World poetic domination
sounds like an oxymoron to many
but it’s what poetry’s about.
Entice every mind to love verse,
embrace the art of the poem over
the art of war. Sow golden fields of
poppies, not battlefields of poppies,
move hips to the beat of poetry,
not swagger them to martial music,
and I guarantee you, poetry will
prosper all.
This may sound preachy. I guess
it does. Forgive me if I have strayed
from the poignant images and
nuanced diction that poetry extols.
We must now release the white doves
we keep for our best poems, the ones
that need writing, and let them fly to the
A-Bomb Dome in Hiroshima, skeletonized
by that evil new-age blast. Let our doves
wing to the carnage in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan,
and the Gaza Strip, to wherever blood is spilled.
Cut olive twigs for them to quell the violence
in the hearts of all of us that stains our
neighborhoods, homes, and workplaces
with tensions and recriminations, and floods
our world with rivers of blood.
Let’s not read more news about a
young girl felled by a gang bullet.
Let’s read our poems at her next birthday,
and release our white doves as we sing
happy birthday and many happy returns.
