They put Putin’s head in the frame
to justify the Trident myths.
Building warships on the Clyde
in the name of jobs for men,
using foreign steel to forge the hulls,
while British steel is left to rust.
Hawks chant the threat of all-out war,
enlist the cash of armchair troops
with bloody hands arm deep
in buying weapons for their gain.
The blight of conflict in far off lands
cannot gratify the need for profit.
A missile worth ten-thousand Kalashnikov
fills the coffers quicker.
No matter the annihilation of ancient towns,
the plight of those that flee the fight,
the food banks on austerity street,
the cries for help
strangled by the flag.
The golden disk
speeds into interstellar space,
scribed with data to tell an alien race
how wonderful our world is.
Glowing features of our Earth
issue from its groove.
Silk purse, pigs ear comes to mind.
I would have interspersed some optimistic gems
with terra firma spinning from man’s grasp,
replaced Chuck Berry and Bach
with sounds of crunch and crash of melting ice,
pictures of smoking forests cleared by man,
defunct creatures slashed with a crimson cross,
to symbolize the needless loss.
Hydrogen would stay,
but with graphics:
Hiroshima’s pillar cloud,
The verbal multilingual message short –
When you get this, we’re gone.
David Mack has been encouraged in his poetry by Jo Bell’s online group 52 and is a longstanding member of Cross Border Poets.