Today, I chose to write about something that struck me, rather than the prompt from NaPoWriMo. Something said on a newscast:

Only the Dead are Unafraid

a man says on the screen. He’s speaking

amidst the ruins of his home, his city

somewhere in Ukraine.

I didn’t catch his name. Still, I see

the destruction around him. There must be

dead in a place so destroyed.

In another story, a new cemetery. No grave

without a recent marker. February, March, April.

All of them 2022. Numbers of the dead grow

and still, we know they are underestimating

how many graves they will need when the war ends.

This is a scenery I don’t understand.

A mentality that lacks humanity. How

does one human obliterate so many fellow humans,

and all in the name of returning Ukraine to Russia.

Only the dead are unfraid. Only the dead

and Vladimir Putin. The Gatherer of Russian Lands.

Even as he destroys his Ukrainian brothers and sisters.

Soon, there will be nothing of Ukraine to gather.

Only wasteland, and all those who are still

unafraid.

Carol A. Stephen

April 15, 2022

This poem was not in response to any NaPoWriMo prompt, but rather a phrase I heard on a CNN newscast out of Ukraine. The counterpoint of dried blood from massacre, and a bouquet of fresh-cut spring flowers.

Dried Blood and Flowers

Makeshift graves for the bodies, their only crime,

Being there when the invaders felt like target practice.

 On the ground, blood stains where they fell,

Dried now, beside a cluster of flowers, remembrance

For the unknown fallen, for family members taken, and soldiers 

Defending against an indefensible war. 

This is a war of atrocities, by aggressors who lack all humanity. 

Vicious animals, with no respect for their so-called brothers. 

In their wake, dried blood and flowers. 

Carol A. Stephen

April 8, 2022