Peace & War

It was early in the morning, Saturday, as I looked toward the skies early light, the rockets red glare and the war was still there.
I turned the knob on the tiller and checked the oil; it was fine; I poured some gas into the empty gas tank. I took out a wrench and turned the spark plug loose. I looked at the plug and it looked fine, I wire brushed it anyway. I took a little of the dullness out of it and made it looked polished and clean. I screwed the plug back into the tiller as a tomahawk missile flew toward the horizon. I chocked the tiller and pulled on the cord, the tiller gave a chug and started to fire, I pulled out the throttle and push in the choke and the engine fired up. I thought I heard some rumbling out on the horizon.
I squeezed the trigger and the tiller moved forward, the tines dug into the soil. I moved the tiller toward the center of the garden. I was going to cultivate from the center out in a long rectangle. From the edges of my peripheral hearing I could barely here a woman wailing as they dragged her dead son off the playing field.
The birds had come back to the feeders while I was busy tilling; they paid me no mind.
The Goldfinch's have gone elsewhere, the blackbirds and sparrows have replaced them.
I am hot and the garden is tilled for the second time this year, it is time to fill my sinkhole with rocks. I get the small ride on mower ready, it fires first lick. I get the wagon hooked up to it as cannon fire roars across the skies. I move the tractor and wagon over to the rock pile that is on the edge of my driveway. As I shovel the gravel into the wagon I can hear the footsteps of marching soldiers. I assume they are down by the highway. I am hot and I go into the house to rest up a little. I sit, I watch the news, a war is raging, I turn the dial and soft mood music splashes across the speakers. Our cat Peaches rubs up against my pant leg, the water is cool, it is peaceful; I can hear a helicopter coming toward our house they fly over every day.
The sounds of war are gone, is it peace or death that I hear?
Sand is blowing hard against the glass door.
I am peaceful; there is a war raging
I am peaceful, young men are dying
Sand is blowing hard against the glass door.
The sounds of war are gone, is it peace or death that I hear?

 Gollum is learning the meaning of ....

badaba

Home
March 05, 2003bongaMarch 06, 2003
March 07, 2003bongaMarch 08, 2003
March 09, 2003bongaMarch 12, 2003
March 15, 2003bongaMarch 22, 2003
March 23, 2003bongaMarch 25, 2003
March 26, 2003bongaMarch 29, 2003
March 30, 2003bongaApril 04, 2003
April 14, 2003bongaApril 19, 2003