Short Tattering Poems

Black wings are beating a sharp tattoo,
A-tattering on your skull.
A raven is perched on all of you
There is:  a bone-white hull.

The love of your youth, she floats in mist.
Your triumphs and brave defeats
And manhood expire.  No dreams exist.
Just bones, where the black wing beats...

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The angry sea tosses,
waves on a jetty of stone,
at the edge of the great square.
Under a dark and torn sky,
the wind screams and moves,
lifting the waves of the sea,
going thro doors and between pillars,
tattering the banders of men.
The fallen shadows,
lint stones,
columns,
city.
The people are gone,
a city in death,
sea and stormy sky,
alone.
The traveler passing,
thinking,
wondering,
asking,
not knowing,
why....

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I.

The rhythm of war is the ancient roll
Of the tattering, martial drum,
The slick of the boots—and the perfect salutes—
The drummer boy’s dum-da-dum.

II.

The lyrics of war are the usual ones
Politicians can spout with aplomb:
“God bids us begin—and this war we can win
--He blesses our cause and our Bomb.”

III.

The tune of the war is the ancient cry
Of mothers’ and sisters’ moan
(And the children’s and wives’) with the heart of their lives
Down under a flag-draped stone....

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