四月是Poetry Month。我家小小樵说要每天一诗

The Light Strike

The lamp will simply get up and go,
waddling away on curled steel slippers
away to catch the laser light show.
The fireplace will yawn, in the dead of winter,
roll over, face the south, close its mouth,
go to sleep snoring with the roar of a furnace.
The computers will slide along, dragged by mouse,
a little tugboat pulling away for the boat race,
a wake of wires and cords streaming behind.
Yes, the sources of light will one by one go away,
arm in arm, leaving me to stumble in the dark to find

memories of what it was like to see the new day.

Misericord

In the museum of Human History
there is a pane of glass through which
we glimpse a knight, on his waist a misery
cord. He looks bored, waxy. The roof drips pitch
and there's a black spot spiderwebbing out 
on the steel breastplate, hated for its heat,
a boiling pot filled with something hotter than fire,
above the heart, the black stain does not tire.


The knight pants, air shunting through his helmet
slow as tar. He's far away from home, and the sword
is a great dumbbell in his hand. He has regrets,
but not the breath to speak them. He swipes
at his opponent. The other knight trips over a blade
of grass, falling noisily, metal clanging, the sound of pipes
and bells and chimes and cymbals all together, 
a miserable chord on a languid keyboard. In the shade,
the one sits on the other hand, draws his misericord
for the coup de grace. Droplets of blood spray
and a growing pool stains the ground where the knight lays.


More horrible than the cutting edge sharp with passion,
or the great sword swung in the mind of honorable action;
The slender dagger, shaved thin from the sharpening,
accustomed to driving wells into outstretched throats.
I see, through the glass, 
the plastic armor,
the waxen skin,
the marble eyes
a misericord blue, apathy taken root,
tar dripping slowly, villains playing roles,
a black stain festering over the soul.

Bloodrush

Amidst the stuttering of gunfire,
the grumbling of cannons--
As Nero dances with the flames
to the shrieking strings of the lyre--
When people forget your name
and instead remember a battle--
When your eyes and ear tire
of strangers slaughtered like cattle-
If the screams for the fame
are an executioner's bell--
If we applaud a man
because he can't tell
the difference between the battleground,
heaven,
and hell--


The iron in our blood
makes tough stone of our bodies
and steel of our veins,
strength close packed.
But remember always-
the Devil carries a pickaxe.

http://allpoetry.com/poem/11423165-Bloodrush-by-Qiao