When I realized I was seriously overtaken by poetry was when I started commenting on a friends blog and found myself making my comments in verse. It seemed natural and I didn't even consider writing my comments in prose until I had completed the poem. I thought it a reasonable poem considering the strange way the Muse brought it to me. I will share it now with my own audience. I hope it will be well received.
What's Stolen
What is stolen with antiquities
is more than just art—
it is a history of a region
and the religion at its heart.
The question of ownership
is a hard one to pose,
for who can own
the fragrance or color of a rose.
The argument can be made,
it is best kept on display
in a place where hands and elements
can't wear it away.
Oh, I can see the grandeur
of leaving it where it stands,
but see the fate of Stonehenge
chipped by trophy taker's hands.
As in all things monumental,
be they monument or though,
an answer on how to treat them
is not easily wrought.
The artist is a performer
presenting his essence to the world.
He can only protect and love it
until it is unfurled.
Once it is sold for profit
or given to the state
he washes his hands of it
and leaves it to its fate.
For who can say with
the passage of time
what will happen to
art, prose or rhyme.
In the end all of humanity
owns the history of its past.
Let us hope as time claims elements
that the color and scent will last.