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Another bright September day
Another sun-filled sky
She stands her ground with endless pride
As planes above her fly
She looks upon her children
Her loved ones dear to heart
As they go through their normal chores
Some only just to start
But soon the peace was shattered
As men so filled with hate
Soon turned their rage to senseless acts
To meet their horrid fate
First one and then another hit
Impossible to seem
Two other impacts hit elsewhere
As in a horrid dream
Tho some did fight the evil
As heroes they had died
And as the proud twins met their fall
The Lady Liberty cried
My whole world is falling down
Nine one one, nine one one. My whole world is falling down
Nine one one, nine one one.
In smoke and debris our loved ones drown
Nine one one, we say.
Husbands, brothers, sons, and dads
Nine one one, nine one one,
Wives and sisters, daughters, moms,
All come to help that day.
Senseless deaths from hate and war,
Nine one one, nine one one,
In our homeland or yonder shore,
When will it go away?
Our children need us to be there,
Nine one, one, nine one, one,
To give them tender love and care
that drives their fears away.
In smoke and debris our loved ones drown
Nine one one, we say.
Husbands, brothers, sons, and
September 12th
by John Kissingford
I ate too much sorrow yesterday
the kitchen overflowed with savories
morsels impossible to ignore.
I feasted in the morning on scrambled
havoc, panic toasted and slathered with butter
twin towers of silver dollar pancakes
responding to the flash of a knife
and fork with fuck collapse
syrup everywhere
impossible to clean
gluing our hands to the table.
And then we couldn’t close eyes or mouths
as course after course came to table
and we devoured it, delectable details for dessert
indulgence indefensible indigestible
After the initial glut I learn to pace myself
A plateful of agony an hour
By evening, exhausted, we stare into soup
a confusion of images: vegetable rubble, smoke of bouillon
twisted gristle sheen showing our eyes staring back.
One face after another drowses forward
falls, and screaming and sputtering
shakes his soup-scalded forehead free
of the droplets.
We swear revenge upon the chefs
but we may as well resolve to punish
the people who pushed us into our bowls
We
ourselves
sat down to this supper.
This morning I ache
looking at the wreckage
of dirty dishes and spilled scraps
pots and pans scarred with burnt gore
this chaos in the heart of our home.
I ache, and aching ask my beloved
if we might do the dishes together
clean the kitchen together
find a way together
to be thankful
one day again
for the miracle of a meal.
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