How quiet is the lonely wood
where ‘midst these markers lay –
How lonely are the steps between
the graves of those I walk today –
How peaceful is the summer corn
around this church’s graveyard stands.
How steadfast this emotion seems
When pen’d from living hands –
At rest and peace I find thee,
silent ‘neath the clustered trees –
With truth and love I bless thee,
while praying from my knees!
Stand O King, amidst the hoard, drop your face, your shield, your sword. Draw a longer night for two, dance in pheromone candle hue. Scent and wring the shadow long, twist her limbs about yours strong, carry her sweet, carry her wrong, but stand O King! Stand!
Sing O siren, sing in chaste, scowl the horrid haggard face of time in etch upon the scene, drive a tear, a drop be seen. Cast the spell of hopelessness, sort the weak from what’s confessed and Sing O siren! Sing!
Stand O courage to what prevails, stand against the cries and wails of wanton, death and plunder, stand to rend the hate asunder, burn the last of love from you, but stand O courage, stand! Fight true!
Weep O mother, cry what comes, know the son you love is gone. Mourn in silent deafened sobs, deny the jeers, deny the mobs a single hint of fear. Weep O mother dear.
Come O mercy beyond this day! Peace be granted, let some hope stay and find the simple tinker, smile on the lane, drive the sunshine, push the rain, but come O mercy! Defy this pain!
Write O poet, bard’s tale be known of how a hatred here was sown. Draw your ink in blotted haste, and from it pour a lay that tastes of love and courage, fear renounced, of battles won and hatred trounced. Sear the wetted tear drop tracks and sounds of mothers’ weeping slack. Draw lovers spirit lost at night, and courage to overcome with might by just a handful of free men left, cast the horrid face of death, but write O poet! Write!
Filed under History, Perspective, Poetry
Dust upon the mantle, deep,
as tones of aching somber hold
the lengthened shadows across the room
to rend the wooden floor to gold.
So worn by every footstep lain
two hundred years could keep,
that grain and pitch and nail combine
in melding, fast asleep.
The air in musk of history
traps my thoughts in what I dream,
and there a conjured memory begs
from Civil War, a scene…
where just beyond the garden gate,
men in grey meet men in blue,
on horseback speak in earnest terms,
then off to leave just standing, two.
I hear a somber canon –
I smell the lilacs full in bloom –
I feel the rose of a lover’s blush,
then find me quiet, here in this room.
The window sash is splintered,
through the frame, the garden gone.
The picket fence in broken angles
casts pickup sticks in shadows long.
I move toward the porch to feel
the southern summer’s setting hush,
and o’er the field before me
sense the rolling guns and troops in rush.
The odor is of powder –
The sounds are pain and desperate cries –
I feel the courage and the anguish
that counted gone so many lives.
A blue jay calls my balance back
to lonely porch and battlefield
where ne’er a plow has broken soil
since when its fate by blood was sealed.
Cicadas welcome home the dusk
to sweetly calm the souls here lain,
and I a nod of hope for them,
and one long tear pulled from the pain,
now etched into my fabric –
now carved in stone upon my soul –
that I recall their history,
their sacrifice, their echo to a union whole.
Filed under History, Memory, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul
Suspended in a dream adrift,
tensioned gossamer wings have I,
in cloud and sunburst flux I shift,
held above beholding eye.
Roaring motive power drones
to silent whisper’s sweetest kiss,
hushed in mansion’s morning sum,
aloft the clouds in drunken bliss.
Seraphim, the farrier
by which my steed is shod,
for here there is no barrier
to joyous grin and thankful nod.
In roll and dive – “alive”
becomes a paltry exclamation,
when screaming “free!” is what I feel,
so fuels that acclamation!
In bending will, I balance here
twixt heaven and earth in flight,
solely bound to duty,
yet soar as angel amidst the fight.
Through golden glint and rays of hope,
my wings and I aloft partake
defense of homeland’s truth and honor,
balanced here for freedom’s sake.
Wings I’ve earned from warrior’s test
to take my battles to the sky,
proudly pinned upon my chest
as courage badged to fight and fly!
My love of hearth and home holds dear,
for each moment’s test is blessed in love,
that good shall conquer tyranny,
and free men shall rise above!
On Angel’s wings I fight it here!
(in honor and memory of all those that have served)
Behind this broken wall I stand,
breathing deep, M1 in hand
with bullets whizzing by,
plaster forced to dancing high.
