The Lady Diarist from Wales, Who Read the Poets as Washington Burned (1968)
Sometimes the spirit is left to crawl
with a lost dog in the streets,
bound to whatever unites the living
in life.
Even if it's the lowest common denominator,
even if it's the wind riffling
through caged beings
evolution has yet to define
in better shape, towards a better end:
whatever propels our particles
into the sea of human destiny.
She wrote these words in the library
of surrounding streets
before they were singed by fire & smoke.
Her personage modeled a helmet of hair,
with each ebony strand in alignment
compacting the infinite curls taking root.
As the black citizens roiled about
she sat writing on a tattered porch,
strewn with burnt-out cinders,
hardly noticing my M.P. jeep passing;
or seeing the olive drab troops either
who came to protect her building
from vandals near the White House.
Wood smolders best, she scribbled,
but please protect the cherry trees
& the flame of immortality
in Shelley's heart
today so far away.
- © Peter Magliocco 2021
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, and has had poems published through the years in print and online publications. His latest poetry book is The Underground Movie Poems from Horror Sleaze Trash.
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