The Passover

end the war now

two wars, two wounds

four deployments in ten years

the trauma, the scars

the waste, the tears

a soldier driven to madness

numb warriors driven to drink

a lost decade of blood-lust

gives a nation pause to think

how virtue becomes nightmare

how ideals implode and die

how the paradox of intention

is undermined with hidden lies

fighting wars to kill terrorists

on obscure Afghan plains

generations of young ones

sentenced to death and pain

the tramp of bloodied footprints

march strait to a profiteer’s bank

depositing lucrative spoils of war

fill contracts to build more tanks

woe to the battlefield heroes

who answered a country’s call

decorated with broken families

and home mortgage defaults

a minds discombobulation

nurses a spiritual malaise

fuels emotional breakdowns

kindles smoldering rage

kneeling to medieval potentates

to win hearts of corrupt Afghans

guard Loya Jirgas of narco kingpins

spill blood to defend tribal lands

the call of deranged duty

maniacal as a video game

lines of the real and phantasmagoric

firm only in minds of the insane

the Skype connection broken

won’t see the kids face tonight

a landmine took a buddy’s leg

some hooch will set things right

the brain starts quickly buzzin

a zillion scenes flash in the head

better paint blood on the door jams

the grim reaper gonna thresh the dead

don a suit of Kevlar armor

the invincible angel stalks

to avenge blatant inequities

he suffered here and in Iraq

a land washed by bloody oceans

scarlet splashed on every door

death prowls along dark roads

a passover finds no safe abode

the screaming eyes of the angel

inflamed with red spikes of hate

seeks to still the heaving roil

his raging heart could not abate

he murdered a sleeping family

and found another to share its fate

a desperate act to cleanse himself

in a profane state of grace

this pilgrim of death was not finished

cool retribution must square accounts

a burnt offering to the Lords of War

is the deeds sermon on the mount

dragging live and dead bodies

stacking an unholy pyre in the hall

no angel to stop this Abraham's hand

this grotesque executioners pall

Staff Sargent Bales was arrested

He now sits in the prison of his thoughts

does his trembling mind have knowledge

of what his awful hands have wrought?

or does a trembling nation

so much in love with war

understand its complicity

with what it should abhor?

the blood of innocents drip

from every American sill

as the passover approaches

the stain invites an angel’s ill will

Music Selection: 

Charles Gounod,

 Funeral March of a Marionette

Oakland

3/19/12

jbm

Reviews

[r. f. jordan]

the Skype connection broken
won’t see the kids face tonight
a landmine took a buddy’s leg
some hooch will set things right

i must confess i have the extreme pleasure of knowing the author that penned this piece. without reservation i would like to state that this author is an incredible being of such honor, such presence, and such brilliance, that any ideas as to whether this man adores principles of family, honor, country, spirituality, and freedom need to be cast aside like grains of sand blown by winds of nonsense. i am embroiled into admiration for the person who penned this piece, and for the speaker's ability throughout the piece to electrify the energy of ancients as if whistling forth a beagle. jbm - you are an incredible poet, a boundless brother; but most of all, you have always been, and will remain, a loving father to all of those who listen. dear sir, set thy flaws aside, and continue to grow in love of self. in admirable imitation, i will attest to do the same.