Compassion
poem
Chris Hanch
Shannon turned into a butterfly
before my eyes,
lit on a branch to dry her wings,
then flitted from flower to flower
until she was all too soon out of sight.
My mother, I suppose,
did the same sort of thing before
I was even born.
As a man and an aviator,
Paul took a short-cut using man-made wings,
electronics instead of instinct to
fly beyond the bounds intended for
all living things.
Ramon took to the bottle and the rail,
riding for no money through the
Dust Bowl, Rock-and-Roll, Presidential Assassination and
the Vietnam War.
Having gone too far for turning back,
yet always looking over his shoulder,
he leapt into the flames
and rose into the spirit world on a wisp of dark gray smoke.
Louis knew exactly what he was doing,
and with a twisted smile and a
thousand broken treaties tucked under his vest as spent ammunition,
he chose to walk wherever he went.
He walked aimlessly until the road ran out.
It was there on that torrid patch of earth in New Mexico he
evaporated into thin air.
His tribe has chanted their traditions for over a thousand years.
Some stay safe and close to the dispensary nursing their ills and
suffering;
others elect to move, limping, sometimes laughing with
the hunger of hyenas.
Most wounded animals, despite the breaks, punctures and pain,
run for the bush and cover,
preferring a cool, quite spot to die.
I once saw a broken-winged bird,
flightless,
circling hopelessly exposed in the open,
flailing in the dust.
It was him I felt most sorry for.
Compassion COPYRIGHT 2005 Chris Hanch.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
08/22/05
