NOVEMBER REQUIEM
by Lisa Porter-Grenn
‘Mid Fall’s
unfruitful clutches,
Looms an anecdotal
breeze;
The
frozen, slattern sky above
Has
brought us to our knees.
Beneath
the siege of rage
and tears,
Breathe strains of
’63:
A man, a car, his
wife, three shots…
(Where were those gods that
be?)
Out from that day
that conquered me,
A
child of six, or so;
I garner praise
for hands of grace
That
stayed my childlike soul.
It was a
school-day, some recall:
A Friday,
if you will;
A place named
‘Dallas’ fell apart…
Under its
weight, grew ill.
We sensed
life’s wrath, the scent of death;
Bereavement
rocks us still;
Hence,
let all memory worn by years
Beseech
us NOT to kill.
Adults
who’d never shed one tear
Donned
weary masks of pity,
The
master of our fate cried out,
(A death
knell… claimed our cities).
L.P.-Grenn copyright 2013
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