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  • D. Ellsworth


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.

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