Here am I bound to reclaim this land.
Between the beats of heart I reel
in memory grasped and how I’d feel
to touch her hand in mine,
to feel her eyes on mine…
Then mortar blasts! My mind to steel!
“Move! Move!”, I heard the cry,
instinctually crouching, did truly fly
across the open alley.
The “thud”, the scream, the endless tally
grows, at hedge I turn to watch him die.
Some of us are lucky, blessed,
never found beneath the mess
of surging blood and pain,
feeling life so slowly drained,
and yet our fortunes’ only guessed.
Again I’m caught, as mortars fall,
and voices shouting, chopped, they call
the only words I know,
“raus” – get out! I’ve got to go,
as a glimpse of three I catch, quite tall.
I wonder if their nightmare’s mine.
I fight to push them cross the line
of being living men,
is it me or is it them?
I stand and fire three shots, they’re fine
and lie there in the winter’s mud,
as again I run against the thuds
of shelling in the town,
in heartache I could drown
to broken doorway with all my blood.
Intact, I can’t recall the flash
of steps and shots through seconds passed.
I hear the echoed boom,
and fear the shaking gloom,
so pray that this might end at last.
Behind this broken wall I stand,
pain of what I do in hand,
until the silence breaks
and kindly, quietly takes
my hopes in peace to end this stand.
Sarge calls, “fall out, it’s clear!”,
so softly step through rubble here,
to streets so choked
with death and smoke
and so it seems I’ve killed my fear.
I stand at broken corner, found
silenced by the squeaking sound
of only rolling tanks.
In silence I give silent thanks
and step beyond this killing ground.
This bloodied morning, grey in mist,
decries humility, despair left kissed
for those today we’ve lost
in honor at great cost,
these men we’ve loved and sorely miss.
Behind this broken wall I stand,
my truth and life in hand…
In honor of the 517th Parachute Regimental Combat Team – WWII
Histories’ pages beckon me, in all I read and understand,
to know each moment’s deep beliefs, to feel the ache in my own hand.
What prayers in tongues were cast at dawn while facing glorious east?
What sad laments were sung in chant to forge a sweet release?
What were the wishes cast to nature’s God at passing dusk?
What sacred moments bound in love were passed to generations’ trust?
I long to know, to feel it real, in every moment each waking day.
So I grasp from histories’ pages everything that I can take away.
Sacred land, sacred earth, giving sky, paternal history –
Balanced life through every breath, thankful to the Great Mystery.
Smooth and mixed, the stones betray
the purpose of each course I laid,
that mortar’s strength to hold them fast
denies my hope to see them last
in square to where each one I stayed.
Mortar cracked and crumbled clings
to stones once plucked from mountain streams,
each in purpose so selected,
that as my work neared done, reflected
the lane to which my heart would sing.
Years that dressed my lane to home
witnessed living thrusts since gone,
captured echoes of a purpose,
pushed from God to here, to surface
what this life and soul has known…
Triumph in a child’s eye.
Approving nod of passersby.
Winter nights in season’s mirth.
Awe and bliss in children’s births.
Fractured heart when stress had won.
Undoing of a wayward son.
Broken stride in parent’s deaths.
Splintered family and such regrets.
Falling from the strength to cope,
when whispers came in certain hope,
as lives careened between the walls
and hands repaired the fists in halls,
when tragedy begged into the room
to paint the road in front with gloom,
as fast this last hand grasped for life,
witnessed strength to break with strife.
Saw the hope that changed this heart.
Saw what fed and fueled the parts
of broken paths and shaken schemes.
Saw such love fold into dreams
and grant a smiling eye …
and all the years gone by…
My lane in stone wall’s soft repose
extends a peace that no one knows, but I.
It’s stoic stance is earned so well,
tho’ cracked and stained, not one stone fell,
that now in quiet solitude
has earned my histories gratitude,
and assuring nods from passersby.
Filed under Family, History, Memory, Poetry, Universal Soul
England 1941
By pond’s still quiet,
November found
‘neath blackened trees
and leaves of brown,
that chime through winds,
season’s decay
rustle the drying grasses to say
or whisper their seed tossed song.
Where prayer is heard
in sweetest words,
bless offspring’s journey,
brave, yet long…
Reeds, by pond’s edge, do blush
with naked stalks and seeds that flush
this breeze with passers by.
