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My September 11th Poem

I suspect most poets have one. This is mine.


After September 11, 2001

Oh, God,
You end with a mighty sob
That should instead shake
Nations to the core.
What have we done?
What have we done?
If God was not dead before,
Surely he is now,
With a stake driven to the heart
That is not self-inflicted.
No one may call it that.
Humanity itself the suspect,
Victim, law and prisoner.
How many death sentences
For these crimes?
How many life times in these prisons?
How many lives
To erase, to balance, to ease,
The trenches, the ditches, the ovens,
The jungle, the desert, the city.
The heavenly fire (oh, do not give it such a name),
The death in golden jars and in the flesh,
Those willing to die, and those willing to let them.
Who knew that humans,
Could have so much pain in them.
I am nothing in this but witness.
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