Sunday, June 24, 2012

If you had wings, would you use them every day?

Dreams of sparrows.

I do not think I would like
To rather be a sparrow
I do not fear the flight
but the sorrow.
His years spread the breadth of my hand.
A snatch of dust on a winter's wind,
He cannot pause to understand
What little has been given him.
And with all the troubles of
his brief and bitter life
he cannot throw them off
and dream of flight.
He cannot exchange wings
for all his worldly woes.
In our skies we escape these things
but as these dreams his real world follows.
So I would rather not be a sparrow,
I would not trade him with me
I will take the work and harrow
And keep my flying free.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

It really is utter torment

I'm terrible when I only know half of what I should know.  The mind goes into overdrive and I end up horribly tense.

The Agony of Not Knowing.

Riddle me this! Riddle me this!
Why do I wait for your enigmatic gift?
Likely as not it will be mundane
And I'd be waiting all the same, in vain
Made worse as I know you would not cloud
or enshroud something just as well found out.
You would not hide old leaves in a mist!
But you riddle me this?
Ten thousand thoughts come, all disjointed
Of what you will bring – they will be disappointed.
Yet they will magnify, and persist
as long as you riddle me this!

Sunday, June 3, 2012

The angels of the soldiers.

I am not satisfied with this one, but I need to move onwards for now.

The Angels of the soldiers

Each dawn illuminates the sky
Violent, gashed, bloody, red.
Each day it glares upon the dead
And those committed to die.

The angels of the soldiers do their best
Against enraged soul-stripping storms
Dirty trenches outline muddy forms
Whose shifts rotate so muddy forms can rest.

Each day illuminates a dusk
grey dust, torn and tattered skies
over tired concrete wings; and under lies
spent shells and bullet husks.

The angels of the soldiers carry on
Amidst a dark encroaching death.
The angels serve on silent breath;
on muddy forms and bitter victory songs.

Each dusk illuminates some hope,
for in the depths of every night
Though pressed too close to let in light
the huddling sky is but remote

The angels of the soldiers will arise
On trench-foot, wounds and crutches
where scarred earth and fracture touches.
to lift back up crippled skies.