Where clouds of grey and white on blue
hang low, and brooding up the view
soften this season’s sigh…
Now above my head a thunder rises,
behind a cloud on blue, surprises
peace with a warring sound.
Two birds of war, in roaring chase,
bend wing on wing around the face
of the grey insipidous cloud.
There turn and twist by engine’s roar,
dive and stretch to fight for one more
breath, or one more shroud…
These two alone in November’s sky
bring anxious thoughts that recall why
I’m sitting here
amidst this November’s season.
Where God’s inspired this nature’s reason,
so disturbed by mankind’s cry
to peace and conquest, home and faith,
for loved one’s whose lives we face
this terror from the sky.
Where wisps of clouds become our means
to face the birds of war in seams
where their anger waits and hides.
These two on wooded edge, now slowly
chase, evade, and roar past lowly
dancing o’er the distant shore.
Yellow blasts and glints of sun
as black unfurls and spirals run
above to yonder clouds.
Where now the victor soars to heights
while in defeat and smoke the fight
twists slowly at the horizon,
and ends in forest’s shroud.
Tomorrow, I may be so blessed,
to rise to clouds of height and best
the anger of this season.
My bird and I pray for reason
to see us through.
There seek another autumn’s day,
and in it offer thanks and pray
my soul comes back to you.
Filed under History, Memory, Nature, Photography, Poetry
Clouds of war
loom to the east,
reflecting sun’s horizon
of deepest setting’s,
rose and peach.
Be it blood tomorrow,
or garden’s rising?
Surreal, the silence of this dusk,
hangs on the clouds of night’s foreboding,
clings its matter to my mind,
start memories’ work, noting
the tortured gray
of seasons past,
where men lie dead
in fields of grass,
while clouds of cannon smoke hang sighing,
weep to their young spent souls,
and beckon fast their rising.
In clamor, fall the hoof-steps
of wagons hearsed and calling
to stack the flesh, and there return
these bodies, to the bawling
eyes and hearts of loves
whose secret fear’s now summoned,
and in the wake of dead, leave tears
in sorrowed river’s running.
In distant air the sounds are heard
that confound the very reason
of men entrenched, and fighting still
beyond this deathfield’s treason.
The dogs of war, beyond it all,
hounds in chase, instinctual service
draw the hoofs and wagons on,
to serve this warring’s purpose.
In setting sun of future days,
our hearts will cry a humble phrase
that war is waste and serves just death.
And so regret the scornful ways
when tempest reigned our judgment’s tack,
in retrospect we’d like it back
and return our loved ones whole.
When regret is ours, and lessons learned
have etched the living soul,
we’ll know war serves not our purpose,
for life and love’s our role…
Yet today, the bells of war do toll.
Filed under History, Memory, Photography, Poetry
In the Field –
I’ve joined the fight to do what’s right
in aid of land and liberty.
I’ve stood my soul from head to toe
to fight as men who’re free,
Through mountains insurmountable
and trials that no man should know,
I hold my creed to do what’s right
that through it all this truth will show –
“God bless the loved ones of my home,
relieve their worry and their fear.
Grant them peace in knowing
that we fight as free men here.
Protect my brothers beside me,
bless their step that they’ll not fall.
Grant compassion’s wisdom,
that they’ll do right when anger calls.
Find me in your vision,
grant me strength when I’m alone.
Guide my hand with wisdom
that I may carry truth back home.
Forgive injustice when it’s played,
grant me strength to forgive in same,
that if You call for me here,
honor may embrace my name.
– Amen”
Those at Home –
They joined the fight to do what’s right
for peace and liberty.
Tall they stand, hand in hand
to represent all men who’re free.
Through trials unimaginable
and fears I know I’ll never know,
I know they hold their creed as truth
and through their actions honor shows.
“God bless our soldiers far from home,
comfort their worry and their fear.
Grant them peace in knowing
that we hold them close, we hold them dear.
Protect the men beside them,
guide each step, one and all.
Grant compassion’s wisdom
that unjust anger never calls.
Keep them in your vision, Lord,
hold them close when they’re alone.
Guide their path with wisdom
that together they may return to home.
Grant their hearts forgiveness
when injustice makes its claim.
Watch over them, protect them –
This I ask in your good name
– Amen”
Filed under Family, History, Memory, Photography, Poetry
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