A Bird's Eye View

A little bird has flown the nest

                     to seek a world of wonder

 and spreads her wings 'neath skies possessed      

                     by lightning bolts and thunder.

She flees approaching hurricanes 

                     her feathers, white, aflutter,

and travels over vast terrains

                     of broken stones and clutter.

And though she swoops to skirt the curse

                     her hopes are torn asunder,

for on the ground’s a universe

                     of raging death and plunder.

The sands below have hid all trace

                     of olive trees and clover

where splintered bones now span a space

                     which rolling dunes pass over.

In search of silent secrets stored

                     by enemies uncertain 

the loons will surf with waterboard,

                     well masked behind a curtain.

Beneath the bats that flee in fright

                     from hell that’s in the making

(so hot, the corpse of night ignites),

                     the thread of life is breaking.

A sudden burst and numbing noise

                     (replacing sounds of laughter)

lead army boots o’er children’s toys

                     debouching towards disaster.

Barrages break and rivers bleed 

                     in everywhere down under 

but nonetheless there’s flesh for feed

                     wherever buzzards blunder.

The aged, youth and embryos,

                     through wanton death, are waning -

the vultures, hawks and ebon crows,

                     well fed, are not complaining.

As carnage spreads (like ancient plagues),

                     a virus cruel and schlepping,

the lanes are lined with shattered legs

                     where e’er the goose was stepping.

A ducky quacks in hot pursuit

                     while seeking help and shelter,

but wizened owls give not a hoot

                     in worlds so helter-skelter

                     

The consequence of pillages,

                     where love of man surceases,

are craters, onetime villages

                     reduced to tiny pieces.

The gardens, white, where lilies bloomed,

                     now fallow fields of ashes,

are catacombs of cities doomed

                     'neath sonic booms and flashes.

Survivors traipsing place to place

                     like nomads forced to wander,

are searching for a piece of peace

                     within the distant yonder.

A savage world in smithereens

                     with olive branches burning -

disgruntled doves endure these scenes

                     through endless years of yearning.

The Gods of birds are of no use,

                     inept like Those of others -

so foes attack, with blessed excuse

{both sides claim right inside the night!}

                     while earth, in embers, smothers.

                     Epitaph

The cuckoos covet kingdom come  

                     while roosting on a rafter -

there’s food for all, though only chum,

                     in birdy-land hereafter.