PULSE

the Mother with her infant girl
in her arms
sat on a burning field in Spain
near where
the German bombs had just fallen from the sky
a terrible noise fell and dead bodies fell
drumming piercing stabbing wails of anguish washing the wounds
no Democratic musician seen grooving to the sound of
heart beats of concussions thousands of screams mournful hearts
tossed dreams limp like un-stuffed dolls
haphazardly dusted in blackness each solemn face etched
and every eye tired and sore and bleeding tears
dense smoke coiling and crying children hiding
underneath crumbled bedroom walls where
no childhood memory no family picture remained intact
the temperatures rising, rising
as church bells ring in the near distance while hope fades
miracles fade, too, from the dry lips of anxious fathers
who wonder aloud about a better future or any future at all!
sleepwalking corpses methodically with a purpose
below a full harvest moon
hear the sound of each weeping field as their feet tip toe over ruin,
looking for a place where the grass is greener.
and another Mother with her infant
girl
in her arms,
her Earth finger pointing directly at the melting ice
near where ancient glaciers now frequently calve
a terrible noise as solid pieces fall thunderously into the salt sea
she holds her gaze steadily and
ice bergs newly born in their solar maternity ward begin
the long float away to a different sort of watery oblivion.
oh no, i fear they fall down on me! so i run, run
trying to stop the bombs as my feet
tip toe below a full harvest moon, over the same ruin
overwhelmed by the Mother's moan and her infant's sigh .