No Yellow Ribbons
flying from my doorpost or mailbox or car aerial.
No thin strips of citron fluttering with every breath of the
to proclaim a slick cliche of patriotism to the neighbors,
the mailman, the passers-by.
No to cheap oil, no to the hunger of generals, undecorated,
unwarred for so long.
No to madmen crying in the desert with their wild dreams
of power, the quick nuclear fix.
No to the knee jerk of love it or leave it, my country
right or wrong, those old slogans ready for unfurling.
No red white and blue blooded two fisted breast beating.
No children’s blood in the sand.
Copyright © 2006 Barbara Crooker
About the poet