Epitaph – by W Luther Jett

 

You wrote my name in stone,
graved it in brass, called me
hero because
that day fire
dropt from the sky
to brand our city, I was
there and did
only what wanted doing.
No more.

And all your flags and flowers —
I never lived to see. Your songs,
those speeches,
the medals —
that morning I wasn’t looking
for any of that.
That day
I only wanted
to get through it.
I didn’t.
And I would give anything

not
to be
your hero.

 

 

 

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland, whose poetry has been published in numerous journals, including: The GW Review, Poetica, Syncopated City, Synæsthesia, ABRAXAS, Scribble, Beltway, Innisfree, Xanadu, Haiku Journal, Steam Ticket, Potomac Review, and Main Street Rag. His chapbook, “Not Quite” has recently been published by Finishing Line Press.

Aleppo, 2016 – by W Luther Jett

 

That pale shimmer
of white is not
glass reflecting
noon – is not
someone’s lace
dress – nor new
fallen snow –

Ashes, ashes
coat the street
of ruined houses –
and amid the rubble
a lone arm
upthrust toward
a sky now forever
out of reach.

 

 

 

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland, whose poetry has been published in numerous journals, including: The GW Review, Poetica, Syncopated City, Synæsthesia, ABRAXAS, Scribble, Beltway, Innisfree, Xanadu, Haiku Journal, Steam Ticket, Potomac Review, and Main Street Rag. His chapbook, “Not Quite” has recently been published by Finishing Line Press.