Tag: war poet

Echo

Subway windows fogged with containment,

Bach is the ocean that holds the eclipse of life,

I am no more darker than light;

Bliss has put to sleep a creeping moon,

A man who was the sum of his missing parts,

Becomes an adolescent art project,

A halt settles on a counter melody,

A duel of sorts creasing into a crescendo,

This is beauty I reckon:

Where a disheveled desk holds the great

mysteries of life,

They say Bach is played for God,

And we are so lucky to receive an echo.

Ashes

The smoldering of ashes,

Once bright and dim,

Now frail and brittle like life’s little wind,

A monument built upon the backs of dirt,

A breeze assaults in,

Flanking to scatter what little respect we’ve hoarded,

We love what we do not know,

And grieve for things we dare not show,

Like a blow shocking and riveting,

We clutch to save the breath

That escapes through crevices of night’s summer’s edge,

The things we once gave our lives to,

Are bled through tunnels of false imprisonments:

Searching like a miner’s light to ores of redemption,

We dig till our fingers are bare of innocence,

While succession waves like a flag of pride;

Bowing firm to our dripping obedience,

Towards traditions drowned in puddles of hate,

Like a man in no man’s land,

We dig trenches to shelter us from the shelling of our dissonance,

As shells are washed away by the Fogginess of our cognitivism,

As the Salmon returns to the streams of birth,

We are ready to mate with elusiveness,

Burning the vestiges,

Until they become ashes,

Settling.

Vestiges

Vestiges

Through jeep trails,
And mountain ranges,
Littered with the ore of miner’s ambitions,
I seek a place:
A piece of Earth not scorched by the obsessiveness of hate,
But a calm that drips full of honey,
And brims sweetly of nectar whose bite is tender and subduing,
I sleep during the summer noons,
On logs wiser than I;
Sap glues the sweat of a hundred men to the same condition:
The condition of escape and wonder,
Of redemption,
Of past glories memorialized over sagging guts and wobbled knees,
And the revelation that a satisfying brew surrounded by souls isn’t a time machine.

Now the moon has come out to play,
I sit swayed by the taunting breeze,
As mud hugs my shabby and assaulting boots , I think:
I want to create beautiful things,
Precious and delicate,
Breathing and contorting,
Inspired and reverting.

Out There

Out There

Out There,
I’m afraid of my shadow,
Because it’s already dark enough inside my head;
The sun dances between concealment and ambivalence.
I step in footprints that are not mine,
Playful like a child;
For a moment, I laugh, deeply, taken,
Skipping unabashed through tentacles of beauty:
Of mountain songs, of listless clings, reconciling demons that burned a depth falling in lifeless pits.
I stretch my arms like mountains,
Fingers brush the wind,
Standing firm upon the snow caps,
Resting amongst the clouds,
Steadfast until you come to me like a wandering Eagle
And you’ll love me when I’m better.
Out there,
You’ll find me,
Nestled in the waters,
Drowning,
Gasping,
Until the damp shores are within my grasps,
I heave and lay,
Wet with spittle,
Until you find me unafraid.