Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
David Krieger
60 years old
Santa Barbara, CA
David Krieger is a founder of the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation. He is the author and editor of many books on peace.
The Children of Iraq Have Names
The children of Iraq have names. They are not the nameless ones.
The children of Iraq have faces. They are not the faceless ones.
The children of Iraq do not wear Saddam’s face. They each have their own face.
The children of Iraq have names. They are not all called Saddam Hussein.
The children of Iraq have hearts. They are not the heartless ones.
The children of Iraq have dreams. They are not the dreamless ones.
The children of Iraq have hearts that pound. They are not meant to be statistics of war.
The children of Iraq have smiles. They are not the sullen ones.
The children of Iraq have twinkling eyes. They are quick and lively with their laughter.
The children of Iraq have hopes. They are not the hopeless ones.
The children of Iraq have fears. They are not the fearless ones.
The children of Iraq have names. Their names are not collateral damage.
What do you call the children of Iraq? Call them Omar, Mohamed, Fahad.
Call them Marwa and Tiba. Call them by their names.
But never call them statistics of war. Never call them collateral damage.
David Krieger October 2002
A Monument to War
The last century, a monument to war, won’t end. It keeps marching into the future, adding tears. Fathers don’t know what to tell their sons, But the dull and smiling leader knows: Find the enemy and kill him.
Patriotic words always mean that someone soon will die. It’s carved in solemn stone. And him may be a mother or her sweet child. The bombs don’t calculate, they only Seek the enemy to kill.
There is no beauty in war, nor decency, nor Wisdom. There is only force and blind obedience. Bombs fall, children die and generals are celebrated. In the public square new names, new sacrifice, Promises of peace give way to war.
Remembering Ourselves
The sea has become a desert And we have become small, drab animals Lizards, iguanas and the like, Learning to scurry over the sculpted sand.
Once we swam with incredible grace In full, open oceans, restless and free. Now we struggle against the parched harshness, The sameness of ourselves.
Ships, stranded and abandoned, Are strange artifacts, at rest, at peace, In the fierce, empty sunlight, but who Will find them? Who will worship them?
The centuries have been dry and hard, But who would have thought that this Would be our end, to fade away Into endless desert, endless sameness?
The earth was once so green, so lush, So filled with life and wonder, but we formed Seas of soldiers and marched to war, and Sailed away so happily to war. August 2002
GUERNICA
Picasso’s passion for peace Symbol of war’s horrors Screams of death and agony Fallen man, fallen horse
Nazi Luftwaffe bombs falling On small Basque village It was market day, market day The streets were jammed
Nazis bombed and strafed Planes diving, machine guns firing The young Luftwaffe pilots Found the marketplace
Screaming villagers and peasants Running for their lives As death blurted from the sky that day Seventeen hundred murdered and maimed
Picasso shared his human outrage In his unforgettable Guernica The Guernica of screams and death Of fallen man, fallen horse
Cowardly diplomats and generals Try to hide Guernica but they cannot; Cover Guernica and it emerges Starker, stronger, truer
Guernica was painted for you Watch the ones who avert their eyes As they slink by in shame Planning new wars, new sorrow
February 2003
Firing Squad
Saddam Hussein is a bad man So let’s line up the children of Iraq And shoot them.
Saddam is a very bad man So let’s line up the mothers of Iraq And shoot them.
We know that Saddam is a bad man So let’s line up all the old people of Iraq And shoot them.
Saddam is a very bad man And firing squads are old fashioned So let’s just bomb Baghdad.
After we’ve bombed the Iraqis With our “shock and awe” two-day plan Surely they will welcome us as liberators.
Surely the Iraqis will thank Allah That they have been so fortunate To have been bombed with such precision.
Surely they will recognize That Saddam is a very bad man And their oil is better in our hands.
Saddam Hussein is a very bad man So let’s line up the children of Iraq And shoot them.
February 2003
A Dangerous Face
It is a weak and fleshy face, A face with furtive eyes That snake along the ground, refusing To rise and face forward.
He chews his words well, Mixing them with venom, Words that dart like missiles From the side of his malformed mouth.
It is a dangerous, deceitful face, The face of a man with too many secrets. It is the face of one who quietly orders Torturers to torture and Assassins to kill.
It is the face not of a sniper, But of one who orders snipers into action. It is the face of a Klansman behind his mask, The face of one who savors lynchings.
It is the face of one who hides in dark bunkers And shuns the brightness of the sun. It is a frightened face, dull and without color, The face of one consumed by power.
It is a weak and fleshy face, A face with furtive eyes, A face that falls hard and fast Like the blade of a guillotine.
November 2002
War Is Too Easy
If politicians had to fight the wars they would find another way.
Peace is not easy, they say. But it is war that is too easy –
too easy to turn a profit, too easy to believe there is no choice,
too easy to sacrifice someone else’s children.
Someday it will not be this way. someday we will teach our children
that they must not kill, that they must have the courage
to live peace, to stand firmly for justice, to say no to war.
Until we teach our children peace, each generation will have its wars,
Will find its own ways to believe in them.
