Poem: The Nuclear Nine

They are The Nuclear Nine–the ones with the Bomb.
They can trigger The End
at any time.
A mad leader, a mistake, miscalculation
buttons are pushed, and well,
there it isn’t. Gone.

Fast death for some,
slow for others.
Those with money might go underground
or maybe New Zealand if the wind
hasn’t shifted. Hoping against hope.

Those in the cities have a few minutes to panic
and melt.
In the hinterlands long struggles
with a slower demise,
poisoned milk, nuclear winters
where crops will not grow.
oh what a deed these mushrooms will do.

Kids under desks won’t be saved
in their schools,
nor will they be saved by
fast running moms.

The Nuclear Nine find comfort from silos
loaded with missiles, not maize.
Great security for them
until, of course, the A Bombs strike them too.

Our species is headed there,
fools and madmen we are.
As the Nuclear Nine cling to their bombs
the spark to ignite them will come
sooner or later- unless we wiseup, riseup
And save ourselves.

Richard Greve (c) February, 2015


 

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