Yellow Ribbons . . .

On the trees,
Yellow ribbons on their sleeves

But red is the blood
You spill in war
And colors are what
Dead eyes can see
No more.

So yellow ribbons
Wrap the trees while
Bombs blast the sand
To its knees

     And


Countries begin to sew
Yellow ribbons to the body bags,

Let yellow ribbons become

Refugee rags,

And remember that dead yellow

Eyes can not see their
Own toe tags.


This poem grew out of the frustrating realization that ending Vietnam, which is what we libs liked to think, hadn't meant we wouldn't have to face the same idiocy over and over again.  But here we are, a second Gulf War later, Homeland Securitied and 1984ed, and supposedly scared to death.

Stress and Strain

Here's my first rewrite.  This poem's origin is in the poet's reaction the first War in Iraq.  I'll post the original later.

Stress and Stain

Killing my brain
Leaves my train of thoughts tangled as twelve people

Dead in a confusion of crashed railroad cars,

Cabooses up, engine ends down.

No, yes, I can or think I could, toot-toot.

Just empty sounds of parts falling, echoing away
        like oil fire dust clouds in arid lands or
Blownup up Twin Towers.