Washington, D.C.
Well, we are back after an exhausting few days in D.C. The conference went well in spite of some major clitches with the set-up. After days of little but acronymish (space cadets speak in acronyms that I have decided is a new language--acronymish) I escaped the Hilton to wander a bit. This was what moved me to write a poem about my journey.
Well, we are back after an exhausting few days in D.C. The conference went well in spite of some major clitches with the set-up. After days of little but acronymish (space cadets speak in acronyms that I have decided is a new language--acronymish) I escaped the Hilton to wander a bit. This was what moved me to write a poem about my journey.
Memorial Day in McGregor Park, D.C.
A soft breeze cools the cement beneath my feet
as geometric shadows of nearby buildings
grow long across worn patches of green grass.
Making their way slowly, one by one they come.
With walkers, wheel chairs, crutches they come,
come to find that certain bench,
come to stake a claim on dream time.
Black plastic bags lay near torn and ragged soles
holding what’s left of a life of hard times and bitter memories.
What will the darkness bring?
Nightmares of “Nam”?
Dreams of beds and showers?
Will they sleep tonight as sirens wail down K Street?
Ducks and pigeons scurry with flapping wings
circling round the woman all in green.
Midst the clamor, a hand turned rusty brown
reaches into a bag and throws the fowl some crumbs.
She who has so little sharing what she can.
Oblivious, suited figures scurry through the park toward appointments
while engaged in conversations wrapped around their ears.
I’m an intruder in a strange land.
Do I bring anything to the table?
Can I hear their pain?
I take a seat on a fading sun-lit bench
feeling overwhelmed that here
on Memorial Day near the Wall of honor
gather the forgotten ones
lost in the “land of the free and the home of the brave”.
How did it come to this?
A dark figure stooping under his mighty load
is ranting, raving at sights unseen
as he stumbles from bench to bench.
He looks at me and I become afraid.
He shouts a greeting and I nod.
Fearful and ashamed
I walk away toward my cozy place of respite
knowing that my meal tonight will fill my belly
but will it feed my soul?
as geometric shadows of nearby buildings
grow long across worn patches of green grass.
Making their way slowly, one by one they come.
With walkers, wheel chairs, crutches they come,
come to find that certain bench,
come to stake a claim on dream time.
Black plastic bags lay near torn and ragged soles
holding what’s left of a life of hard times and bitter memories.
What will the darkness bring?
Nightmares of “Nam”?
Dreams of beds and showers?
Will they sleep tonight as sirens wail down K Street?
Ducks and pigeons scurry with flapping wings
circling round the woman all in green.
Midst the clamor, a hand turned rusty brown
reaches into a bag and throws the fowl some crumbs.
She who has so little sharing what she can.
Oblivious, suited figures scurry through the park toward appointments
while engaged in conversations wrapped around their ears.
I’m an intruder in a strange land.
Do I bring anything to the table?
Can I hear their pain?
I take a seat on a fading sun-lit bench
feeling overwhelmed that here
on Memorial Day near the Wall of honor
gather the forgotten ones
lost in the “land of the free and the home of the brave”.
How did it come to this?
A dark figure stooping under his mighty load
is ranting, raving at sights unseen
as he stumbles from bench to bench.
He looks at me and I become afraid.
He shouts a greeting and I nod.
Fearful and ashamed
I walk away toward my cozy place of respite
knowing that my meal tonight will fill my belly
but will it feed my soul?
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