LORI ZAVADA

Golden Hope

It sounds like God hurling boulders to Earth,

but they never land.

I wake to the thunder,

and think of you.

Blasting bombs

Rumbling tanks

Cracking rifles 

Rat-a-tat machine guns 

in a smoky, snow-covered war zone.

A contrast to your bright blue skies,
waving fields of wheat,

sunflower head wreaths.

            And still, Ukraine is united in the presence of golden hope.

A woman cradles her large dog in one arm,

a small purse slung over her shoulder.

It’s all she can manage.

She runs, drops to the ground for cover, runs, drops again.

My dogs lie curled up in my warm, dry bed.

A child clutches her teddy bear at the train station,

hungry and tired, she presses on,

unsure if she’s afraid,

or reassured by her mother’s tight grasp.

My nephew wakes to the cereal of his choosing, 

begrudging another school day.

A young boy, peach fuzz on his tight jaw,

speaks proudly of his father,

who stayed behind to fight.

A small tear escapes and streams down his rosy cheek.

An American student is arrested 

for having an AK-47 at high school. 

A young couple from the countryside of Poland,

takes in women and children,

converts their home into a school,

provides food, warmth, a sense of normalcy.

A young American woman is arrested 

for shoving an 87-year old lady to her death.

A father with deadpan eyes,

bravely patrols his city, foreign object in-hand, 

a stranger to this exercise, but resolved

to protect his family, his neighbor, his country.

An American man is arrested for shooting five sleeping, homeless men.

An unshaken young president recalls the blue skies,

the wheat fields, the sunflowers,

pleads for his people before watchful allies,

leaders united by bloodshed, arrested  by evil.

Your flag waves in my mind, 

and I now see,

the blue skies, the wheat fields, the sunflowers,

golden hope, 

precious and valuable.

Standing in your shadow,

we are capable of so much more. 

The midnight thunder fades,

God is finished feeding my land,

but in yours, the bombs don’t stop,

I can’t get you out of my head. 

and I pray -

for your people,

and for mine.

Lori Zavada considers every poem a friend. She enjoys writing from a small seaside town in the southeast region of the United States, following a diverse writing career for magazines, newspapers, websites, social media platforms, and medical and mental health non-profits. “Golden Hope” Previously published in Of Poets and Poetry, Florida State Poets Association magazine, summer 2022.

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