Hands

This cold war poem got me published in 1991, subsequently on audio book in '92. Am I that old? Still feels relevant in a world where we sensationalize war and celebrate so much death, however justified it feels.

Hands

by Jeffrey S. Hartman

And from the light walked the neon man with pools of tears

He's unwritten

My friend

Will he remember a sun's light

The mirror night

A July pool and in December all that fell was snow

We'll never know tomorrow's children
The tulip's blossom
The gallop of clock's face
And now the mushroom nation promises the neon race
We grave the white light's show
And I, an American
Perhaps
In spite of circumstance would rather not know

And from the silhouette came his neon rival
In his final years
He's touched his affections and is left with a libel

Пролетарии всех стран, соединяйтесь!
(Proletarians of all countries, unite!)
[Proletarii vsekh stran , soedinyaĭtesʹ!]

Now eyes within sound proved the skies found nuetral ends
And the end's cry found promise of the self-renewal
And the reluctance of duel proved the promise

And their hands met as they kneeled upon a brandy stone
Minutes of stare
Minutes thrown by time

They saw the fair throne peace

And the war was over
The Earth slain and sore
And Jesus wot where
Out there
A beginning lay without pain or war

Jeff Hartman © 2011. All rights reserved.