National Poetry Month: “Franklin Dies”

He is dead. And bells are rung.

Who rings the bell?

That upside down bronze cup

clanging back and forth.

It rings on the hour

and for the moments prayers are needed

or expected.

It rings out in celebration

and in sorrow.

This thing come free of chains

rings freedom for his soul.

Mortal once, immortal now.

This friend of mankind

borne upon the shoulders

of his progeny of mind.

The mourners weep

20,000 crowd the streets

even the bell-ringer leaves his perch

he with calloused hands.

A bullet scar.

Memories of General Washington.

He mourns the figurehead

but knows that liberty lives on.

 

 

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