A picture of war for all ages,
my first experience of war.
When I first saw this master work
it puzzled me—dissonant shapes,
distortions, hurt pouring from every 
inch of canvas—then, as a teen,
I had never seen a war
except as grainy pictures in books
or documentaries, or in Hollywood
triumphs. 
My Dad had been a soldier
but he would not talk about it.
The noise of war was not 
for conversation.
Now war assaults with sounds
Of soldiers, bombs, 
dying civilians, noise and
blood we could not see before, 
not even Guernica’s symbols
plumb the depths of its horror.
Yet, I’ve never seen or heard or felt
a better explanation.
If only we could make it stop,
throw a sheet over Guernica,
would it stop all wars?
                        

My friend’s inner fire is almost gone.
“At least,” we who love her say,
“At least she does not know
the world around her is at war.”
She can no longer make sense
Of images on television or
Read a book or listen to a
Strange, disembodied voice on radio.

I call, often, knowing that soon
she will no longer know my voice,
hoping some word of affection
will keep alive the embers
of her mind just a little longer.

I will call even after the spark
of recognition’s left her—after all
even ashes warm to love.