Tag Archives: life

War

In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons.
Croesus

You have to leave this warm state of oranges,
for a burning desert. The twenty years of service
in tattered camouflage, but fourteen years
since you finished wiping coarse sand off your boots,
does not satisfy leaders, wearing shiny suits,
starched shirts and red, white and blue
ties, sitting in clean, corner offices in the pentagon;
so they hand you orders for deployment.

On the edge of a brown couch, you lean down to knot
black shined boots, reflecting olive fingers, as you run
thin laces through metal clips. Next, you slide coat buttons
into each open hole, while your sons observe this ritual,
nervous and impatient, they ambush you with hugs;
their ages combined barely breaking eleven. You set them down,
and walk to the car with my sister;
she wraps her arms around you and squeezes.

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I wrote this for a class in 2004 and is a part of bigger poem titled democracy.

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Leaders

So shoot us or feed us, Big Man. We are very tired. Feed us or kill us quickly–or else what good are you?
The Crying For A Vision

A man muddied, clothes torn
sits alone in a dark alley with shards
of glass around and stomach denied wine
drifting from an open dumpster. The man
rises to his feet, then empties onto
the sidewalk. He slowly drags one leg
after the other, passing buildings, each with
boards in place where windows used
to stand. He stops and passes through
the space between two factories. He enters
the first from the back exit. The man
reaches the foot of some steps, he grabs
the hand rail and pulls himself up a floor.
He stares at the rotted door with a tag
that reflects his name. –Five years earlier,

the man types, fingers rapidly pushing
buttons, at a computer in his office. He sends
an E-mail to the president of the company,
outlining, point for point, faults created
by a slight downfall in the stock market.
The man, hoping the leaders, like FDR,
can prepare them to prevent a major loss
of jobs. The president reads the message
like a tip from his business manager,
and spreads the word to other top stock
holders.– The man pulls a soiled newspaper
out from under his shirt and focuses
on a picture of the company’s former leaders
sitting around a table, drinking warm
coffee with the president of the U.S.

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I wrote this for a class in 2004 and is a part of bigger poem titled democracy.

Our First Night

That night I held you in my arms, we looked
out the window and watched boats in the distance
as well as lights from other hotels and in the park
below us. We talked about our life, our child-
hoods, about our views on life. You told me about

 
reindeer food and I rambled on about something. I recall
sitting on that couch, occasionally glancing away from
outside spectacles to look at your crimson hair, your deep
green windows of eyes, displaying your excitement and those red
dots freckled on your cheeks, waiting for my lips to connect

 
each one. I would eventually kiss your tattoos,
but in that moment, I wanted to wrap you up
like a gift, hands folded over you like a big bow,
appreciating time we had with each other knowing
it was our present.

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I wrote this in late 2012, a poem for someone I once loved. I have many of these to post, on several degrees of love and lust, found and lost.

The Fire of Life

In life, we create the fire of thought. Sparks from neurons
create ideas, leading to the flames – our questions – how and why.
The answers inspire art, fun, war, and misery; all resources
to pleasure.

In death, we create the fire of life. Our bodies deposited deep
in the ground or spread across the surface, food for the bugs
and plants that rise up, help sustain existence. We are born from fires
below the earth.


A poem I have worked on the last couple of years, 2015, I’ll probably continue to edit along the way.

Nina

T0: N.H.

 

I stood in green grass
under a backyard clothesline,
my nose smelling blueberry
muffins wafting from an open
window, my eyes scanning, starting
with the white, rusting shed, then your legs,
finishing at the ripe garden.

 

In your tar-affected voice,
you taught me the rules of baseball;
do not swing the plastic bat at a first
pitch, keep an eye on the hole filled
ball, be aware of the actions of other
base runners, and regardless of outcome,
make sure to respect every player.

 

I gripped my bat, wise of where
to hit the mint-tinted wiffle ball.
You wound up, prepared to pitch,
ready to do what you never could
with my father and his brother.
The pitch came off of your fingers and I
cracked it over the gray back fence.

 

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Wrote this back in my undergrad, 2003, read it at my grandmothers memorial service. It’s a close one to my heart.