The Backdrop of War

There always was the ripped backdrop of war,
and ‘The Scream’ silent
in every meeting around a dining table;
there, in the apparent quiet of ornaments,
or behind smoky piano notes,
drifting the air of a violin, along the OM of a cello -
there, encircling the joy of music; or as a presence
in satire, in the tone of our laughter,
- how intimate is war -
in the toast we make before drinking, the process of eating,
in the privacy of bedrooms there are ghosts at the foot of the bed
who listen as quietly to the silence
behind the chatter and the clatter of plates and cutlery,
as when they share the breath of our dreams;
we live a hush with them, and we know it,
especially when we stand before ‘The Scream’

Then there are memorial days, festival days, birthdays,
and a visit to a cemetery; and afterwards,
screams lurk the silence of coffee houses,
waiting the tables everyday
behind the turning of Newspaper pages,
in front of the words “collateral damage”,
“…ethnic cleansing…”
“The bugle sounds….”
and of course, the scream is there in aura
all around the images of flags.

It is here, all through a one-minute silence,
all along the red road to Peace,
here with the years it may take to travel Home;
and the ghosts come too, escorting, without a sound,
the lifetime it may take
to find a quiet time and place
to scream for them out loud.



(c)07