SOME OF US ARE NOT HEROES

Above the sky turns gray,
lay down my head by the wayside.
Freedom comes soon to us, but it’s easier
on the inside of these walls
than on the outside.
Approvals made, forms stamped,
and a life in fear once we smile
and say goodbye. It will hurt us more
than we think.

What’s in you stays in you;
what’s in me stays in me—no soul
cries aloud, but cries silently.
Unfortunately, some of us
are not heroes, just humans
who see better than we should.
Chains, lime quarries and blinding dust
will tie us to our future.
Redemption means more
for our captors than it does for us,
but there will be calls for peace.

The steeple rises above the avenue,
the trees have nearly finished shedding
their fiery red and golden leaves.
They line our pondered roads—
we learn forgiveness so reluctantly,
and pay the heaviest price for that.

(December 19, 2009)

ACORNS AND AUTUMN LEAVES

I know a man who remembers time
by the year of the model of car.
Sitting in the back seat
in the middle of the night, the toy trucks
are left behind, buried in the dirt
in the front yard.
It’s the last time we’ll see each other.
Our separate routines
will become normal, the way to our front doors
will change.

Standing over the grave of my grandfather,
I learn why we don’t forgive easily.
And decades later, some people say,
“We still don’t know what we did wrong.”
Hard for any of us to know, it seems.
And looking back, it’s not the same
as when we were young.

In war, we pass briefly by
what could have been family. And in peace
it’s the same. But towns and cities fall
just like us.

(December 3, 2009)