Roses are red.
My name is not Dave.
This poem makes no sense.

Microwave.

Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons

Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come


There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many

Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne

No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave


We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -

And the young.

r ~ 11/11/14

Before air became gas
And water waste;
Before light became lasers
And fireworks cannons;
Before cars got wings
And trucks got tracks;
Before rafts were raiding ships
And we breathed underwater;
Before sticks were arrows and spears
And we exalted ourselves;
Before Empires rose and fell
And rose and fell,
A femur crushed Cro magnon's skull.
It's a marvel
How any of us
Are here
At all.