Orphans of a War

And these are the times we live in.
These times we have seen before.

Two little children at night;
Their gowns floating in the breeze.
The smell of smoke, of sulfur,
un-confessed poisons.

Red flashes in the distance behind them.
They hold hands; one little more than a toddler.
His little nose runs, saliva of fear and sadness
in his throat.  His sister leads him across 
a field.


Their young parents lie in the eternal sleep.
They remember an old couple, their only
son and daughter killed as hell's engines
leveled first their son's home then 
the daughter's.

 And these are the times we live in.
These times we have seen before.

Ancient pained land that drifted through
many pains; this the most current.

The two little children remember the smiles
of the old couple, once winked at them.
The old man pinched their cheeks, an apple
for both.  Their young parents smiled, nodded.  
Happier times, before the invader.

They came to the old couple's door, the man-made
thunder recedes.  Dawn cuts a few slits in the sky.
The old man opens the door, wife behind him
peering over his shoulder.  They are taken in.

Days later, the old couple decide to steal away 
with their new treasure.  They move along a road
with many others to another land with hopes,
dreams of peace in their hearts.

 And these are the times we live in.
These times we have seen before.

Nearing the End of a Spring Evening

The drowsy sun sits nestled 
in its personal corner of the 
western sky.

We drive savoring this orange
ball, smoky blue clouds
defacing it in a beautiful
way.

To be defaced and defamed
in a beautiful way takes
much effort.

We fail to find the thing
we sought at the mall,
this evening, so
we leave.

In the distance we see
an artificial beauty
against the evening
sky.

The little carnival has come
back to town for its
annual run.

The Ferris wheel lights,
emeralds and azure
topaz.

The wheel like life turning
slowly until the riders
get off.

50

I never
thought
I would
have lived
to see 50.

50 is a 
difficult
number in
loneliness.

I thought
I would have
flown away
long ago
to the
Elysian fields,
over the
teal thundering
seas towards 
those mystical
misty mountains,
because 50 
is a difficult
number in 
the scheme of
my loneliness.

Predicaments

The crystal glass tumbles over 
splashes to the floor into fragments
diamonds and gold transform to water
that flows into my soul.  I lie and watch
the shadows blot the curtains during
this midnight of the soul. Rising, walking
I move on quiet feet through the dark halls
of this place the long sheer drapes flow
and ebb around me.  I walk in that midnight.

I walk in that midnight to sit on the steps 
of the porch the sky above me a sea
of many stories the stars ancient chandeliers.
These are the predicaments of my loneliness.
The silent loneliness of love. My hand to my
heart, my soul to that other ethereal being.

I Am The Bird That Escaped

I write on the winds. I write on the seas.
I write in the sands. The bird that escaped
the cage, the gilded cage that was set apart
and proclaimed the axis of the world. I am the bird 
that escaped. The others content in the gilded cage, 
a voice that told them, a lying treacherous voice that told 
them fractured mysteries and daintily painted untruths. You are 
the universe. You must rule. You control the winds the earth.
Some of the birds black with broken and tattered wings 
sat among the loudest singers of dangerous and 
selfish songs, the most to be pitied, but I was 
the bird which flew away from the self proclamations, 
the self exaltations of greatness.  No commonality binds me
and those birds in the gilded cage of fake gold and plastic gems. 
The voice, the cage that brought so much cold sadness, the 
death of the genuine, imposed a false existence
experience. But I am the bird that opened the 
latch and flew away.

Stealing

You took them away from me.
You took my clothes.
You took my soul.
You took my last stick of sugared gum.
You took my golden staff.
Bring them back.
Bring them back.
I do not want to search
for you in the reeds.
This is no new Nile.
This is a golden cesspool,
a drainage of many dead souls.
I hear your scornful singing
that you stole my things.
I cannot locate you.
You skipped into the desert.
Gone. My things are gone.
You took my clothes, my soul,
my gum, my golden staff.
I stand and look.
I stand and look.

Love's Request

Would you
please stop
beating around
the bush
that tree
the plain
that plateau
the river
Tell me
what you
want. I am
no prophet...