Paul A.F. Misiere (Micheals)


With fantail aft
And waves below
A glimmering shore
Not one I know
A patch of cloud
Obscures the sun
The .50 cal
Says time to run
People run
Below my feet
Then scurry
In the mid-day heat
See the glint
In the .50’s eye
Searching for
The next to die
Through the door
The shrapnel comes
Clear message
From Ol’ Charlie’s gun
No way we’ll go
We’re here to stay
It’s not your war
Fuck you we say
Mother, child
Caught in the plight
Take cover
From the .50’s sight
Deafening rounds
Seek Charlie’s lair
And leave no trace
Of what was there
Only thing
That’s left behind
Are tears that leave
The Children blind
The .50 cares
Of not what’s good
It’s made to kill
And kill it would
Day is done
No more to find
Cradled Child
With cheek to mine
Blending tears
From each our face
Victims of
A fall from grace