Sick of the fight, sick of the fright
I won’t go to battle
I’m weary of war
I always meant to tell you
I ‘m so weary of war
won’t march to slaughter
I’m sick of the herd
won’t be railroaded
Won’t squeeze in that cattle car
Off to the crusty old abatoir
Can’t stand the horror
Can’t stand the blood
I always meant to tell you
The blood is a flood
The blood on the ground
being licked by your hound
bullets don’t fly
they don’t have no wings
I always meant to tell you
Those fingers carress your beloved
Same fingers compress the triggers
The hammers come down
shiny bullets propel
hammers forged in hell.
Rockets don’t glare
They don’t have no eyes
I always meant to tell you
The rockets I despise
Don’t light any skies
They extinguish the light
Red dwarf light big bang light
The million years old light
The light from the galaxies
From the heavens above
Sick of the horror
the sticky darkening blood
I ‘d prefer not to tell you
The blood is a flood
The river of blood
Tsunami of blood
I won’t go to battle
I’m weary of war
I ‘m so weary of war
Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)
Here on the headland by Downe's Point
we case dreams to rise
synchronous with eagles and gulls,
all make-believe, egocentric,
near to fanatical,
else aim true to roam deep
with Leviathan in the ocean's mind,
free from perplexities and profundities
such as bind the scheduled self
Here is the arbutus grove
whose trunks and branches tighten
like nerves, twisted witnesses,
victims of shapely winds
which blow in always unseen,
sweet from the south
or coming cold from the north,
from every direction
the prevailing force of nature
Wish I could emulate the arbutus
slough off my thin skin as easily
as these natives trees their bark
from abrasion, disdain or design,
unveiling the bare beauty
of strong, hard wood beneath
Over on Fossil Bay
the rot of herring roe
strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs
on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock,
thickened the morning air,
but gave no cause for bereavement:
these millions of botched birthings!
And none also for the Salish,
no open lamentation for a race
almost obliterated without trace
from their native habitat
save a few totems, some evidences of middens,
a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits
carved a thousand years ago
on smooth flat rock by the shore,
of killer whales, Leviathans again,
to guide their hunts,
the destiny of their tribe.
Having retraced them
gently with finger tips,
they now guide mine.
Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)
half of love
plus half of half
is halo and I
don't believe
in angels, no.
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