Where have the lilacs gone?
Are they with the belladonna
that bloomed when we were young,
before the truth was known,
before the side effects,
before the taking of remedies?
I lived in a Victorian house,
a suburb house, with lawn
and trees and fence to match.
My youth was common as the grass,
but Gram’s was of German decent
and from hers I had grown,
and could see how nation’s give-up
or would if following that course
Oh Brother, my brother
how could you turn your back
and shove a man into that fire?
Was it the swell in the streets
when they made Poland so bad
or was it when they sold justifications
so smoothly you couldn’t just laugh.
Still, I have to get back to the flowers,
because one morning they will burn,
and embers will once again leap,
devouring human empathy,
and from then on a lilac may not symbolize love,
but blood, blood will always be blood.
The Poetry Of J.P. 