Anti-War Villanelle

Hail to the Chiefs

With their boot heels they grind us down to sand.
No nest to feather for the common man.
We were a country; now we are a land.

There is no grave apocalypse at hand.
The threat of it they use to fuel their plan.
With their boot heels they grind us down to sand.

All we like sheep give in to their demands
While amputees can’t move their own bedpans.
We were a country; now we are a land.

The elite rule with their adrenal glands
And slaver at the chance to bomb Iran.
With their boot heels they grind us down to sand.

A mad idealist is in command.
I’m sure he’s never read the damn Koran.
We were a country; now we are a land.

Elected, aren’t they? With a Marine band!
(Appointments go to suits in a sedan.)
With their boot heels they grind us down to sand.
We were a country; now we are a land.


I have never been a political poet, but recent developments have driven me to write about the insanity going on. Send more troops? Hilarious. Say we have 300,000, which is impossible. The Iraqis have 30 million and a gun in nearly every home. And this is an urban guerilla war, not the kind of thing that lends itself to large conventional troops. It reminds me the carnival game, "Whack-A-Mole." Soon as you hit one gopher another comes up.

Again I am impressed by the lack of public and vociferous protest. There are a few, like congressman Murtha. But it seems all the major players see our continued involvement in Iraq some kind of necessity for stabilizing the Mideast. I am repeating myself, but you might as well try to tame a brood of vipers.

I don't know what I'm going to do about this. I guess I'll write my congressman for starters. Then there is Poets for Peace, which I've never really pursued. Perhaps one of my political poems would suit them.

I won't comment on my mood.

CE