Christina A. Sharik


Wind blowing wildly through the trees
snow and sleet, stinging,
until you drop upon your knees
bamboo clicking in a sighing breeze
and I can think of more than these…

The silent breathing of a hidden man,
the patting of a shoulder by a wounded hand
the cries of children in a foreign land.
The waves that crash upon the dune
the beatings of the seagulls’ wings
as they fly across the gold full moon ~
opening a letter, in December,
dated June.

In all the movies that we see
the crash of drums and guitar strings
match the tunes the warrior sings
I wonder now, as I’ve always done
why they put music to what’s been done
why they don’t just let the noise of war
Be the music ~ be the score.

A crescendo of birds in flight ~
and tree limbs snapping
damp, shimmering heat – energy sapping
Bloody waves, at the sand’s edge, lapping…

Screaming men, and blasting guns
amid tinkling water as a river runs;
one last, soft breath, and single little sighs
the faint and sacred, simple word, “mother”,
heard only by a caring brother;
the slight, light flutter of the closing eyes
and at the last, the silence of the one who dies.