Soldiers and Generals have no imagination.
They do not see that bombs become cradles for children,
And their flying missiles— coffins and unmarked graves.

Can’t they see that their advance is a funeral march?
Their guns are crutches, newly minted for the battle,
Their tanks stately hearses, ready to carry the dead,
And their artillery no different than ambulances
–Rushing forward to attend the fallen.

Their cheers of victory are keening wails;
Their loud celebrations a sombre wake,
While their prayers for divine assistance
Are the Devil’s ready call to arms.

In war, guns are like flags:
Nation against Nation;
People against people.

Chaos and loss—a carnival of death.

I weep for those whose loss is absolute,
For those vanquished, or lost in rubble,
And for those forsaken enemies who
Have once more lost their minds.

October 24, 2023

On The ChatGPT Essay Comparing Buddhist Practice With Poetry

I am against the rise of verbose machinery,
Even when they are talking harmless nonsense.
Why solicit the opinion of a dunce?
They do not bleed; they do not feel.
These know-nothings are like our rampant television sets.
Even though they may have Zen-like acuity
And seem to narrate the most wonderful stories and delineations
They are a pastiche of broken human knowledge
And in their vacant soul—the blind leading the blind.

II

I turned (almost at once) to the writings 
And fierce biography of Anna Akhmatova.  
Perhaps like her—despite its upheavals, 
I seek refuge in my own country,
Without turning or looking away.

She suffered in, and through her passion; 
Her writings, her marriages, her lovers,
Yet all around her, arose stone walls and ideologues,
Ready to imprison, destroy, or distort 
All that was original and beautiful.