Now as above, so below, fear
from drones and rockets, shooting stars,
or hand to hand, white vests ignored
by starbursts of their nozzle flames.
But lower hits in cramping style,
gripped paining pangs of hunger while
they mourn for generations lost
by homeland barbed and rubble strewn.
This carpet, bombing place laid waste
is fitted, fitting in the space
if god is owned, exclusive race,
the other less than human face.
Within this chaos, reason, rhyme
that this their rainbow’s promised time,
a reassurance, not a crime.
The sky calls screaming, yet again
for justice from one god of peace –
no destiny, looking away
to nation’s flag; tire, flag as draped
more boxes, country’s dead in rows,
all uniform, but not intent
as awnings where nomadics slept.
But redirected, time again,
is not as pilgrim people meant.
For none entrusted brother love,
but ancient lore of enmity
as anywhere where god claimed lone,
true deity without compare.
Bald declarations cannot win
our souls or hearts in history.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com