They’re selling postcards of the hanging
of the old ladies knitting and the soldiers kissing
shadowed under an ageless sun and relentless rain.
Who said laughter is never befriended with pain?
Iron-shod his chariot is whippin’ up the dust
as miners lungs are filling up with soot and rust,
and in the old oak trees bodies are swaying.
His carrion birds are better fed than us, just saying.
A tearless wind is blowing; lidless eyes are staring.
Armed you’d rather be shot than caught to be caring.
and under your boots the voices of flowers are crushed.
You’re hurt, you’re hurting, passive being hushed.
Kerry want us to write a poem using a line from Bob Dylan’s poetry at toads. My choice is to use the first line of Desolation Row. They’re selling postcards of the hanging.
October 21, 2016