Ghazal in Wartime, 11/11/11

November Poem a Day 2011, Day 11

Two minutes is such a short amount of time
To last so long, to be filled with so much death.

By now we know, and needn't be told:
Nothing is really ever free, especially death.

On Veterans' Day in a time of war,
What can we say that doesn't silently scream: death?

Though the tap of the drums, changes source,
Is it any less daunting when it tattoos out d-e-a-t-h?

What was it the war poets said?
That honor is love or that there really is no death?

How lucky we are, William, to know about death,
To expect so much more & yet so much less out of life.

Day 23: Ghazal for Gobblers

Thanksgivings


My father, too, knew dooms of love.
When I squint my eyes, I can nearly see him shining here.

The snow will show its ghostly roots.
Winter birds assault the cold with griefs of joy.

It’s the coming home that twilight would rejoice.
But it’s never safe to live only for my father’s dream.

The table’s spreading seems to suggest the world’s as right as rain.
It’s community is more than enough to fill the spirit against the dark.

As children we hope to wake into a world of snow.
As adults at best concede to be as sure of spring.

I am not one born or raised to doubt a mind.
Or scoff myself the subtleties of old, dumb death.

There are things, my friend, we’ll never know, least as truth.
And, William, that uncertainty’s the whole, and more than all.



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