have time for that shit.
I like to kick back and watch the Jets,”
Said one buddy. Now his daughter
grown and gone, only Jets are left
forever young. The girl grows up
and the boy stays lost
When Wendy tries to explain
he doesn’t understand.
“Oh, Peter, but I’m a woman now.”
- Why Write #25: Gary Lenhart - August 15, 2013
- Three Poems - July 24, 2013