• author
    • Stacey Robinson

      Blogger
    • July 24, 2014 in Bloggers

    Six thousand miles

    War is not quiet.
    It’s filled with the blare
    Of rockets
    And sirens
    And inconsolable screams.

    I can hear this,
    Even six thousand miles away.

    Sirens race past my window,
    A trumpeting of danger,
    To herald
    incoming wounded
    Bound for the hospital
    Only blocks away.
    They’re nothing but
    Pale echoes
    Not the banshee wail of war,
    With their warnings of
    Incoming rockets –
    Incoming destruction,
    Measuring precision in
    the radius of a widening
    Circle.

    I pause, even so,
    Disquieted.
    Now I hear them differently,
    these sirens,
    even six thousand miles away.

    Every monitor
    Is filled with the screeching,
    screaming
    Noise of war –
    With talking heads,
    And jagged rubble,
    And incendiary,
    Incandescent
    Rage.
    And all of it stops,
    in unsettled
    rattling stillness,
    That is never quite
    Quiet,
    To honor the grieving
    of soldiers
    and civilians
    For their Dead.

    War is an after image
    of fireworks
    captured behind closed eyes.
    I wait for the
    coming boom,
    The unrelenting sound
    of war,
    and the grainy
    gritty
    barrage of
    pictures
    and pain.

    I watch it unfold,
    This time-lapsed flower,
    Blossoming violence
    and bursting
    bright
    Red
    on a plasma screen.

    Six thousand miles feels
    Like inches
    on plasma.

    Images course through
    The wired veins of my
    television,
    Traveling six thousand miles
    In ones and zeroes,
    To flow through the plasma
    That connects me
    To the world
    And the noise of
    War.

     

     



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