The Flight of Nazguls
(written during The Bush Years and the Invasion of Iraq)
La Vieille Dame
I've seen her stranded as the harbour waters lap beneath her metal skirt, and I've heard her cry silently in the night.
Her crown, like antennae, buzzes with news of Super Hornet and drone.
So many forms of mechanized death.
Is it for this that she opened her arms to the world?
The Next Generation
The ancient fleets sit in the harbour
wrapped in black covers
like evil gods.
Pandora plucks the string
and the contagion is let loose
into the green world:
birthday presents for Moloch and Ahriman
Kali and Ereshkigal.
On the decks of the supercarriers —
flat decks for Nazguls —
a thousand Harriers lift off like killer bees
to swarm the command posts and strafe the villages
while the big guns aboard the Super Hornets
flying at almost twice the speed of sound
drop their payloads of death.
The Fire That Still Burns
Your hand stretches toward the heavens
to fire the imagination and light the way
for the huddled masses
the wretched and the poor.
Yet Oh my God in the thundering cloud
who lit the napalm flame
and closed the door?