Tag Archives: history repeats itself

Eternal Recurrence

 

Joan of Arc, with her blonde pixie cut

and slim frame, in t-shirt, leggings,

walks down a modern Paris street.

She is cold, as the sun fades,

as the day ends, as the season changes,

and all seems to want to die.

Her Lord’s Enemy Nietzsche talked

of eternal recurrence, and, damn, goddamn,

if it does seem like that’s so now.

A young couple, both Joan’s age,

walk hand in hand down the street,

the girl’s head on the boy’s shoulder.

They are tender, sweet, still innocent.

Joan knows the boy will be killed in the war.

Joan knows the girl will be never fall in love after.

Rich men, cruel men, who speak of holiness,

crush the dreams of children, of the world,

and so many faithful cheer them on.

Joan sits by the Seine, as night is here,

and she needs rest, as her, the angels,

all the Children of God fight a battle that feels lost.

Why have they fought so long, so hard?

History repeats itself bitterly, endlessly.

People when not embrace the Godly Shard in them.

Ghosts of her friends, of her comrades,

of God’s now passed children, are close,

but not as close as the fires being kindled by greed.

 

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To A Far Better Shore

An angel was seen in the area, pale and bright and golden.
>
> Not
to the strings pulling the bloodshed was she beholden.
>
> She carried
a man in her arms, who had been lost in the war.
>
> She carried him out of this world,
to a far better shore.
>
> So many bodies, so much blood, so many hearts will be broken.
>
> But it never ends, never changes,
all the same old curses spoken.
>
> The
angel walked, silently weeping tears bright as the midday sun,
>
>
along an shattered street, children, mother to be, all under the gun.
>
> The mother
to be feels her child stir, tearful as the angel passes
> silent.
>
> She wonders will it be
a boy or girl, love or hate, victim or one of
> the violent?
>
> She wonders will it know peace, will it know war, will it be
> cherished, or
tossed away?
>
> Will it be sheltered from this dead end world, will their be
an ear to
> hear it pray?
>
> The children watch the
angel pass, torn up by her weeping, and why it
>
all means.
>
> They counted flowers once,
and heard that angel’s happy voice, a host
>
and queen.
>
> Is that man
almost fortunate, for he is been taken home, to that happy
>
and eternal place.
>
> Is that man
almost better off, for he can hurt nor bleed anymore,
> despite terror on his face.
>
>
And the angel walks up the stairs to the clouds and to a hole in the
> sun, disappears.
>
> What damnable tenderness, what cruel devotion,
to see what can be in
> these tears.
>
>
And the silence fades and the bombs and gunfire roars, but the spell
> still lingers on.
>
> Will there be
a happy and eternal place for us, when death comes, the
> gun is drawn?

Blood Tide and The Black Machines

She rides her motorbike down the slim, unlined lanes of the country.

               The tawny fields of tall grain whipped in the cool morning breeze.

               Little farm houses off in the distance, behind grey stone walls.

 

               You’d never know what had happened here, all those years before.

               The land has healed, the trenches and barbwire all gone from sight,

               Though the bones and blood and the sorrow still soaks the black soil.

 

               She finally stops at the empty foundation by a tall and twisted tree,

               The one she knows from the old photograph, her father smiling in

               Uniform, a beautiful woman kissing his cheek, whom she doesn’t know.

 

               She pulls a copy of the photograph from her pocket, looks at it now, trying

               To find the remmnants, the ether of that happy afternoon, that sweet

               Moment before the blood tide and black machines washed them away.

 

               But it’s just an empty foundation, and an old dying tree, nothing more here.

               She still doesn’t feel close to him, feel his spirit coming near to her own,

               Just here in empty countryside, chilled despite the fact that it’s August.

 

               Her father is back home, and hard to reach, lives in books and theology,

               In internal debates about the hand of god and the fates of the angels,

               Not in the voice of his daughter, not in her madness he passed on down.

 

               She puts away the picture, starts the motorbike again, and roars down

               The road, onto the sea twenty miles distant, to the waters over which

               The Red Dragon came, and has returned now, the blood changing nothing.