this morning was still, ethereal quiet
this mourning was a scream, to those that knew
at 5:56 am the sun rose,
at some time prior a Baba fell.
she was not pierced by shell
nor torn by shrapnel
she was not raped or beaten,
alone with the souls of the newly passed.
her spirit rose above the fray
taken by a broken heart
poets and mothers will say.
above the motors of war/of hate.
she’ll sleep now with sunflowers in fields of dreams.
she’ll leave her word to spread like seeds in the wind.
she’ll embrace the soldiers she met gifted packets of seed,
who now gather around her,
in freshly seeded streets, parades, sidewalks, boulevards, and homes in Kyiv.
will they all glory in the pastie smiles
on the frosty grey faces of politicians/of generals
that brought on this picnic from hell.
When sunflowers grow again,
let’s not forget, the terrible price we all paid.
Born and raised on the prairies of Manitoba Canada, along the Red River and just south of Lake Winnipeg. Then Alberta and ten years in the Rockies, just above Montana. The last decade in the Canadian Gulf Islands. People, ideas and stories set the stage of my poetry and writing. Music and art fill my days and verse fills my head. I feel the fortunate one and share this world with my life partner.