Arlene Corwin Poetry

Pointless

We know, we know.

Yet we are hurt, astonished

When the anger opens

Weaponed, bomb- and bullet-filled;

Detached, well fed, strangely inhuman

Mis-fostered passion,

Technologically obtained.

✄

We know that there is no safe place,

That life is fragile,

Unpredictable.

Know that books and folk are saying,

Calling days the ‘last’.

✄

Oslo. No

Peace prize today:

Price of peace the pointless piece

Of tragedy.

✄

Delayed, an inner movement

That says “Moan and cry!”

One can but mark a moment

In eternity.

Pointless 7.24.2011

Our Times, Our Culture;

Arlene Corwin