Tag Archives: war
Collateral Damage
Fiat truth,
shelled out like artillery rounds,
inciting starbursts of flak:
we are not the war,
but the shrapnel.
The Pale Criminal
The near-carcass of civilization’s remains,
wallowing in the waste its terminal thrashing creates,
will hardly notice a few scraps taken-
though to voice the act will leave others shaken.
One need only to pillage sedately, head down,
and remember: all of this will someday end.
The pale criminal thrives here as legion:
a hobbyist, a collector of things,
a connoisseur of excess, defiling every void;
all of it front and center. The barbed wire above trenches,
hiding the war that scurries like rats,
in the dark crevices beneath line of sight,
dressed to kill, but unwilling to die for it.
Protection comes instead from abundance,
quantity over quality, foaming out the pores
in a thick film of condescension
that they hoist over the thin, translucent skin,
between the fading life inside and the world confronted;
the near-carcass of civilization’s remains.
Artillery
Fire surges us forward at speed
piercing clouds and comprehension
threading violently through the chaotic cotton
eluding any eyes that would dare to follow.
A monstrous arch that frowns against the world
all the fruited things now rotten
corrupt with anima and conflict
warring over what little remains of Apollo.
Human nature is to define and to contradict
and they do so with unquenchable bloodlust
condemning their opposition without discourse
at a pace that leaves their memories shallow.
We crash to the earth, nowhere they could predict
a bedlam of the horrors willfully forgotten.
Borders
There is a line.
On one side calm
the other tension
an invisible wall holding them back
because someone told them
there is a line
that no one can see
but all must honor,
like gods, ghosts, or mythos.
Violence lines up in its name
fearful eyes hoping the line will hold
bricks of faith – mortar of tradition.
When they fall
the world quakes
beneath the weight of our imaginations
violated.
Catacombs
We made tunnels beneath the trenches
convenience saddles convenience.
Innovations bound to conflicting desires,
duty ever at the throat of survival;
a war all its own.
Dead sounds, all around
digging impatiently
stopping only briefly to hear
past the heavy breathing
the tremors from outside and within
beyond the fear; listening
for digging.
Somewhere down here
another crew exists
just like our own;
different uniforms
but always like us,
digging, listening.
I can’t help but hope
are they as afraid as we?
will their resolve snap
like a taught frayed rope?
I echo the answer known.
Either way we wind up here
on our backs, peacefully
or on our feet, terrified and blind
holding a thread bare hope
that they aren’t like us.
Listening,
I hear rhythmic pounding
muffled by earth
geography, culture, language
until it stops…
listening
for us, for me-
this translates easily.
We start again in unison
clawing at the earth feverishly
to end this,
to put it behind or above us
stopping only for a hint of a moment.
every few feet we calibrate on the other.
The dirt between us feels lighter now
easier to swallow
forgiving where we cannot be.
The tension between us is metaphysical.
Two fingers almost touching
between sandcastle walls.
It is ocean waves grasping at the shore
hidden depths haunting the water’s surface.
When our pickaxe breaks through
there is a moment of metallic harmony
a crashing of symbols.
Sparks fly like a flash of summer light in the dark
the perfect place to meet.
The tunnels are too small to stand in
too dark to see
too cramped to breathe,
it is struggle enough to kill another
but this close to hell
beneath the war
it is all the world’s anxiety, despair, and cruelty
rabid; unleashed. Some die. Some go on digging.
all remain buried.
Overhead
The air moves with deception
those blue skies and soft clouds
sing a sirens song only heard in the trenches;
a tune that tells us of a home
that will never again exist
buried somewhere beneath the bodies.
What semblance remained we dug away
to keep us always below the horizon.
Up there in the fresh air
terror travels on the breeze as easy as leaves
with metal wings and fire
to burn an anonymous generation.
All things are destined for the ground;
the real war is six feet below
youth running through tunnels
lamenting the tangible and intangible losses;
The death of innocence.
The death of the world they knew.
death itself.
Still, the sky is blue
the clouds are soft
they sing though it is silent
a hint at the end up there
silence
until the shells come.
Lights Out
The canvas is bright with lights
there lies the future – burning
the dark sutured around it like a wound
slowly cauterized
Violence
strikes in the night
expressed as darkness in geometry
the light extinguished
in triangles
squares
rectangles.
The world disappears
panic is hidden amongst the shadows
the future is mourned
The past ignites in old fires
rising high into the clouds
the corpse pyres of dying dreams
wake something primal.
Dancing flames tell stories
our eyes would not otherwise hear
hearts are warmed while minds break
the end is bright.
Colors
Blue is the place beyond our reach
blue is the speech made to subdue
red words they preach of violence to renew our fear
the dawn is near
Yellow slices through the night sky
yellow the dye the river pulls
Green now from cries of full hearts grieving in the stream
to wake from not a dream
Orange is what they left to us
orange the rust that aches for end
purple the lust that will bend truth around morning
a fair warning
Selling Coffins
Someone is always behind the curtain
don’t listen to the lies they might tell you
the roots of words can be twisted askew
but you can of this one thing be certain
someone is there to exploit your burden
to change the dynamics of all you knew
just to find reasons to make you subdue
as if consumed by some violent sermon.
They cannot fight these battles on their own
so of course they beguile us with their charms
with more wealth than we could have ever known
because the best way they can avoid harm
is to offer us an interest free loan
thus consigned in their name to take up arms
The youth – factory farmed
to keep corpses alive
the impoverished deprived
Lives – are always ending
for those we should be spending.
Grow Gray With Me 