SEPTEMBER 11TH
Each rising of the sun begins a day of awe, destined To bring shock to those who can be shocked.
This day began in sunlit beauty and, like other days, Soon fell beneath death’s demon shadow.
The darkness crossed Manhattan and the globe, The crashing planes, tall towers bursting into flame.
The hurtling steel into solid steel endlessly played On the nightly news until imprinted on our brains
People lurching from the burning towers, plunging Like shot geese to the startled earth beneath.
The shock was painted on faces on the news, That such sudden death could be visited on us.
But such death is not extraordinary in our world of grief, Born anew each brief and scarlet sunlit day.
White flowers grow from blood stained streets And rain falls gently, gently in defiance, not defeat
September 2003
A Conspiracy of Decency
We will conspire to keep this blue dot floating and alive, To keep the soldiers from gunning down the children,
To make the water clean and clear and plentiful, To put food on everybody’s table and hope in their hearts.
We will conspire to find new ways to say People matter. This conspiracy will be bold.
Everyone in this conspiracy will dance At wholly inappropriate times and places.
They will burst out singing non-patriotic songs. Anyone can join this conspiracy, anyone.
It will be a conspiracy of, by and for the people And the not-so-secret password will be Peace.
David Krieger December 2003
The Bells of Nagasaki
The bells of Nagasaki Ring for the departed souls, For those who suffered And those who suffer still.
The bells of Nagasaki Call us to attention: What are we doing To our world and to ourselves?
The bells of Nagasaki Ring clear and true But still are hard to hear Above the sounds of busy lives.
The bells of Nagasaki Draw the children to them, Small children walking awkwardly Toward the epicenter.
The bells of Nagasaki Draw old women to them And young couples With love-glazed eyes.
The Bells of Nagasaki, Elusive as a flowing stream, Ring for each of us. They ring like falling leaves.
David Krieger November 2003
YET ANOTHER FAREWELL
On the death of the 500th American soldier in Iraq
Let us lay the heavy black bag at your feet While the tired buglers sound their dirge.
Let us lay the heavy black bag at your feet Like a terrible wreath.
If you nudge the sturdy bag with your right foot Nothing will happen.
If you kick the formless bag with your left foot Nothing will happen.
It will not respond, nor speak nor cry.
Will you circle the black bag cautiously Like a coyote?
Will you howl, break down in tears Or simply smirk?
David Krieger January 2004
WORSE THAN THE WAR
Worse than the war, the endless, senseless war, Worse than the lies leading to the war, Worse than the countless deaths and injuries, Worse than hiding the coffins and not attending funerals, Worse than the flouting of international law, Worse than the torture at Abu Ghraib prison, Worse than the corruption of young soldiers, Worse than undermining our collective sense of decency, Worse than the arrogance, smugness and swagger, Worse than our loss of credibility in the world, Worse than the loss of our liberties, Worse than learning nothing from the past, Worse than destroying the future, Worse than the incredible stupidity of it all, Worse than all of these, As if they were not enough for one war or country or lifetime, Is the silence, the resounding silence, of good Americans.
WHEN THE DRAFT COMES BACK
When the draft comes back, as though it had never been gone, Will you close your books, march to the light of the moon, And learn to love your rifle as a favored friend?
Will you set aside your studies and your dreams For an interlude of death, a sabbatical of suspended reason, And a long, intense vacation from your conscience?
Will you learn new ways to distance yourself from life and love, And hate the enemy, their very faces, those ragged, rock-throwing throngs Who speak other languages, worship other gods, and live in barren places?
When the draft comes back, will you polish your boots, put on Camouflage, snap to attention, and say, Yes Sir, when ordered to kill? Will you sail away to yet another war, another killing field?
Or, will you stand your ground, look your leaders in their eyes, And tell them that you have more and better things to do, but when They lead the way themselves to war, you’ll consider going, too?
ROAD MARKERS
ROAD MARKERS
We keep passing road markers On the long, curved trail of death in Iraq.
There were one hundred thirty-eight dead American soldiers When Bush, famously impersonating a combat pilot, Proclaimed, Mission Accomplished.
Then it was two hundred, then three, four, five hundred. Now we have passed the nine hundred marker On the bitter trail of death.
Are we safer? Do they hate us less? Perhaps this doesn’t happen until we pass a thousand, Or perhaps two or three or ten thousand.
Or perhaps not until as many Americans have died As Iraqis we have killed, which may never happen. Perhaps they will never hate us less.
Nor will we ever be safer While we are dropping bombs on Iraqis, or Iranians, Or North Koreans, or anyone.
What was the mission anyway? What was it we accomplished so early on the trail of death? And didn’t Bush look dashing all dressed up for war?
David Krieger July 2004
Wild Stars and Neglected Anniversaries
“What has happened to the soul of the destroying nation is yet too early to see. Forces of nature act in a mysterious manner.” Gandhi
The fifty-ninth anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima has come and gone with almost no notice in America.
In this country, we are still flying high above the bomb, making hard, sharp turns to evade responsibility.
On the fifty-ninth anniversary of the atomic bombing of Nagasaki America is still fighting in distant lands.
