31 May 2006
I haven't written any war poems in awhile, or, more accurately, peace poems. Is this any time for poems anyway? Who reads them, who cares, who really makes a difference, or even a living from words, short words, long words, in proper placement, or haphazardly spread around, does it really matter what words we use? We are at war. People die each day and it is our will. By our, I mean collectively as a nation, though I don't like to be connected to this nation's reality. A thunderstorm here in my neck of the woods turns me blue, I can't garden anymore, yet on the other side of our Earth people dig holes in the ground to plant their loved ones, water them with tears. A single teardrop is lost, but a nation of them creates a global storm.