A little bird has flown the nest
to seek a world of wonder
and spreads her wings 'neath skies possessed
by lightning bolts and thunder.
She flees approaching hurricanes
her feathers, white, aflutter,
and travels over vast terrains
of broken stones and clutter.
And though she swoops to skirt the curse
her hopes are torn asunder,
for on the ground’s a universe
of raging death and plunder.
The sands below have hid all trace
of olive trees and clover
where splintered bones now span a space
which rolling dunes pass over.
In search of silent secrets stored
by enemies uncertain
the loons will surf with waterboard,
well masked behind a curtain.
Beneath the bats that flee in fright
from hell that’s in the making
(so hot, the corpse of night ignites),
the thread of life is breaking.
A sudden burst and numbing noise
(replacing sounds of laughter)
lead army boots o’er children’s toys
debouching towards disaster.
Barrages break and rivers bleed
in everywhere down under
but nonetheless there’s flesh for feed
wherever buzzards blunder.
The aged, youth and embryos,
through wanton death, are waning -
the vultures, hawks and ebon crows,
well fed, are not complaining.
As carnage spreads (like ancient plagues),
a virus cruel and schlepping,
the lanes are lined with shattered legs
where e’er the goose was stepping.
A ducky quacks in hot pursuit
while seeking help and shelter,
but wizened owls give not a hoot
in worlds so helter-skelter
The consequence of pillages,
where love of man surceases,
are craters, onetime villages
reduced to tiny pieces.
The gardens, white, where lilies bloomed,
now fallow fields of ashes,
are catacombs of cities doomed
'neath sonic booms and flashes.
Survivors traipsing place to place
like nomads forced to wander,
are searching for a piece of peace
within the distant yonder.
A savage world in smithereens
with olive branches burning -
disgruntled doves endure these scenes
through endless years of yearning.
The Gods of birds are of no use,
inept like Those of others -
so foes attack, with blessed excuse
{both sides claim right inside the night!}
while earth, in embers, smothers.
Epitaph
The cuckoos covet kingdom come
while roosting on a rafter -
there’s food for all, though only chum,
in birdy-land hereafter.