We don't diminish experience much,
We're prone to exaggeration.

Reality pales with its age,
but not its storied station.

Some stories end in death,
with no one to ever tell.

If only there were living dead,
to rise and describe their hell.

Some stories are suppressed,
never to be revealed.

Some stories are carefully crafted,
like fine steel is annealed.

Stories passed by word of mouth,
so often get confused.

And then the stories are written down,
so that the confusion can be sealed.

A good story can become a legend.
With the power to be of use.

Legends keep the people happy,
and keep them long amused.

When woven into rituals,
so easily to be abused.

The exaggeration of patriotism,
is way beyond control.

But when tuned to feed the frenzy,
the meek become the whole.

Rise up and strike the enemy down,
with only what's in our soul.

"My country, right or wrong,"
without clear reason,
presents a cowardly role.

Mural in Blight

Our Dilemma

Photo by Blue Jake 


More Poems

My Place

Read War's End, the Novel

Copyright 2010 © Ronald W. Hull


My Country by Cliff Joeseph

My Country, Right or Wrong

Painting by Cliff Joseph