by Gil Hoy
through pulsating flesh, as
the hot orange sun glistens
on freshly red-tainted steel.
No moans, no cries, no gasps,
as the core of a rational caring
man drops to the ground
with a sickening thud.
A Prime Minister recoils in
disgust at an uncivilized war
and the provocative evil
natives who dared to show
the world what a savage
brutal killing entails.
The monstrous revenge of
bombs continues to rein on
villages of the weak, who have
no say over anything, and have
been moved into the firing zone,
their killing ordered by faceless
masters they will never know,
unconcerned with the day’s
politics, just wanting another
day’s food and shelter.
A smiling child skips along
the beach in her wildly carefree
exuberance, dexterously
dodging the remaining sea tide
of welcoming puddles, not knowing
about the boys coming home in
body bags from ruinous
wars that she never would have
wanted, awed by the rhythmic
tidal sounds and smell of sea
salt, as a bagpipe player
in full regalia thinks about
the way the world still conducts
war and plays haunting songs
in the sand. A disgraced
soldier receives God’s
commendation for abandoning the
flag and disobeying a command,
while an inquisitive circling seagull flies
overhead looking for something
fresh to eat in the sea’s puddles.
Gil Hoy studied poetry at Boston University, and started writing his own poetry in February of this year. Since then, Gil’s poems have been published in Soul Fountain, The New Verse News, The Story Teller Magazine, the Clark Street Review, Eye On Life Magazine, and Stepping Stones Magazine.
