The great-grands tip their hats
while passing one another
at the door, collect their stamps,
refrain from getting too attached
or trying to converse
the distance; edges of debate
the new tongue mimics
and the old have had enough of,
let them keep it.
Grands have been at war
since they got back from fighting
in the one they won,
can’t understand the fact
the other doesn’t; that a placard
of a rising sun
could say as much as soldiers
in the streets of Paris;
mock, or be the answer to.
Come sons and daughters,
mothers, fathers,
passing through the world’s eye
blind;
how many small concessions
will you make?
Just how deep is the rock, exactly?
Can you see the edges
of the canyon
whence this stream began?
to another of my recent pieces: The Vanguard.
Thanks for reading!
Very nicely done. Glad to see you are writing poetry once more. I take it from the bottom discussion, this is a new one? From the poem and below discussion, I take it also, that we sometimes NEVER seem to learn from history either. The same, repeatable mistakes. Maybe someday...
Ah, no this is one of the ones I had saved up unfortunately - I'm still pretty spent on the whole poetry front. Getting feedback is always so valuable though :) At the end of the day, there's no real guarantee history will move in the 'right' direction, no guarantee it will go anywhere but forward.