Archive for July 2016

Survivor

July 7, 2016

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Survivor

His secret lover came to him by night;
movements soft as whispers (finger light)
like hands about a whisper cupped him whole,
cupped each every part from cock to soul,
‘till he awoke as in a morning dew,
waking to himself as boys will do;
but waking to himself, he could not see
how anyone could love one such as he.

Mistakes he’d made, mistakes he’d never meant,
refused to keep a rose-budding silence
but closed on him with blare and somewhere thud,
clicked shut again shut doors to say they would
never let him go; just as they would never
bring them back–there’d be no magic wand nor ever
song–and so he slept, tried to sleep, pretended
to sleep–

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Drafty poem for Shay’s (Fireblossom’s) prompt on Real Toads to write something inspired by the idea of secret love.  This came oddly to mind; not autobiographical in any way–thinking of survivor’s guilt.   Pic is mine; a clay sculpture from the Ruffino Tamayo Museum of Pre-Hispanic Art in Oaxaca, Mexico. 

Depression

July 6, 2016

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Depression

There are times you need simply
to feel air.
The air does not ask
if it’s done enough in its life.
It just stirs,
or not; is what you’ve got,
this amplitude of air that sets
such an example–

making you think
about the too many who strove
for whatever air was there–some
you loved–

until you take that them

right into both arms.
Though most hollowed
to cheek and collar-bone, some were swollen
by their disease–yet, they seem to fit–

and you sit them
over your chest, trying to absorb
their collective will for breath,
becoming very still–

not exactly happier–but
quiet–for your chest must be still
to hold so many–

Some you have no right to hold
though they let you,
the dead so generous,
the dead willing
to sit with you.

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Draftish sort of poem for Real Toads Open Platform.  Pic is mine from the San Jeronimo church in Tlacochahuaya, Oaxaca. 

1 July 1916, The Battle Of —

July 2, 2016

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1 July 1916, The Battle of —

It was not the sum
nor any total–
columns of men rounded down
into boot sole,
flesh ground not to dust but mud, pus-
treaded.

Tanks be to God
for that now deep sod.

Oh, tanks be to God
as the Somme was
to an end,
except for them
dead then,
except for them.

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For Kerry O’Connor’s Flash 55 prompt on Real Toads.  Kerry also brought up the fact that these days are the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme in World War I, a horribly bloody battle whose first day brought the British more casualties than any other day in their history (over 56,000 with well over 19,000 dead).  It is my understanding that the battle also marked an introduction of the tank. 

Photo is mine; all rights reserved to it and poem, as always.