Tag Archives: war

Neither The World Nor It’s Souls

Caroline, who once heard spirits,

lays in her bathtub, lukewarm water,

looking up through the makeshift skylight,

as a bomber flies overhead.

She sighs, the war has already come,

and nothing in the world or it’s souls

could turn away the half-rotted face

of the queen of the dead.

Her town is left to burn and starve,

and her man was taken at the first,

only her alone in this house of theirs,

all hope and light has already fled.

She could almost sleep, sink under

the grey and soapy water, take that

into her lungs and not be in this world,

full of fires and blood and endless dread.

She gets out, gets dressed, cuts her hair

short and at a harsh angle, and packs her

bag with enough to last maybe a week,

and a picture of the man she never got to wed.


Advertisements

Warm Like Eden

Long and pale red hair, falling over slim shoulders.

Slim shoulders kept safe by a soft, light brown jacket.

A sweet face content in a pale ale and BLT.

Safe. I feel safe watching her.

I said “Hello.”, touching her soft jacket.

It felt warm like Eden.

Angel in a swank sports bar, as hell follows a lost faith’s pale horse.

She hugs me, and I believe the stars will remember us.

A hit of hope in her kindness, and her light, as I lose track of God and man.

And then home, to call them up for war.


An Abandoned A-Frame Church, On The Edge of the Kansas Plain, Late August

End of a cul-de-sac in an abandoned suburb,
surrounded by a plain of golden wheat,
as golden as the sun.

Musty and broken A-frame church,
mid-century bright and pretty and full
of light, shines for no one, or only one.

The starburst cross on the wall,
the altar empty and broken,
by our greed, restlessness undone.

 

I sleep in the old nursery, with a happy Jesus
and bright colors and a nostalgia glow
of a happier time before doubt.

I write words in my yellow, legal tablet,
trying to touch God, be touched by God,
in the ruins of a world left to those left out.

I remember, seeing something in the sun, once,
in an August morning, so bright and pure
that my child mind couldn’t help but shout.

 

The sanctuary still glows gold in late summer,
in the morning glow that may even be a Sunday morning
as I wait for her to come back from the war in Amarillo

I pray for her safety and bravery, and to know beyond this world,
when I wrap her in my arms again, the weight of her reality
and the softness of her kisses, the harsh breath from a cigarillo

and that we will be one flesh, and one spirit, complete, total,
made new in God’s sight and the musty gold and holy light
of this old church so full of light, as the fading trees still lush billow.

Joan In Mid-Air

Cara is making love with her current boyfriend in the other room.
Joan levitates in the moonlight, touched only by starlight.
Eons of innocence has ended, and Cara is free and easy.
Joan can touch those stars, and know the day of judgement.
Still, her heart wants things, touch, passion, a lover mad and brave.
Joan in midair, tries to push these thoughts away, but they are her.
Joan sees God in the spinning ballet of planets and stars,
and in the hunger of insects, and the blood on her sword.
Cara sees God in passion and grace of a tender lover,
and in the tears that come at the end, for they always leave.
The war is calling to her, cracked ribs still bandaged,
eye still covered and not healing, tired and stiff as steel.
The fight is the thing. The fight is all. God is in the fire.
God may be in a carnal Eden for Cara, but not her, not now.
The stars are perfect and without voice, and they speak to her,
as Cara and her beau finish, and fall to pillow talk, and to sleep.
They speak for another speaks through them, of what is yet to come,
and how she will win this war by being burned and taken to the sky.
Cara and her beau are sleep, not innocent but foolish, but free too.
Joan floats above them, watches them, so untouched and yet so broken.
She cannot understand her, or the others, or those that make pretty dreams.
The fight is the thing. The fight is all. God is in the fire.
She lowers herself to kiss Cara’s head, genuinely and with love, despite everything.
Doctors orders be damned, she had to go, God had an awful fate for her.
And it would make her beautiful and shine forever.

No Quiet Sleep

We both snap awake, in the cold light of morning.

Cannons, gunfire, in the distance, grow ever closer.

We hold close, knowing we have to leave.

Knowing we have no place to go.

Dressed, and carrying all that we can that we need,

we leave our home, our entire world, behind.

There are no friends in this war, only enemies.

Both sides will kill us on sight.

We walk for days, not knowing where to go to,

where we will be safe again, if that’s even real.

We take turns sleeping and taking the watch,

with just a rickety .22 and one box of bullets.

End of another day, haven’t outrun the cannons,

but we lie side by side, looking up at the heavens,

and awed by it’sĀ austereĀ and cold beauty.

They are simple gods who do not intervene.

No eden in the forest, no quiet sleep of death.

We make our way and we make something of a life,

in the wilderness, glad to have love and each other.

But you can’t escape the world. There’s always another war.

Angela

The silvery moon shines through my window.
Where you are tonight, my love, I don’t know.
A war in a far off place took you from my side.
Who ever knew, that this world was so wide?

The old bar on the end of my run down street,
the familiar place, where every night we’d meet.
Beer and pool and laughter, and once, a soft kiss.
The future that that kiss promised is my emptiness.

The moon shines on all the world with it’s cold light.
The dream we hoped for is lost, nothing to put it right.
And the bar is just a hollow shell haunted by your ghost.
I lay in my bed, in the dark, with dreams, the tears they host.

Come back to me.

Wildflowers

Wildflowers blowing in an open field,

heads bowed to the ground

and whipped back to exalt the sky.

They know not why they grow

or why they bloom

or why so many had to die.

Those who knew are gone,

buried deep beneath the field.

The young don’t know, no do they try too.

The wildflowers grow, and lover’s now wallk,

and the ghosts remain silent.

The Swallow Sings


Angel and the Ashes


Our Starter Home