Another Peace poem

ImagePainting Hiroshima – August 6, 1945 

When I was a brush, a crude-tufted, rough brush,
I pulled myself around the sky, painting mushroom clouds
and streaks of fire. On the ground 
I spilled chemicals to burn the skin.

But if I could go back to August 5, I would begin
by painting over the Enola Gay with sky-blue paint 
and dreamy white cumulous puffs 
that looked like sheep or old men with beards. 

I wouldn’t allow one speck of gray-green metal to show,
nothing to build on at a later time. Not one
bomb would leave the soft hairs of my pen,
not one person would run screaming to nowhere.

I would be a fine sable brush, go to these cities 
and paint emergency medical stations 
with a huge red cross, deep shelters with steps going down.

But it’s sixty-some years past and the original 
painting resides under all the others that tried
to justify or hide the deed—a pentimento 
of all those faded pieces painted with ignorance. 











Published in: Uncategorized on July 12, 2012 at 2:33 pm  Leave a Comment  

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