Sunflowered

Trembling blades of grass are whispering
concentric rings glide in their dance on
the jewelbright surface of kompot glasses
as partygoers sprint the compass home.

The red curtained house sits empty, forlorn
but for the basement huddlespace
two mamas clutch their tears tightly within
as the soothing speech of wartime returns.

You see, quiet peace sprang from the open window as a gale of yellow fear-sparks
when the lumbering 4BO warbeasts rolled
like hatewhales filled with fearful Jonahs.

A television blares the lookout-language
and the call-to-arms; Slava Ukraini!
and aged pensioners or smooth-cheeked
youths join the sunflowered mobilization.

A childman lifts Kalashnikov Kourage
so heavy, he thinks; but Mama is watching
from earth as Tato does from a holy place.
his eyes unlit in the Crimean Crime, a patriot

When comes the motley army of right?
Why tarry, when our worldsiblings  clash
with the renewed gluttony of Soviet desire?
Social media flag-draped outrage; impotent

Sanctions show the valued things
as we decry our humanity’s draining away
lives for money, no champagne for you.
No comfort to the bereft mothers of Kviv.