you pick me up
and put me down
and strike a bow
across my strings–
there is no sound
there is no sound
where sound should
be–the music’s fled
the air outside
has grown too
hot the bombs
have left too
many dead–
black notes across
a littered street
what cannot sing
will never weep
In a month
we will not
remember,
an open guidebook,
a child’s drawing,
a map of Bali–
dreams scattered
in an open field.
The sun will
rise and set,
moonlight will
be moonlight–
indifferent to
the mean ambitions
of men with guns.
Only the
earth will
remember
what we
choose
to forget–
red poppies
falling from
the sky.
I love the
grayness
of the tree’s
bare limbs,
cachectic leaves
clinging to the
frozen earth,
green is always
such a fickle thing.
my father
opened
his eyes
three years
after his
death–they
were blue
you must
live to
stand apart
from everything
you need
and make
poetry
of your
pain
his last
words
to me
were
rhymes–
a severed leg
a broken heart
a foolish dream
rlmcdermott 