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by Stephen Jarrell Williams


Father of blood-red fields,
you must be weary.

Haven't you enough of the dead?

There's certainly enough wounded...

Is your thirst unending?

It must be.
Here comes the silver jets.
The black bombers.

Your will is solid.
Constant. Ravenous.

Could you at least consider
the women and children
huddled in their homes?

You're ruthless, aren't you?

The explosions are your laughter.
The fires are your long fingertips
probing the corpse.

* * *

Previously appeared inBlack Book Press.

* * *

Stephen Jarrell Williams has done everything from mowing lawns to being an executive at a software company. His poetry and short stories have appeared in over a hundred publications. He loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night.

Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

I get my ideas for from observing the world around me, reading as much as possible, and especially remembering my dreams.