WARS
IN the old wars drum of hoofs and the beat of shod feet. / In the new wars hum of motors and the tread of rubber tires.
IRON
❦
GUNS,
Long, steel guns,
Pointed from the war ships
In the name of the war god.
Straight, shining, polished guns,
Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,
Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,
Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,
Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.
Shovels,
Broad, iron shovels,
Scooping out oblong vaults,
Loosening turf and leveling sod.
I ask you
To witness--
The shovel is brother to the gun.
More poems by Carl Sandburg
NOON HOUR
SHE sits in the dust at the walls / And makes cigars,
KILLERS
I AM singing to you / Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
THE HARBOR
PASSING through huddled and ugly walls / By doorways where women