Ode


            are there no songs for the children of the columbine ? 
            have all the bards gone quiet in the corridors of war ? 
            The experts speak, and warriors drone on. 
            They look at everything, save the worn faces of our parents 
            through the over bearing fragrance of the lily and the rose; 
            pick at statistics, publishing our names; 
            the metaphor of battle settles in above these quivering stems 
            this dying foliage obscures our muted sight. 
            wordsmiths craft, now, the passage of our steps 
            by day and day, and groups blame groups 
            and squabble at the lines of play forever etched 
            forever passionless. For us, no chance of fame, 
            our glory written by the scrawl of fire, 
            and not of children, children's young, 
            degrees, talents and attributes, no growing 
            kindnesses, no everlasting flame 
            will ever weave us resolutions 
            in these whispering walls of blame 

       How quiet you lie, who were so full of life: 
       the innocent intelligence of flesh 
       belied by how much strife and how much arrogance 
       of beauteous youth. These were the best, the brightest 
       gone - of course - these the core to whom the others turned, 
              from whom they took their cue - 
       fresh their athletic stride, their insolence of untuned mind, 
       their innocence and operatic griefs, till what snubbed shadow 
       turned its long unsought, its long rejected dream of warmth, 
       impression, 
               value on them, 
       and with its muzzled and unshuttering eye made 
       all this lightness, dark. 

               young, 
               to have such adult griefs, 
               such lunacies of strife. 

               how did we not hear the shout of grief 
                       before the shot 
                       or see the light 
               before the sound of death ? 

       I miss the whisper of these women grieving, 
       of fathers searching for relief in curse 
               the elder's song, the last good bye 
       vendetta and reprisal, all requiting, gone, 

       where are our words? 

 
(C) Copyright 1999
ALYS
All Rights Reserved


 
 The Nexus Collection
ALYS

Blake's Law

COLUMBINE TRYPTICH
Ode
Queen of the May
Lullaby for the Dead
Communion
Dishonesty
Eye
The Fiddle

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