In the early morning hours
the blood dries from arterial red
to sullen black
on the floor,
on the walls.
in the lounge and the back rooms.
It will be washed down in time,
diluted by water
dipped from a rolling metal bucket,
the mop strings squeezed
of pink soapy fluid,
to find its way,
a winding thin line
down the sewers
to the Gulf,
nourishment for the small
fish and animals
swimming off shore.
The sun rises on another,
winding line,
down the sidewalk,
around the corner,
people of all colors,
gender, and orientation
wait their turn at donation
hours in the early sun.
They bring in their veins
a repudiation
of the dark blood of hate,
they bring with them
the sweet blood
of love.
and i look forward to giving my blood at the bloodmobile here soon, but not for Orlando. just for 'whomever', though i hope my blood does not keep some old codger alive who would be more good (in my humble opinion) to society if he croaked. [no offense meant towards frogs] this is a finely-written account of the aftermath of madness. this shall make a fine addition to June's showcase. THANKS. bri :) and to MyPoemList
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow makes me think its about the compassionate act of donating blood as opposed to war shedding of blood. Great wording and superb freeverse meter here. Nice to read u again. Do pls review my latest too on eclipse.