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Since I have nothing to do (hahaha) I'll post some poems too.
Flower
Flower bloom, all alone
Summer fields where trees once stood
Stands grain now, colored roan
Flower blooms, where once were woods
It’s better now, they say,
Now that flowers stand for trees
The wind cries a desolate bray
But not for the face that cares but for its breeze
Stumps litter an empty field
But a flower balances the eye
Beauty is what man wishes to yield
But ignorance grows next to the rye
Soon even this symbol of peace
And of lands conquered by force
Will give way to a river of motor grease
There are few who care, and fewer for remorse
Immortal Child
Is it wrong—to be a child?
To be wrong with the best of
Intentions—brought by ideas—mild—
And unintentionally evil—like the funniest true love.
Does the tawny sunset—as it can
Be called sometimes—frown upon those
That want childlike thoughts of man
To become reality—in the midst of dangerous woes?
Does the moon—the queen of night—
Mother of wolves that we see
In dreams—crest our immature blight—
Or maybe—an immortal child—it fills us with its jubilee.
The dreams that inhabit echoes
Wane thin in the crisp air
Of childhood events that we chose
To remember—not unlike an angels’ soft and golden hair.
One Old War
Gone, these men are so quiet.
They left to knock upon heavens’ door.
With the tool of destruction in my hand, I stumble among the dead.
Moments before, I watched these bodies hit the floor.
The bodies of the living, the breathing of yesterdays’ before.
I drop my weapon into the mud and wander away to mutter, one old war.
Years ago, a man in uniform urged us in.
A suit of green and gray, with a Frenchman’s hat he wore.
Upon his head, with many medals pinned upon his jacket.
Never saw him, did we before,
Nor again ‘till I washed upon Normandy’s shore.
There he told me what I know now—with cold lips he whispered, “One old war.”
Did they know that this day would be their last?
That they would never see their kin, once over the see they did soar?
Time takes all, but why, why must this life be wasted so?
Their dirty lifeblood submerges rapidly, to join with the earth’s sandy ore.
Even through all of this, they wanted nothing but to serve their precious corps.
They got their wish—granted from the barrel of a ’44.
Now I wander away into the French countryside,
Perhaps to tell some traveler about my life of war.
Heaven help me, this Agate lamp is much too heavy.
But I’ve found a destiny, a duty, a chore.
To warn my fellow people of the dangers of our nature’s core.
Death is what we crave, but for I, I decide, nevermore.
Now I see something descending, a harbinger of doom;
What destruction, this machine doth outpour!
Free I may be, but at what cost, but other’s life?
When it comes, nothing is left but I, a relic of yore.
Upon this earth I’m cursed to wander, doomed to explore.
Upon this world of ghostly evil, I only cry, “Cursed old wars!”
Eh....
There you have it.......
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