I cannot speak of what I’ve seen:
the smell of bleach is on those scenes,
and faintly, on each memory’s breath,
a subtle scent of loss and death,
with hints of joy and hope between.
I hear the dripping fat, I dream
of crackles in the kerosene
that sizzle ’til there’s nothing left;
I cannot speak.
I stand aside, and watch, and lean
a while. I wait as the new green
begins to sprout amidst this death;
a garden is a grave, reset,
that in each’s season prayer and sweat
writes of the sacred and obscene
I cannot speak.
04 MAY 2017
There is small comfort in that fragile peace
that rests uneasy when we sit and talk
around the countless things both needing said
and those much better left unshared.
Between the spider and the web of lies
that catches us like aspic still unset,
we struggle both to stir and stay unseen;
our efforts pointless, in the end.
There is a comfort in our meeting,
for a moment, brief and fleeting;
as we linger here together
shadows lengthen on that sunshine.
Let our eyes flash subtle innuendo
in the darkness that descends,
and the simple conversation
lapse into a welcomed silence.
So when the brave encounter finds its end,
we smile and fake a sorrow to depart
until the caravan slips out of sight
and finally feel allowed to laugh out loud.
4 JUN 2015
Sad, the speech he could have given
for men dead and those living
might have meant more, if believing
destiny were a haven.
In the cadence of his speaking,
you could feel his heart breaking;
and his way seemed to be shaken
by the weight of great mistakes.
As he spoke his wisdom wandered
through one door, out the other,
sound and silence mixed together
in true and even measure.
What more words would you have spoken?
As lies go, the ones chosen
said those things they could, then closing,
flowed away free, unbroken.
12 DEC 2012