Happy Birthday; A Poem of War

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

The wind whispers it
to empty pueblos,
across barren tundra,
from timberline to the turbulent sea.

The derelict mumbles it
to the pigeons in an alley
as he belges
and pukes his way
through an alcoholic nightmare.

A peeling billboard heralds it
on the side of a building
near the freeway.

A businessman drones it
to his robotic staff
on a taped message
to be listened to only
on their coffee breaks.

The black man mentions it
to his dozen children
and their pet rodents,
and his faded wife,
and timid parents,
and his white neighbor
that lives down the street.

The convict thinks about it
while staring at the world
through black bars of steel,
and is able to enjoy it
onlyin his mind.

The senior citizens remember it
the way it used to be,
cherished,
when Rockefeller was a boy,
honored,
when trees were tall,
respected,
when men had muscles,
loved,
when teachers knew the answers.

Not like this day,
when old folks are herded
together
in homes and hospitals
to celebrate and vegetate
alone.

The lunatic ponders on it,
wondering why we all
make such a fuss.
One day
is just like another,
just a narcotic buzz,
and man still cannot
breathe water.

The young soldier screams it
across the hot sands of Iraq,
knee deep in white swirl,
remembering a girl,
tear-stained and soft,
and parents that are laboring
to help finance his vacation
in the Middle East.

Carrying a machine gun
and a shell belt,
helmet pulled down over his eyes,
mouth full of hot dust,
feet sore and bloody,
eyes that see
people dying,
ears that hear
people crying,
hands trained to kill,
arms that are weary,
heart full of pain,
guts full of bad water,
this angry boy yells it
to his buddies near him;
the one with the side of his head
blown off,
or the one in six pieces,
or the one with no arms
and no legs.

Amidst the death, blood, and gore,
from out of the alkaline haze,
you can hear the soldier wailing,
" It is Christ's birthday,
rejoice."


Glenn Buttkus 2003