Share your work here - Page 6

What can you say about a massacre?
What infinitesimally tiny mark can you leave
On the feet of a world slightly broken--
Never to be the same?
Who can you blame for a million crying
Kids, slowly dying in the cold night?
How do you make it right? Or make it seem
Like it is not the end of life, when blood--
Carnage, bones, and mud are plastered
Like a sick toy for a child, what bastard
Thought it acceptable to open these gates?

When families, children, mothers, fathers
Run with silent tears caressing their ashen faces
While behind them blazes their home, when
Little children roam the streets at midnight
Looking for food, for friends, for something
That might, perhaps, for just a moment, let them
Be a child-- not a faceless casualty of war-- when
The gods of war blast their glorious trumpet, who
Can hear the sobs of broken homes?

What can you say when the people's air
Suddenly constricts within the lungs of every living
Being, when clouds of rolling death are giving
Living, breathing, people thirty seconds left in life?
Is there something, some messianic murmur, some
Craft, or ounce of creation that can
Give a widow, a mourning mother, an orphan
A reason to keep going? In a burning world,
Is there anything other than fire glowing?
What can you say?

I see the poetry on the cyber walls and i wish that there was something for me to say.
I watch the television and wait for something to happen to the world so i can be the first to learn about it and i cannot stop watching for fear that the minute i look away the world will consume itself.
I listen to the screams of children dreaming and dying and drowning within a glass case of liquid disappointment bubbling around them filling their lungs and stinging their eyes.
I hear the sound of broken wings snap through the air-- like a firecracker spitting on the fourth of july-- a monument to the country in which i live in which my fathers lived.
I lean against a battered wall in a subway and i see the phalluses etched from sharpie and knife and pen and every other instrument of creation on a pillar in front of me and i wonder if they are art.
I stop to breathe the smell of city the smell of dung and urine and crime and i whistle through my nose as i exhale the putrid fumes of a sick city.
I visit the country sometimes and once i saw a beaver's dam in a gently flowing river-- i looked at it and it was so beautiful to behold from a distance-- i wondered if its sin was burying its citizens from the inside out letting them sit in piles of their own excretions and laughing to itself as they slowly died of dysentery and syphilis.
I feel a speck grime on my fingers and try to fling it off with a flick and a shake-- a homeless man with sores around his face and track marks on his naked arms asks me for some change.
I look to the stars and see in every twinkling spark from heaven a possibility of a better place in a world a hundred octillion miles away and wonder if the creatures their ever thought about us.
I see a sinking city sitting, waiting for the world to swallow it whole-- i pray to god it isnt too late and i pray to god it will find peace and absolution for its sins if it has to go-- i walk from street to street with a melancholy song escaping with a low whistle from my lips and i pray to god and i pray and i walk.

To my future love, if ever I find you
Sitting by my side, eating pulled pork and
Wishing we were younger: I still love

Your timid laugh, and gleaming smile
Wide, with lips as soft and rosy as your
Cheeks. There may not be much time

(that all consuming deity, that lurks
and passes by and by and doesn't
give us any chance to say goodbye)

For me, nor is there any hope that one day
We'll be together, for, by Dante, how
Could I ever be in a level of heaven

High as you? Still I want your love for
All eternity, and certainly there isn't time
For us to wait, for us to waste. Take me

In your arms again, and hold me
Like you did so many times before, when
your hand and salty tears caressed

My face-- weak (though you called it
tender), and pitiful, and beautifully
Human. When you read this, my always

And forever love, my charioted champion
Who rode and rides for some eternal
Embrace, my venus in life, my juno in

Years of married afterlife, when finally
The time comes, and I am borne away
On a black and shining box of brittle

Wood to the immortal plane, when I have
Stretched my earthly bounds to the point
At which it finally snaps and breaks:

The world will weep not for me, but for the grief of one as wonderful as you.