Holy War 

In deserts hidden in the East,

behind His dark brown eyes,

Baleful arts are yet asleep

with His cultured plans for those,

whose name he loathes from bunkers deep.

Telecasts scorched metalled minds

of those who watching from the west,

see wide-eyed twisted trunks and limbs

Who suffered from His handiwork,

whose childrens' lights and lives he dims.

He will not show His lethal hand,

But they suspect at least a straight,

Perhaps full house and if not crushed

He could draw a card to leave

Them in the shadow of a flush.

And those who mass the greatest of

all arsenals of all worldly time,

tremble at what might be hid

beneath the sands of History

on His military grid.

And even deeper in those lands

a black blood courses through His veins,

Paralyzing them with fear.

They know their own veins will run thin

as water in a few more years.

When their artery's lacework jells,

To join vast venous networks calm,

and when they seek to suckle breasts

Of that Great Righteous Mother fat,

Who feeds and gluts them in the West.

While His blackblood waits to be tapped,

But with no righteous purpose served

in black-blood-taking in their creed,

The just are left to live in fear,

of adumbrations of their need.

But prodded by His Ancient Foe,

who feeds from Her gargantuan breasts,

alongside Her own who sucked from birth,

Appeasing Them, she'll rise to take

His sole remaining buried worth.

She telecasts His victims' pain

and adding more by sanctions grim,

She places children of the East

beneath Her boot and heel of steel

and thus becomes their hated beast.

While Her voracious tongue ignites

a flame within Her children's mouths,

Her Bastard Child promulgates

tales of His horrific deeds,

hid rocket loads of death and hate.

Frightened, sleepless, hungry eyes,

Little ears who've learned to hear

Approaching canopies of fire.

While western children watch with pride

their father warriors' bloody hire.

Payloads screaming through their night

on missles, stealth and tomahawks,

dismembered hands they tightly hold

of parents dead on city streets,

in rebarred concrete bunkers cold.

Burned with mosque and power plants,

scorched innocence slowly lifts

into the skies with stench and smoke

as on their hunger, cold and hate,

the small ones learn to weep and choke.

And yellow ribbons tied to trees,

bring warriors back to bellies filled,

while smart bomb builders' profits swell,

as videos of smoke-stack hits

play with victory's acrid smell.

While reckless, wanton, ruthless men,

the other blames on holy grounds,

Again the plans in Her great head

Call righteously for cutting off

The hands that fed His children bread.

The trap is set, the dawn is Here,

In desperate rage he will fulfill

His future planned with greatest care

by Her, to sate Her children's lust
within Her luminescent glare.

~ Desert Storm, 1991, Les Blough

 

More poetry by Les Blough 

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