An early war poem:

the anger of men

i wonder at the anger of men
and at my own anger, the raw
red beast astride my heart.

i wonder if killing the evil
will satiate the need i have
for vengeance, or if it will only
leave a gaping hole,

if the missing focus of
our collective pain became
a limp mass of bones and
bloody heart torn in
some afghan gully.

perhaps the object of
our hatred is of more use
alive, for he keeps the
fire burning brightly inside.

his long brown face
awash in animation makes
the rage flow, feeds the pain
necessary to justify what
must be done.

someday when all the holes
have been burnt in the last
earthen masses, when all
those deemed too malignant
to live have been pushed
beyond this realm,

when the final body riddled
and blackned has slide like
a gambler's last dollar down
torn embankments, red on brown
beneath a mute blue sky,

someday the few will wonder
at the anger of men and feel
no sense of loss, just the
cool kiss of wind beneath
peaceful skies,

no smoking contrails writing
doom in heaven.