The war is over --

by Bob O’Hearn

As long as we imagine there is something to defend, we will find enemies.
The war is always with ourselves in that respect.
Mind divides itself into self and other,
and so the wild rumpus continues.

"Except for deserted wilderness what is there to protect?"


The war is over --
nobody survived.

No time to mourn the dead,
sunrise over the settling dust
was too captivating for any lament.

Crimson trails of mind's lingering exhaust
scar-streaked dawn's early sky, as if
the dream of night itself exploded,
as if from now on there would be
flooding daylight only, though
even that wild wonder will
fall in time from the eyes,
till what remains is
not of time, not of mind,
yet even in its flash of vanishing --
true balm for wounded hearts.

We wake and rise and fall breathless
into this luminosity, this sky meadow
vibrant with vernal signs, hues,
and vivid budding wonders --
the ordinary evidence of everything
changing, even as we ourselves are
changed beyond our cherished dreams.

Something unspeakable, unimaginable,
falls deeper into the serene still presence
of itself, no longer fixed in desperate conflict
with itself, just drifting lazily, aimlessly,
softly over a killing floor where
nobody survives, nobody lingers
to tell brave tales of some
imagined victory.

Yes, fight on Arjuna!
Do your best!

We'll be down in Krishna's Kitchen,
cooking everybody lunch.

Today's ala carte menu will be hand-lettered
in a spicy calligraphy of love's rocket-red glare,
with combustible garnish: heads flaming in air.

Each crispy ash-head will eventually
reincarnate as a kind of moon, orbiting
its own promised world, drifting in a space
we all once hoped would be the case
when peace ruled every planet,
and love outshone the stars.


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