War II, Terzata #46

It’s possible to destroy even hell

And turn evil to dust

With the dropping of shell after shell.

What remains is one man’s lust

Mating with his own cold will,

Giving birth to blood and rust.

Each bullet or bomb’s a pill

That plugs a hole in his brain,

Which is still,

As is Ukraine,

Where a young child fell

And didn’t get up again —

Her killer dares her now to tell. 

Olen Pond WWI Memorial (Frederick Hibbard), Sonnet #408

She was created in nineteen thirty.

Six decades later someone took her head.

The artist made it hard to take her arms.

The flowers she holds are “Uncertainty.”

She’s called “Memory” for the Great War dead,

Whom she salutes with her physical charms.

She stands in a park by a middle school,

The bad dream of each child — poet or fool.

My dear, I do not need to see your face,

Or know the name of who modeled for you,

To describe yours as intelligent grace —

You know all war dead are less right than true.

When new your limestone breasts were pure and bold —

Unlike you, stone flower, death won’t grow old.