I agree with some poets
who say it’s difficult to
write poetry in difficult
times.
The effectiveness of the words
is infantile and helpless,
when global doings are
transpiring.
What great deed can be accomplished,
with the meager strings of
vowels and consonants,
so timidly conspiring in the dark?
Will trench poetry emerge as the
salve, soothing the injuries inflicted
by despots and territorial
pissings?
The afterthoughts of afterthoughts,
written in blood, smeared on hospital
walls, as warnings, as condemnations,
as epitaphs.
Flag waving and heavy footfalls of
militaries marching, through deserted
streets, the music of lost souls, echoing
through alleys and history.
Graveyards alive with flags for
the fallen, flapping in foul breezes,
with a few sad words hastily written
on tombstones.
The poetry of the now,
seems too weak to fight the onslaught
of the present, and it’s perhaps only in
memory, wherein peace resides.
The future, reflecting on our words,
will be the judge of history, so maybe,
the difficulty will be worth it, and what seemed
ineffective, will be remembered.
Although I’m not sure we’ve learned
anything yet.
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