madness

 deliberate thinking

the only skill

worth learning

the rest is

insanity 

war is on

war is on

truth the only

casualty 

A piece of furniture

 

It is a table
with me for several
years,

my grandparents
brought it home,
they died long ago,

I learned to read, write,
lean, stand, eat on it, 
it had also gone places,
with me,

saw its stiffness, its
strength slowly turning
into softness,

the apron, the legs,
the stretcher,

yet it hadn't lost
its shine
by being what it is,

I see the wounds
'I love you', 'I hate you'
written on its top with
the compass needle,

I'd marvel at its
outstanding support
when I struggled hard 
to write my poems on peace
on it, if I wrote in French,
I'd be obliged to refer
to it as 'her',

now I love it blindly 
when I'd hear the sound of 
my granddaughter writing 
a, b, c on her spiral notebook,
or, in time, when she'd wrongly
spell peace as 'piece', it surprised
her when I explained
to her the meaning, 

she laughed, I heard a 
swinging sound,
I knew where it came from