Memorial Day Threnody

War’s snarling parodies –

And, swirling flags for threnodies.

Oh red, foreign fields of red.

Oh white, home crosses of white.

Oh blue, blessed heavens of blue.

Keep a moment today; honor the dead

Sons and daughters who stood the fight;

Won the right for the red, white and blue

To fly for all Americans be they red -

be they black – be they brown or white -

a soldier does not ask if; a soldier serves true.

And, swirling flags for threnodies.

It Wasn't There

It Wasn’t There

It is morning now - the mares

Run after what isn’t there;

Fading into the night’s torment.

Now, the sun calls out to seek

A perfect moment.

And so, off to the fair.

It wasn’t there.

Then paused for liquid blues

Everyone looking too, drinking booze.

It wasn’t there.

Running hard; going fast past wounded fields

The road is open; the road is closed

A cemetery where the dead ends

No one there has any more friends.

Stopped to a place with plenty of figures

That tip and balance their character triggers

While the day withers away into night

The mares pawing at the ground, awaiting

The bugler’s call to the next page; translating

A man’s fright.

It wasn’t there.

Final Call

Final Call

this stranger who bleeds thru the wall

walking slowly up the downstairs hall

hearing everything that his thoughts say

finding plenty of reasons not to stay

the frames upon the panels are in disarray

the spectators frozen still in feigned appall

while the artist hides quietly in his desolation

then said, “how absurd this aberration”

the patron wondered, “why is melody's seat

in this place of music so temperamental?”

the old master replied, “it is the beat -

that teaches young interlopers a fundamental

truth - these found within lines and conforms”

and thus, the room emptied the lightness

into a space of total darkness

to hide the hideous thoughts in a strange pall

one more reason; one more point - to enthrall

the black star fooled them all

‘twas David’s final call

Two Men

Two men crossed the foggy path, wide

In front of me - on their way to find lost.

And, when I opened the windshield

The frames changed - as do the winds

When death wants to sit aside

Singing; humming canticles of god’s field

As life’s muse has cast off suffering’s cost.

One man lived by the shutter’s eye

Capturing many faces -

Found smiling;

or sorrowing

In many places.

They each paid a price,

without borrowing,

By simply being – interesting.

The other man lived in fiction

Selling life’s tenets at a small fraction

Piece by piece; with little lies that speak

A eulogy of a man both strong and weak.

Now, I must hurry along and run from the freaks -

Somewhere in desolation

is a temporary aberration.