Morning March

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Strolling mythical lanes
before citizens waken
my singular step echoes
hastening my mind to ponder
visualize, conjure
throngs of foot soldiers
in rank and file, anticipating battle
sweat and leather and dusty sandals
sharpened swords, lances, shield, behind
their families weep, wonder
in months, years, or ever, a return?
Perhaps, upon same flagstone, stained crimson
fell many in defense, invasion, regime change
yet, gone
such signs, wiped clear by time’s stride
a veneer conceivably whitewashed
as we roving bees to history’s honey, innocent
of foregoing savagery
still, without such brutal truths
her charms, bewitch still

Photo and poem (c) by DC Lessoway

 

Waken to History

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first light
bird-song quiet, on
stony boulevards
Roma

first full day
9,000 kilometers from
mundane, work-a-day
safety’s precinct

here, chock-a-block
chronicle upon saga
via emperor or tyrant
aside the holy see

silent, stony narrative
speaks beneath foot
behind glass, illuminating
brutality of faith

photo and poem (c) by DC Lessoway

Magnificence in Muted Tones

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time-worn, re-scripted history
of pagan-christain conviction
petite at the distance
approached with awe, as
columns rise, grow, each
a monolith until itself
base made smooth, in spots, by
laying on of hands
where one could reach
across the centuries, touch
somehow partake, maybe perceive, a
breadth of lost chronicles
war to war to war to war
while she stands as a
sanctuary of peace

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step into the rotunda
marbled everything
sculptured with mastery
eternal life, imprisoned in stone
ruler and artist both
entombed as to keep
some narrative alive
strain the neck to find the
all seeing oculus
gaping to the sky
somehow both perfect
and incomplete

photos and poem (c) 2016 by DC Lessoway