FOUR DEAD IN OHIO



(The poem below is by my dear friend and fellow NWOPC member Terry Lodge)

Looking down from the brusque, black marble memorial
Grave reminder
Of a dark chapter
I'm halfway between Blanket Hill and the valley of
death of May 4, 1970
At an observation post above a field of green
Today dressed up as thousands of war crimes
On May 3, 2006.

It is May
And the semi-shade of the black oak branches
And their celadon new-leaves
Wreath the distant, orderly rows
Of white spring petals
Fallen from the Tree of Death.
Tears water this chiaroscuro of whitewash nestled
Implacably in shadow.
From a distance, a palette worthy of Manet
Choreographed by Rumsfeld,
Or is it Kissinger? Or Gates? The blood is the same color
No matter how far back I look.

These petals will produce no fruit
Nor beauty nor poetry
Neither will they produce
leaves; only leave-takings.

We listen
For some hopeful spring noise
That their blood might have nurtured
Silently, met by silence.

- Terry Lodge, 2006 and 2010