Leaving Afghanistan

I am the gate keeper.

Two flags gone
Marking bodies where they fell,

Manure,
Useful,

Two flags fleeing loose rounds,
Auras,

Fleeting,

Bring your palm, I can read it now,
Unhinged as I am,

The last are,
Making their way home.

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on February 16, 2016 at 19:32  Leave a Comment  
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The Courtyard

The courtyard is alive with the spit of angry bullets,
And baked hard by the scorching sun.

Clouds of smoke drift in,
In patches,

And are,
Collected by moans,

That become tiny whirlwinds,
Which suck on the dog tags on dead men’s chests.

See – Why we fight, Soldier
photo – 67pics.com

evocative short poetry – words move

Dignity

He was drunk on the wheelchair,
oily, black skin,
black, greasy hair,
greasy, black overalls,

Dead drunk on the side of the road,
Wheelchair crooked up against the curb,

Head hanging off the back,
Eyes wide-open and rolled right up,

Cars swerving passed carelessly,

Was drunk,
like any other drunk on the side of the road.

Picture: Andrew Kinard, US Marine

See also: The Unknown Soldier Project, David Jay

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on July 21, 2015 at 22:01  Leave a Comment  
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Gods

image

If we are to be Gods we must,
Musk,

Be life forms using noses and spectrograms,

Be blue animals,

Hurtling through space, dentists
Doxologists,

Cobblers mending hard drives,
Therapists,

Slippers,

Saving the world,
Changing the climate,

Becoming responsible politicians,
Setting safe harbour as we go.

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on July 2, 2015 at 02:35  Leave a Comment  
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John Rabe

John Rabe,
Crys alone,
At the dining room table.

His back is hunched but,
He wears his jacket with pride.

Before him,

In the brown paper bag,
On the dining room table,

Is a package from China,

Containing,
One rice-cake,
Some dried fruit, and
A letter from sixty-thousand people,
Asking him to return.

His back is hunched and he is crying because,
His nation doesn’t love him,
Anymore.

They want to know,
why in Nanking he,
Bothered to keep the farms going when,

The railroads were fixed and,
Nazi coming in,
What massacre?

Light from the window,
Lifts dust from the surface and,

John Rabe,
Cries alone.

When he died,
Died hungry,
The Chinese came and took him away,

They took him to Nanking and,
Laid him to rest,

Swastika, jacket and all.

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 16:54  Leave a Comment  
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