The Rage of George
Rattling of Sabres
The Gods of War
In the Clouds
The Tyrant Flees
Out of Order
Doing the Patriot Act
The Little Prince
Ichor of the Gods
The Price of Peace
Dead or Alive
Across the Border
Summer in the City
Wolf and Jackal
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Western forces race across the desert
Fueled by gasoline supplied by other Arab nations
More than pleased to make a profit from Iraqi misery,
An ancient neighbor invaded once again by Infidels,
Constantly beset by conquest, first by Caliphates,
Then colonialists, now capitalists.
The world’s most powerful military meets a rag-tag force.
Reduced to small arms and with limited provisions.
Saddam’s legions, emaciated after 12 years of sanctions,
Mount a weak guerrilla effort, pick off armored vehicles
As they speed along highways leading to Baghdad,
No traffic to fight, no speed traps to avoid.
The Western drive’s so fast Iraq’s troops are left behind,
Falling to the sides, left to fight or to melt away,
In either case, cut from the coming battle of Baghdad.
The mobile force of rolling thunder sweeps forward,
Past smoking ruins and blackened husks, road-kill in the desert
Left by the airstrikes leading the advance.
The gods of war who lend their power to the West
Are up against others who give assistance to Iraq.
Russian gods like Aviaconversiya help jam radar,
While Belarus-based Dipol provides Iraqi night vision.
Competing for the chance to sell their killing arms
The greedy gods of war make allies of the highest bidders.
A cold front sweeps down from eastern Turkey
Bringing intense weather changes to the region,
Wind gusts 60 miles an hour, blowing west to east.
The desert sand, reduced to dust from eons of erosion
Creates a massive, raging storm suffused with rain
A black shroud covering the land and all upon it.
Blinded by shifting dark clouds of desert dirt,
The Western army’s forced to slow its hurried pace.
Its vision hampered, targets mere muddied shapes
Digital images lose clarity and shots ring out from all sides.
Men go down, bloodied and bleeding from grenades,
Iraq’s army drawing close enough to pick off targets.
Smoke from burning oil wells deepen the darkness,
Acrid, black and thick, the smoldering Ichor of the gods
Adds misery to the act of ordinary breathing;
Tar and noxious compounds combine with dust and rain,
A sticky, smelly paste violates every orifice
Coating nostrils, throats and tongues with foulness.
The Iraqis, people used to sand and storms,
Hunker down and try to make tomorrow’s plans,
Unsure if fight or flight will prove to be the better choice,
And torn between supporting their ancient land
Or jumping at the chance to escape Saddam’s harsh rule
Some shoot, some sleep, some pray.
Saddam, ever Stealthy, moves from house to house,
His body-doubles help confuse his whereabouts.
The US is unclear which sites to attack,
As head of state Saddam’s a fine, choice target,
Like a wildebeest stalked at water’s edge at dusk
Dinner for the lioness with full lair of mewling cubs.
Saddam sits at ease with home-cooked meals
Finding refuge in the quiet homes of ordinary citizens.
Eats with his fingers, dips chunks of bread in chickpea paste,
Yogurt mixed with cucumbers and mashed eggplant,
Drinks strong cups of tea. Leaves sinking to the bottom
Tell of his future, or perhaps not.
Raised on tales of broken occupations
Of colonial empires with grandiose plans
To force modern civilization and western values
On Mohammed’s rugged people of the Arab lands,
Saddam’s forces know their orders,
Though communication links are largely broken.
The plains of Tigris have fed countless generations,
Sustained troops that crossed from Asia seeking fortune,
Western armies bent on conquest of the trade routes,
And grain-starved neighbors short of food.
Through it all the ancient people of this land remain
A living link to the first dawn of civilization.
And now amid the thunder and the wind
It seems possible that history will repeat itself.
Invaders from the West, overconfident and rash
Will underestimate the power of Islamic heart,
Miscalculate the measure of its army’s strength
And spread itself too thin.
Just perhaps, as so often told in stories ‘round the fire,
These winds will blow the sand so hard, so fast, so steady,
Invaders quickly covered, buried below huge dunes,
Armaments and armor worn away, shall turn to dust,
Mouths fill with sand, lungs gasp for breath
And as morning breaks at dawn they will be gone.
But now both armies rest,
Men eat their meals, teeth grind on grit,
Each bite a reminder that this war is far from done,
The gods have only just begun to play.
The battered bodies on both sides a small taste
Of the misery and hardship still to come.