by Clyo Beck
I would like to make war beautiful
describing bright white explosive light
Star-like streaming, screaming with power
cascading tiers of sparkling sand
pallid cheeks blushing with the rush to their Creator
a last beautiful touch
before the transition from this world to the next.
I would like to make war holy
praising its cleansing virtues—
as it snaps the stalk of life so purely, so deftly—
and give hooded terror a godly name, invoking some deity
Who, angry as myself, enjoys seeing the warm red blood of his babes
spattered upon the hot wind,
their limp hands no longer reaching
to usurp my star.
I would like to make war just
invoking centuries old karma
assuring that those who died, lived by the sword
and must die beautifully by it,
in a cosmic mystery wondrous and terrible
that doesn’t, really, involve me.
But most of all, from a distant place,
through some rapturous pairing
of original imagery and meaningful meaning
I would like to make war comfort those it has left behind
with beautiful words
and feel satisfied for my contribution
and maybe receive accolades
for weaving horror into magic.
But I can’t.
I cannot make war beautiful.
I cannot make war holy.
I cannot make war just.
Not because words cannot lie.
But because we need the truth.
Born in Cleveland, Ohio, Clyo Beck graduated from Ohio State University and lived in San Jose, California where she studied metaphysical and religious principles. She founded Prayerforce.Org, dedicated to peace and is the author of Prayerforce: 365 Days to a New Life. She lives in Tarpon Springs, Florida.
