All my life, in addition to manager, teacher, dog walker, night librarian, cleaner of tiles, rocker of babies, folder of laundry, dish washer extraordinaire, I wanted to be a writer.
Women are rarely one thing. We can’t resist our innate talent for nesting, team building, nurturing, placing others before ourselves. This is our gift.
Our hearts are larger than we know. We learn this
by plumbing those depths in safety with women on similar treks.
Not only can we write, speak, laugh, cry, loose old bonds which keep us tied, but we find, after many drafts, the titles we long sought rest in our own hands.
Before a war we think we know
exactly how the war will go.
Accountants happily project
raised GDP and its effect.
Predict each country will adopt
a free economy and co-opt democracy
who’ll bloom just like a desert rose
but that is never how it goes.
During war the News Hour lists
each soldier whose return is missed
and the places they called home,
a soldier’s life reduced to loam.
No locals named, not friend nor foe
who is who? How can we know?
The war drags on, a swamp, a mire
repeating tours, souls under fire.
It’s forgotten once we start
wars pay for nothing not a part
of their pile of pain and loss
yet we ignore the total cost.
Lives, limbs and minds are left behind.
We're told the same lies every time.
The goals and actions are a fake
leave ravaged landscape in their wake.
Once home, our soldiers dream the war
and wonder what it all was for.