In Najaf, US troops surround the holy Shrine of Imam Ali, as though the Crusades never ended.
Americans are too busy to imagine being beneath the bomb. That is for others less fortunate to imagine.
Fifty-nine years is hardly a tick on the geological clock, one that has witnessed far too many wars and atrocities.
One day we will wonder what happened to the brightness, to all the wild stars and neglected anniversaries.
Dreams
“If you can dream it, you can do it.” -- Walt Disney
Of course, such words may inspire, but can dreams really be unlocked?
If you can dream the wind, can you really make the leaves tremble?
If you can dream the rain, can you really soak the parched earth or make the rivers swell and rush to the sea?
If you can dream the moon, can you really move the tides and cast your shadow on the earth?
If you can dream peace, can you make young men, boys really, disobey the generals and lay down their arms?
Yes, it’s unlikely, but someone has to dream of making the leaves tremble, the rivers swell, the tides move, and the young men
find better uses for their only lives.
Forgive Me, Mother
(for Shoji Sawada)
He stayed home from school that day with a burning fever.
After the bomb, the young boy awakened beneath the rubble of his room.
He could hear his mother’s cries, still trapped within the fallen house.
He struggled to free her, but he lacked the strength.
A fire raged toward them, and many people hurried past.
Frightened and dazed, they would not stop to help him free his mother.
He could hear her voice from the rubble. The voice was soft but firm.
“You must run and save yourself,” she told him. “You must go.”
“Forgive me,” he said, bowing, “Forgive me, Mother”
He did as his mother wished. That was long ago, in 1945.
The boy has long been a man, a good man. Yet he still runs from those flames.
SISYPHUS WITH BOMBS: A MODERN MYTH
Each day from dawn to dusk Sisyphus strained under his load of heavy bombs as he struggled up the mountain. It was slavish, back-breaking work. He sweated and groaned as he inched his way toward the top of the mountain.
Always, before he reached the top, the bombs were taken from him and loaded onto bomber aircraft. Sisyphus would stand and wipe his brow as he watched the planes take off into the darkening sky on their way to destroy yet more peasant villages somewhere far away.
Sisyphus believed that he was condemned by fate to carry the bombs up the mountain each day of his life. Since he never reached the top, each sunrise he began anew his arduous and debilitating task.
Strangely, Sisyphus was happy in his work, as were those who loaded the bombs onto the planes and those who dropped the bombs on peasant villages. As Sisyphus often repeated, “It is a job and it fills my days.”
Sisyphus with bombs contributes his labors to the war system, as so many of us do. Let us work to disarm Sisyphus and give him back his rock. Our reward will be saving peasant villages and their inhabitants from destruction and the world from annihilation. By our efforts, we may even save ourselves. It is the Sisyphean task of our time.
David Krieger February 2005
ANOTHER SOLDIER
The fifteen hundredth American soldier has died In an ancient land.
I don’t know his name, nor can I imagine his face, Surprised or perhaps contorted, as he fell like an anchor Through the sea.
Like all of us, he had dreams.
One is seized by the penetrating beauty of flowers, By their arrangement in a crystal vase, and cannot help Sinking to the sad earth, sobbing and bleeding.
When the flowers, too, have faded and fallen, The empty container will remain solid and solitary, Still reflecting light, but lifeless and achingly alone.
David Krieger March 2005
NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND
“This war came to us, not the other way around.”
--Condoleezza Rice, May 15, 2005
This war came to us as we massed troops on the Iraqi border, half way around the world.
This war came to us as we imagined weapons of mass destruction behind every palace wall.
This war came to us unexpectedly, only after a proper manipulation of intelligence.
This war came to us as we invaded Iraq, as we executed our “shock and awe” bombing plan.
This war came to us on George Orwell’s pen, on George Bush’s hallucinations, on Dick Cheney’s lies, on Donald Rumsfeld’s arrogance.
This war came to us through a thousand imagined dangers, through a love of oil, through a compensation for cowardice.
Surely, it was not the other way around.
David Krieger May 2005
Autumn
God whispered in George Bush’s ear.
Then came shock and awe.
The war president strutted in triumph.
Now two and a half years have passed.
American troops have been dying steadily
Like water dripping from an autumn leaf.
Two thousand American troops are dead.
Not many compared to the Iraqi dead
Or to the scattered leaves of autumn.
But it is two-thirds of those who died on 9/11.
These deaths are used to justify the next deaths.
And on and on, while anguished cries of grief
Echo through this darkened land.
While rain-soaked autumn leaves keep falling.
October 2005
Bombing Gaza
The stain of death spreads below me. Yet from my cockpit I see none of it.
I only drop bombs as I have trained to do And then, high above the bloody fields and cities,
Speed toward home. Though the screams of pain Must be piercing, I hear none of it.
Nor can I smell the stench of death.
I try not to think about the people who shiver With fear or those blown to pieces.
They tell me I am brave, but I am not.
How brave can it be to drop bombs on cities When no one shoots back? I am not a fool.
I am a bomber pilot, a machine without sense or senses.
