A nation dies
when its ideas become slogans
nothing is deeply planted
or cultivated
just notions to be scattered around
as exposed hayseeds
that fly directionless.
When a state is oppressed
the collective impulse
is to oppress another country.
Wars are never fought
over an ideal.
In the staggered march of time
dead men become
the enemy.
Minds die
they become buried in the deaf flesh,
become as thin as the bones
of extinct songbirds.
The dead consider themselves
the finest examples of a new reality,
an existence that is the loudest shout
in the widest open mouth.
Dead letters, dead opinions,
dead ends
travel in circles together
until the land forgets its roots
becomes a basement for the sky
a place that is ingrown
like a toenail
pushed into the white tissue
of all such unkept deathbeds.
An early outing for my friend and I
We walked the winding path down to the springs
The uncut winter hay is now waist high
And in the morning breeze it softly sings
Red Indian paintbrushes are in bloom
As are the downy phlox and dogwood trees
How sweet the smell of birth in nature's womb
Attracting butterflies and honey bees
The passerine song birds are in full throat
While woodpeckers and sap suckers keep time
Mid air, white cotton hayseeds gently float
So gracefully they dance their pantomime
And in that moment, in the tarnished hay
The gurgling springs still hidden from my view
With nature's springtime beauty on display
I heard her say a peaceful. "I love you"
by Daniel Turner
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