The war in Afghanistan - photo from yeahisaidthat.com
People on the planet
are on the move.
Fleeing political persecution
below
and bombs above,
it's hard to prove
which is which,
but it all must feel the same.
It all means flight;
the faces all wear pain;
row upon row
of displaced people
huddled against
the cold of night
or walking in the rain,
holding hands and helping,
foul weather friends,
they straggle
across borders,
to line up under tarps
and wait for this
nightmare
of human folly
to end.
The bombs rain down
"to keep their country safe"
the Suits all say.
But, their homes
in rubble around them,
under an exploding sky,
they can probably be forgiven
for not appreciating the "help"
or understanding why.
Three American lives
are imprisoned
and at risk
and governments mobilize
to talk,
all grave of face,
while thousand upon thousand
other human lives
are for years
displaced,
the "casualties of war",
another war
to Keep Freedom Safe
but safe for who?
As if we ever knew.
How did it come to be
that dropping bombs
became the way
to peace?
Old women
weeping in the mud
on my tv,
their normal lives
suspended
for the duration,
Tomorrow a questionable part
of the equation,
Today
a nightmare
dreamed by
an entire nation,
from which they cant
awaken.
People on the planet
are on the move.
Once more
long lines of
the dispossessed
cross borders
into lands that
do not want them.
Memories of
World War Two
come back to haunt them.
It seems the more technology
we gain,
the more shared pain,
the less we understand
the sacredness
of living,
and our true purpose
here
which is for giving.
Across blue springtime skies
jets soar like swallows
dropping bombs
in all the hidden hollows
that on-screen
are portrayed
like video games
the Big Boys play,
that carefully do not show
the human lives
scrabbling among the rubble
down below.
From space,
we look so pretty:
blue and white,
mountain ranges and water
spread about for our delight.
The bombs,
and all the misery,
are ours.
War is Man's invention:
the Suits, in all their might,
juggling their powers,
have created
one more disaster
that can never
be made right.
From above,
the Divine Source
that gave us
life on earth
must regret
entrusting to us solely
a gift of so much worth,
must be waiting for us to
finish ourselves off
so life can start again
somewhere more holy.
**********************
Deep in the
hidden caverns
of Mother Earth
moving from place
to distressed place
are Peaceful Beings
whose soul/sole purpose
is to beam Peace
upon the Planet
keeping it in
its natural cycles
and rotations
while other men
play war games
with the population.
These Beings
focus all their
energy
on peace
to help the centre hold
against the onslaught
of human error
that topples life
in place upon place
into distress and terror
across the embattled face
of Mother Earth,
weeping under
the crash of bombs
-peace by innuendo?-
released by young men
pushing buttons
the way that only yesterday
they played
Nintendo.
It is all human folly,
the result of a world
gone mad
pursuing the Myth of More:
more Things,
more Land, more Power,
from a world
of finite resources.
We squeeze and squeeze:
just a little bit more,
just let me have mine
and then we'll talk
conservation:
up ahead somewhere
other generations
can pull in their belts.
Just this little bit more
wont hurt,
no one will even
feel it.
The irony being
that in five minutes
the sky can rain down bombs
and we'll be forced to
hit the road
with only the clothes
on our backs,
all our Stuff
reduced
to what we can pack.
Bombs that rain so
Freedom can prevail?
Do the refugees believe?
Or do they flee the bombs
as much as they wish to be free?
Politics mere empty chatter
to the mass of humanity
that's seething
across the barren plains,
as sheer survival
boils down to
simply breathing.
The placid earth
waits silently below
for man to get a grip
and let his inner guidance flow.
For somewhere deep inside
we Know.
