Small Axe
Whoso causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit: but the upright shall have good things in possession
Proverbs 28:10
Whosoever diggeth a pit
Shall bury in it – shall bury in it.
Bob Marley – Small Axe
moon set dawn
when I heard those words
the first time
weapons of mass destruction
imminent and threatening
the morning’s
blessings beaten by
arrogance
and everything became a
metaphor for dementia
Jesus had
become fictional
the big lie
my father’s brain was shattered
but he would force the pieces
John McCain
World War I hero
was his man
he would end this war right now
one dropped bomb to clean up house
a message
to the world about
U.S.A.!
silver and gray rain hit the
windshield – the sound of running–
fleeing a
bully or gunfire—
maybe both
grainy satellite photos
tiny gray objects circled
this is the
way the brain must look
unfocused
grainy bits of memory
in a field of gray chaos
dialogue?
out of context words
this is proof?
in the end Elektra knew
that she had not gained a thing
the black dawn
was deepened by clouds
haughtiness
the wind banged against our homes—
a sound of desperation
no measure
of compliance would
be enough
what chilling egotism
to forget the taste of fear
to shrug off
the rising voices
with a smirk
to give an ultimatum
you’re either with us or them
missiles filled
the air that first day
of springtime
and it needed to be named
a pro-wrestling kind of phrase
to erase
the line between truth
and fiction
Showdown with Saddam: Target
Iraq. Smackdown! Game of Thrones!
half-mast flags
and hero ghosts rose
from the bush
liberation and freedom
a lexicon for the blind
the thumbnail
of the moon was bruised
behind clouds
a photographer of war
took close up shots of the dead
if we saw
what war does close up
we might stop
propaganda custom made
to be acted on a ship
we waxed ‘em
mission accomplished
haji dead
there are no large solutions
truths are momentary things
and sadly
flags were raised half staff
in the rain
optimistic confidence
the General’s abstraction
casket rows
draped with stars and stripes
disappeared
as if we weren’t aware that
illusion is illusion
the crocus
pushed up through the snow
tiny prayers
not some shady sleight of hand
that everyone knew was fixed
they were there
actual flowers
air of spring
bittersweet crept through the heart
of everything that could grow
and this too
would become the past
way back there
setting at O-dark-thirty
too late to begin again
too early
to quit though 10 years
have gone by
10 years watching my father
erasing his own body
10 years of
telling myself that
every thought
is a thing to be recalled
the lies the bombs the coffins
even the
aphasia with its
empathy
John L. Stanizzi is the author of Ecstasy Among Ghosts, now in its fourth printing, Sleepwalking, and Windows. His poems have appeared in The New York Quarterly,
Tar River Poetry, Rattle, Freshwater, Passages North, The Spoon River Quarterly, Poet Lore, The Connecticut River Review, and many other publications. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, in 1998 Stanizzi was named The New England Poet of the Year by The New England Association of Teachers of English. He teaches English at Manchester Community College and Bacon Academy, where he also directed the theatre program for fifteen years. He lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry, Connecticut.
Burning Bush Revival 