Love Poetry to a Burning World

I.

The world may be burning,

and we should document the fire;

but I will never stop writing

love poems, too. 

Our exhibitionist earth is full

of splendors that only lovers

of all beauties in all their ageless

theatrics can enumerate. Tail feathers

are vibrated like tectonic plates

and volcanoes spew their molten mass

like fine artists of Venetian glass;

crystals grow

like lotus flowers opening to worship

the sun and horses toss manes

like fine corn silk in a summer

thunderstorm. Lightning struck once

here and you loved me because of

it or despite it- the surface burned and

great countries bombed smaller ones

and division politics told us to

sentence poetry to die because

metaphor and beauty and satire

are irrelevant now.

 

II.

We are nations

losing their attention spans;

we are bridges that cannot span

generation gaps and nobody

has the easy answers

we were told that

everybody is looking for. If we

looked closely enough in mirrors we

might see the monsters we

have allowed ourselves to become.

So we stopped buying mirrors

and bought repeating rifles with

long distance scopes, instead. We said,

love is a luxury item now; you can only

marry a college degree or a spouse

or your career if they are practical.

You do not get second chances.

We fix those sights on the dreamers

and truth-tellers; we paint targets

on the backs of our nearest

neighbors. We pull triggers for no

better reason than being told to.

 

III.

I will fight religious zealotry with

wind chimes and bird song if I must;

I will listen to dead songwriters

and imperfect maligned leaders 

and misunderstood writers 

of books, verses, treaties-

those whose hope for all of us;

whose love for the beautiful and

splendid things of our little blue

planet, made some of us put

down our rifles and listen to the songs

and stories of other peoples, other

waters, other intelligences, instead.

The world always needed us

to appreciate its excesses 

and showmanship.

Her worst spectator is still far

more valuable than her best cynic;

and I will write love letters

each and every day. To you,

for the core unburned by lightning.

And to all of the other ones 

and other things I have loved. 

Feathers, rocks, artists. Poets. 

I will write of love until the day 

that someone’s or something’s rifle

brings me to my knees in the

bloody and burning earth

of our children’s world.

 

Reviews

[m.s.early]

It's depth as striking as it's beauty. Rife with cunning lines and brilliance. A pleasure stumbling across your page

[Corset]

Exquisite and powerful, love & poetry at its best.

[Richard simpson]

This is a deep emotional poem that has turned the poetry game into something epic and beautiful. These three sections are epic, insightful, and thought provoking. I love it and hope you write more pieces like this one.