Our monuments are weary.
They want to quit their jobs.
They hate fronting for history.
They like birds, rain, sunshine,
and snow because all four
play in the present.
Our monuments want to travel
abroad to meet other monuments.
Some days they just want
to break apart to become
the abstract and liberated
art of rubble.
One monument told me it
simply feels in the way,
heavy, ridiculous. It
stands there shilling
for something people
who have either forgotten
or want to forget what lies
behind the monument,
which wants only to support
birds, darken for rain,
shine for sun, change
shape with snow.
hans ostrom 2020
They want to quit their jobs.
They hate fronting for history.
They like birds, rain, sunshine,
and snow because all four
play in the present.
Our monuments want to travel
abroad to meet other monuments.
Some days they just want
to break apart to become
the abstract and liberated
art of rubble.
One monument told me it
simply feels in the way,
heavy, ridiculous. It
stands there shilling
for something people
who have either forgotten
or want to forget what lies
behind the monument,
which wants only to support
birds, darken for rain,
shine for sun, change
shape with snow.
hans ostrom 2020
1 comment:
I love your poems. The thought of monuments going abroad to visit other monuments makes me giggle. However I found a typo in the first word of the last stanza. Shouldn't it be ONE, not ON? I'm in the next room, waiting.
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