Where Is The Giant
I am weary of politics,
Of cautious men, unequal to the task,
Mouthing the obvious
Or raining matchstick darts
Against their frail and human counterparts.
Where is the giant
Haloed with a dream,
The pillar of creative, cleansing flame,
Who sweeps conniving conformity aside,
And dares to give our destiny a name?
Young Soldiers' Honor Guard
We tried to walk more tall and straight and true
As soldiers must on such a state occasion,
And mask with dignity what our eyes knew
And mirrored, if you looked without evasion.
We tried to match the temper of our time,
Incongruous to every mother heart
Who saw beyond our medals to the slime
Of muddied fields and foxholes blown apart.
We tried to stand detached and coolly brave
As all the grey surrounding monuments,
But we were still too young for one more grave
To hold less sorrow than it represents,
And so we stood with noncommittal faces,
Each seeing different deaths in different places.