war-mongers believe in hawks
who swoop and scream munitions
through their scorched carcasses.

Jerusalem bleeds her sons
oil thick and flames to skies
as mothers mourn their deathdays.

hybrid of life, politics,
and greed whittle the hunter
to bead at hawk’s spry head.

I pledge allegiance to lie
face down with bullets who graze
red, white, and blue gangrene flesh.

ground gazes to the grey-blue
searching for thaumaturgies
who breathe life to civilians.

a phoenix ceases to rise.
all that is left are ashes,
a fleet reminder of peace.

©2003, Wynne Mercado

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An entertainer by day and poet by night, Wynne Mercado hopes a warm breeze of peace envelops the world. More of her poetry can be found at The Salvage Yard.

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