Burn the Art Poem by David Michael Jackson

Thoughts of burning art again
To have placed any value in it
seems quaint tonight
a simple fire without ceremony
is all that is needed really
just call it collateral damage

no one will notice
anyway
Vincent had the chance
he blew it
and now they gather
around these pieces of his fabric
like they are lives to be saved somehow
while the children play with the depleted uranium
***

You are the soldiers and we command you poem by Carl Sandburg

AND THEY OBEY

SMASH down the cities.
Knock the walls to pieces.
Break the factories and cathedrals, warehouses
and homes
Into loose piles of stone and lumber and black
burnt wood:
You are the soldiers and we command you.

Build up the cities.
Set up the walls again.
Put together once more the factories and cathedrals,
warehouses and homes
Into buildings for life and labor:
You are workmen and citizens all: We
command you.

KILLERS Poem by Carl Sandburg

KILLERS

I AM singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:

Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.

And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.

I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.

I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines–
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,

Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world’s heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of
killing.
Sixteen million men.