When evening church bells sound the hours
in dreary rooms just faintly lit
by dim candlelight that glowers
in corners where the parents sit,
then the guest arises and starting
homeward, his smile and bow of head
soon will ease the ache of parting
and warm the virgin to her bed.

Fleeting moments of order.

But then the boots begin to march,
and the wheels begin to rumble
and in dread young men’s throats would parch,
but old men began to mumble,
while dreaming glories of their youth,
forgotten was their fear when led
to wars that always hide the truth:
What glory when the young lie dead.

Then the armies numbered millions.

Never again the old men swore
so many of our sons were slain.
We shall not make another war
and always women sobbed in pain.
So men rebuilt their homes and town
and women made new sons to show
the world wonders and win renown,
but old hatreds began to grow.

Tremors felt in many lands. Tremors.

The boots began to march again.
The wheels rumbled even faster.
The speed of aircraft blinded men
to the menace of disaster,
unleashing a wild destruction
on the world that was unprepared
to heed voices of instruction
from the resisting few who dared.

Mankind, twisted in postures of madness.

How long before protest works? Time
refused to wait until reason
destroyed by man’s unholy crime,
withdrew to await her season.
Men, too busy killing to mourn;
in prisons, battles, tortures, bled
in millions, a new age was born,
with nations numbered in the dead.

Ovens to end people,
bombs to end cities.

© 2008 Gary Beck

The black men of my city
used to walk the dawn streets
in constant anger.
They did not fear
the nighttime men in pale sheets,
but wilted under the slow sneer,
patronizing hand,
bad joke, nervous glance,
but all that changed
after 9/11,
when democratic death collected,
regardless of race, creed, color.