Buildings, a lighthouse, a city turns reef,
all under the ocean,
worn and gutted like a Spanish galleon -
children wander in and out like new fish -
their city wreckage eaten by the sea
of blood and ghosts of blood,
blood-souls, blood-clouds, blood-thoughts
and the lurking plans for blood,
where guarded journalists study the ruins
in a mother's face, a young mans' ancient eyes
and new-burning forests
to sell charcoal to oil-rich, fat men
who never had a forest to burn.
Their sons rise up against women
because women deliver blood
but men spill it in the streets
and this is called religion.
They will rid the world of fertility
and sin, and eating in peace
and drinking, and lusting after life.
There is a market for blood-letting,
for the craft of explosives,
an art form recognized by God.
There is a market for soldiers.
The market for forests, grains, and fish is terrifyingly
spare, or may get you by just on the edge
of death, but not
in the dead-sure middle
where suicides have better salaries
and the end is a tearing apart
a devil's blood feast
washed away like everything else
leaving a mosque of rubble
where no one prays
and archaeologists comb
through the afterlife,
looking for a motive
© 2009 OMYMA
About the author: Omyma
Age: Probably older than you
Other online presence: thinkbridge
Personal: married, 5 children (mostly adults)
Interest in poetry: from childhood - then a period of 30 yrs a blank - and now...
Will contribute to this blog, thanks to the encouragement of the inimitable Poetryman