Sonnet 911

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Two planes: our past and future would converge;
One outcome proving difficult and rare;
Four aeroplanes took flight while death emerged;
A five-walled building torn apart by air.
Into a field appeared the scythe of woe;
Aluminum and alloys razed a pair;
And those who should be allies proved the foe;
With perpetrators underground in lairs.
Political decisions at the root;
Retaliating badness’ voice was spoke;
And heard: a falling body, found: a foot;
Relations parted hearts – forever broke.

Horrific by the number, lies dispersed;
Impossible to sum by mournful verse.

Wilfred’s Men

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A poet’s shattered soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact;

Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:

Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged;

And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind; deaf to the hoots.

There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place;

So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt.

If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry,

What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?

Adored by age, revered by youth; for otherwise-unspoken truth.

If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?

Or is it likelier he’d see: arms being sold; cash weaponry?

And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?

Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s mobocracy:

And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.

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