Black Sea babies born under bombs.
Slavic slaves attacking brothers, sisters, sons.
Grey Ghost Country, sunflowers suffocated by
a red dust.
Scattered to the wind, people massed and moved.
A funeral of dogs, fleeing to the west.
Kill from a distance, not when the spittle is in your
Not up close.
Sovereign state suffering, annexed by the big boots
of small, distant men.
War, expressed at the end of long table. Blood on the the floor of white marble,
Splattered on columns of the madness rhetoric.
Sunflower tall and bright on scorched monochrome earth.
Dried seeds, the husk of people, sewn on the wind, drifting in their own land.
Dispersed memories, objects, things, dreams, blood and flesh.
Hope endures in a golden field and blue sky. A line drawn in the sand of a single line flag.
Flash and flint from a far eastern sky, with the world watching.
Who flinches first and disturbs our comfort?
Banks of men stay to protect the rivulets of a people. Another sleeping giant,
has awoken…grumpy, angry and ill prepared at first. Restless, like the groggy, not needed sleep of daytime.
But he is patient, and keeps a sanctioned silence behind his walls.
The Madonna of the meadows has fled west, where we are fingers and thumbs…tongue tied and tide. Impotent men with only the weapon
Shadows in the Black Sea, ancient ports cut off by a cold curtain tide, immovable iron dropped in the bays.
Sandbags in the snow.
Burred in the theatre of war, what ridiculous and shameful rhetoric. The language burns with a false pride!
The Hollow Man returns, he is present at the best and worst of mankind. He is in the blackest heart and
the warmest smile. Behind all our eyes. Only our actions speak the truth.
A Zephyr of cries.
Tiny droplets of dignified blood fall in the rain.
A small boy whispers to the moon, alone, as he waits for a train to depart…
…”let it stop!”
– Keith Jepson. March 22.