Plane crash on the news.
Nervous.
Asking whodunit.
More plane crashes.
Pentagon becomes a quad.
Did they do it for a god?
Did God do this thing?
Mankind.
Pointing fingers.
Flags were raised.
United Nations.
Parting Hatians.
DHS Department of Human Services.
Ruined.
Security afghan.
Saddam’s bottled water.
Are eastern children worthless?
Are western children birthless?
Sounds too political for here.
djm
The Work of Brothers
Firemen
find a brother in the rubble.
After so many days,
the body should be hard to take.
And yet, as they wrap him in the flag,
they speak to the corpse.
Don’t worry about it.
Don’t you worry about it, Mike.
You’re all right. You’re all right.
We’re carrying you out of here.
And from the hands of one
to the hands of another
and then to another
down the line,
across smoldering hills
and valleys never meant to be,
they pass their brother
home.
– Dale Wisely
Birmingham, Ala.
(first published in National Catholic Reporter, 2002)
aw, Dale… 
Thanks for sharing those, you guys.
I was living in Canada five years ago…I penned several works about my feelings then… Since you’ve both exibited the courage to display yours, I’ll have to go home and dig mine out and transcribe them.
One of them I may have to scan so that you get the full effect; I did it on a typewriter then copied it into the negative on a copy machine…was a cool effect. That one I called “Black Tuesday”
These two poems appeared in a book, published by Regent Press, titled, An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind: Poets on 9/11
It’s available on Amazon
I also got to read them at a poetry club special meeting on the first anniversary.
Thanksgiving Eve, 2001
Today
I sort ruin,
lifting shards of concrete and shovels of rubble
picking up a bracelet attached to an arm attached to
nothing
which I carefully – reverently – place in a bag with a label
then pass to Mike
(who has a brother we hope to find)
who marches it to the refrigerated truck
waiting a block away.
Tomorrow
when they make me stay home,
before
I sit with my family
at the long table
heavy with turkey and stuffing and cranberries and mashed potatoes and gravy and
three types of pumpkin pie
where I will pretend to stuff myself while
distantly catching up on the lives of my sister’s family
who visits only every other year,
and before
going through the motions of chortling
with my brothers for the thousandth time about
the night we and four of the Stopich boys picked up
Mrs. Delanko’s VW Beetle and
set it on her front porch because she wouldn’t let
her daughter Amanda
go out with the remaining Stopich boy,
after which
I will retire to the family room to watch football and
eventually nod off
to be later awakened to say goodbyes and
dry dishes and
put kids to bed
then myself
to lay awake until the 5:00 alarm lets me
put on my digging clothes
and go back,
before all that
I’ll lead the grace.
I can’t imagine where I will begin.
South Tower, 96th Floor, Corner Office
(First appeared in ‘In Posse Review’ in September, 2001)
Fresh air seduces me.
"Come where you can breathe,” she says.
There is no breathing here;
air is poison, searing, near solid.
To live I must lean and breathe.
Soon the flames will touch me,
push me to lean farther.
Past leaning is flying.
Flying is freedom;
freedom is choice.
The hatred behind me
soon will force choosing.
I hope I have the courage
to choose to fly.
I wrote this song a few weeks after the event. It is a whistle tune! Unfortunately, I don’t have a recording or the dots.
Brave
Brave in the face of danger,
Faithful to the end.
Go where no one dares,
To save our next of kin.
Five alarms, ring loud,
Tower two goes down,
Into tower one we go…
There’s no light to see,
There’s no air to breath,
Heroes as the shadow falls.
Garrison Keillor read this poem today on the Writer’s Almanac poem
This is a killer line.
I think this thread belongs here. Post the politics where the politics go.
Wow. Well said everyone.
Here’s a song I wrote a few month ago.
Holy War
Just an ordinary morning
til the awful news came round:
plowshares turned to mighty swords
to bring the towers down
A day of loss and horor
while they gave their god the praise
the infidels cut down to size
for all their sinful ways
Draw the sword and beat the drum
and make the sinners pay
they’re not worthy of this world
til they’re forced to see the way.
Show up for the funeral
to spread our message well
tell them “God hates Faggots”
and “Matthew is in Hell”
then march around the graveyard
with cards and signs in hand
With any luck the TV crews
will show to all the land…as we
draw the sword and beat the drum
and prove the sinners wrong
they’ll tremble in their fear and shame
and that will make us strong.
Little children, gather round
and listen what I say:
Jesus came to show us all
that there’s a better way.
Do good to those who harm you
teach those who do wrong
stand up for the helpless
help the weak be strong
The war that is before us
is not against a man
Hatred only serves our foe.
Why can’t you understand
that not with sword’s loud clashing
nor roll of stirring drums:
With deeds of love and mercy
the heavenly kingdom comes.
Thomas Wilson
The final four lines are taken from the hymn “Lead on, O King Eternal” by E. W. Shurtleff.