While the world burns I write a poem and wonder if I really care

Bombs fall, burning cities light
skyline in reds and yellows.
At least, I imagine that’s the scene
on all the news channels.

People are dying but if I keep the television off
there are no maimed bodies
lying in pools of blood,
nor screams of terror,
wails of grieving mothers.
No exploded gunpowder
or smoldering flesh,
no clammy hands
of the almost dead,
no bile any sane person
would vomit in such a grotesque reality.

People are dying but I peek from behind window’s blinds
and there are only brilliant sky blues of a chilly autumn morn,
beep of a garbage truck backing up,
kitchen garbage I should have emptied yesterday,
smooth lifeless plastic of the keyboard as I type,
cherry flavor of the pop-tart I snack on.

People are dying but I wish
it were just another action movie.
I love it when badass heroes arrive,
guns blazing, assure victory.
But I suspect this is one
of those art house films
where you leave dissatisfied,
not knowing who to root for
because you could never figure out
who the good guys were.

How do I hate thee,
let me count the ways –
Browning parody runs through
my mind on repeat –
but who is it I hate?
Not counting myself, of course.

Maybe I should hate those who wage war,
gun down innocent people dancing,
or those who lie to divide nation
among themselves for wealth and power.

But how can I hate people –
people I don’t even know –
when yesterday the preacher said
God is love?
Maybe next week they’ll preach
how God warms his toes
by the glowing ashes of burning cities.

People are dying, but I’d rather watch
old Addams Family reruns
where the horror is
quirky, fun, and fake.

©2026 Kenneth W. Arthur