Monday, April 23

statues


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we paused at a statue from golden ages
so bright and proud! a chiseled distant name,
reminiscent of better times than these.
i held my father's hand--or was it
grandfather, perhaps several further back--
and told him o! oh, how i missed those days somehow,
i yearned to see the bright ships sail, to watch
proud armies marching, marching on in nobler times.
life fills me with the telling: flecked
with crawling fear he'll tell me nothing changed,
men were small and weak then, too,
only statues must be legends, so they are. Doubt
expects such bittersweetened tones, a melancholic tale
of familiar dark and weakening days.
or a fallen kingdom, he'll describe: former glory,
faded since to rusted gold. what tragic youth!
to have missed such time. i sigh; a silent age
has passed us by. my timid telling hangs between,
too much weight for our slender string
slung from mouth to ear; but he turns--

i become him then, peering longishly
through so much generation and descent;
and tell such eager, youthful eyes to laugh--
for splendid years they were indeed! that built this stranger
and his statue:
but i knew him well, we together
basked in
summer splendor then when life was hard,
but richer for the cost. in those days

the city shone like marble, silver, a bright thing in the hills

we rode so gallantly bestride. Autumn filled our nostrils!
yes, those were Years! i tell
the eager self-child--
and no regrets! this automobile electric time
is no lesser, nor was the ancient past so cheapened
by less ancient errors. as glories then, still today
such wonders persist: though weightier they seem,
with so much generation and descent above.
statued monuments we, too, shall leave behind;
grandfathers shall stand again at their stony feet,
old voices full of marvel at the ages past.
the grim encompassings lend nobility through
time's deep-digging brush. i shall remember for my grandsons
the wonder of these years, the golden glory
of my youth to give them. no weaker years, my sons:
men have long been small and weak, 
but these are times of triumph, all.




4/2012
1/2009

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