The Blood of Trees

Did you learn to lust for
the blood of trees,
sapped from blighted limbs,
the litheness of leaves still
falling
in the unhasty way that trees fall?
Did you let them grow
only to marvel more greatly
at the size of the force
needed to fell them,
or were the bared teeth of your saws
merely bad harmony
to the pathetic sound your fists made
against the trees that you wanted toppled?

Did you see them like spirits,
reaching with their skeletal fingers toward
an unflinching creator?

If they had skins, they might have
looked like dead elephants,

but they were trees,
silent and patient,
bleeding for the amusement and glory
of insignificant men.

©K Paige Medina 30 January 2017

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The Good Dream

On Colombia

One of the joys of living
Must be
To crack things that are whole
And to push over
The tall things we have built,
Watching them
Break
Shatter
Into the smallness of themselves.
Do we feel stronger
In chaos?
Perhaps it is the false purpose,
The lightning licked
Sense of self
That we seek
When we give in to our
Death drive
And end things we’ve begun.

But then,
There is also
Some quiet motif
That there are those who
Stubbornly
Hold fast to the light,
And to the creation
Of beautiful things.

Shaking hands in white shirts,
Their
Obstinate fingers lacing quietly
Over the mouth of history,
Bidding it be silent
A moment,
Men promised a nation
Half punch drunk from too much
War and solitude
A morning of peace.
And perhaps it is merely
Shadows performing their macabre dance
Like peace usually is–
Perhaps it is a dream.
But in its unobtrusive hope
Let it be;
It is a good dream.

© K Paige Medina 9/27/2016