Janet Powers
Sarajevo Sparrows
Chittering sparrows – why here
at the door of the Sarajevo airport,
where there is nothing to eat
and people pass constantly,
scattering the birds who settle again
in the wrong place at the wrong time?
So much like the people of this city,
sitting ducks when Serbs occupied
the hills on both sides and shot
two women on a bridge, more
at the market, till sidewalks were
peppered with Sarajevo roses.
I think of a friend’s brother
captured before he knew Croats
had changed sides; a woman
pulled from her bed at night
gave birth next day in a barn.
But like the sparrows,
people have settled again,
content now in rebuilt homes,
hoping for a better job,
an equitable peace, maybe
prosperity will finally come.
If only big powers could see
it was a bad arrangement,
this cutting in half of a country
that rises up, its people scattering
each time war comes their way,
always in the wrong place
at the wrong time, despite
their beautiful mountains.
Battlefield Loop
To stay the last day of October,
dandelions and daisy fleabane
huddle close to the earth,
fending off a stiff west wind.
An unreal sky hangs blue and clear;
my black shirt borrows warmth
from a bright autumn sun.
in the distance windshields glint,
buses martialed in yellow rows.
Bronze cannons, still poised, aim
at docile farms below; spirit-catchers
hover over red barn doors.
Today, artillery could take out
TV towers, Day’s Inn, a water tank.
I love this landscape looking out
to Appalachians west of Gettysburg,
yet when this walk seems mundane,
I stoop to scanning license plates.
Today I hardly notice passing cars:
I’m captivated by elements of earth,
awed by glory of sky, wind and sun;
primordial genes leap to worship
a god of gold and green and blue.
I see a wooly worm, mostly brown,
with black head and small black tip;
he’s traveling south like human kin,
though sweatered troupes of tourists
still cluster at the Peace Light.
Once I met a lover at this monument –
he knew of trysting paths snaking
through woods beyond, and so we
strategized a dangerous affair.
Once I walked the field opposite
with several hundred children,
flags of many countries unfurled
to mark many uneasy years
between the North and South.
Rectangles of hay, baled and tied,
counterpoint a scattering of barns;
trees, red and gold, stand guard
over fields still green with
monuments to victory and defeat.
The road loops, so I see again
the college and its gothic halls.
In the locker room I must explain
why I walked today in all that wind:
I needed sun, I always do,
sitting at my desk, eyes sore
from flickering pixels and pipes
deconstructing. Now at peace,
I celebrate this battleground.
