The Day Is Number Seven
The day is number seven,
And though seven rhymes with heaven
It is burning hell up there
In you-know-where.
Threats that come from you-know-who
Make us, me, you
A bit more cautious about what we draft.
So daft!
One will use code:
Foreboding as it feels – and odd.
Yet, one is goaded,
Almost prodded to reveal the goings on.
So dire is the pressure.
There’s no measure to the violence.
It’s the senselessness of weaponry.
A cause based on idée fixé.
There’s little one can say
To be forgiving
When so many living souls go under.
Lightening’s thunder could not threaten more.
It’s war, the very core of trauma.
Seven sins and seven days,
Each day’s rage a phase of horror.
We must not shut our eyes to terror.
Look, think, meditate or pray.
This is no acting or theatric’ play, for
This is odious, atrocious war!
The Day Is Number Seven 3.2.2022 War Book; Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 