James Deahl

1999

Listening To The Government Lie About The Attack On Yugoslavia

Within the body, an emptiness.
Great clouds obscure the sun.
Of their own will, people die in darkness.

The fishers return with nothing
but the hollow echo of the sea
in their hold.  Lovers lie apart.

A silence lives in the ears of corn.  At the edge of a field a man stands, his hands wishing to fly. 

James Deahl

While The Terror-Bombing Continues

Red-winged blackbirds call
and call from last year’s cattails
deep in Cootes Paradise
while out, beyond the reeds, swans drift past in pairs.
My daughters and I stare
at this tongue of the lake
for a glimpse of fish
rising to insects skimming the surface, for a glimpse of the life below.
Silently, we marvel at the early spring.
Here and there thin green needles
pierce the stiff brown rushes,
a new generation rising,
always a new generation.
For we have the luxury
of living without bombs.
No gunfire disturbs our marsh,
only the blackbirds calling out
their pure desire.

James Deahl