Poetry
- Here is a small collection of poems I have written in recent years.
"Nightingale Woman"
Nightingale woman
song lilting in the twilight
guides her soul mate home
"Laughing Dolphins"
Laughing dolphins leap
slicing salty sea breezes
disappear in spray
"Heavenward"
Joy untold is mine
when mortal journeying done
Christ’s face I behold
"Forgotten Battlefield"
I scuff my way through a forgettable meadow,
dotted with an occasional scruffy tree.
I stub my foot. A rock?
No.
Rusting metal married to a hunk of rotting oak.
Piece of an old plow, I reason, but I know it isn’t.
That shape, even with its outline gnawed
by weather and time,
is all too gut-wrenchingly familiar
to an old soldier like me.
A rifle.
Not one for pheasants and ducks either, nor even deer.
No, this one was created specifically
for one task - To kill my fellow man.
War.
That sanguine-eyed god,
Of madness,
Of hell,
Of mind-reaping insanity.
Suddenly this meadow isn’t so forgettable.
Forgotten battlefield - blood-soaked.
Shouts of victory, screams of agony
still whisper in the timothy grass.
Still cling sadly to the barren branches
I see the leaning skeleton of a barbed wire fence.
What horrors did it see so long ago?
Who hid behind it?
Who hung on it dying, shot by a sniper.
Then I see them.
Poppies.
Blood-red poppies.
Symbol of the war veteran
and his shed sacrifice.
Poppies grow there
on that forgotten battlefield.
Beautiful and tranquil.
Lonely, mute reminders
of the blood-drenched clay
that once writhed here.
Poppies grow there.
Appropriate.
Ironic.
I weep.
I pray.
I reverently make my way through
an unforgettable meadow.
"Where the Crimson Tree Grows"
We met
in that misted, velvet valley
bathed in hushed, tuscanied light
‘neath the crimson tree
Its lifeblood leaves swayed
to our fluttering hearts
Love budded
We wed
in that languid, satin valley
bathed in rapturous, stained-glass light
‘neath the crimson tree
Its lifeblood leaves sighed
to our soul-deep vows
Love blossomed
We parted
in that chill, tear-streaked valley
bathed in callous, lead-grey light
‘neath the crimson tree
Its lifeblood leaves wept
to her sorrowful last breath
Love withered
Interred she was
in that mournful, sackcloth valley
bathed in tortured, plutonian light
‘neath the crimson tree
Its lifeblood leaves shriveled
to my soul-wrenched sobs
Love lingered
Gnarled roots
her sepulcher
skeletal branches
her marker
‘neath the crimson tree
I tarried and prayed
Love remained
I write
in that misted, velvet valley
bathed in exultant, tuscanied light
‘neath the crimson tree
Its lifeblood leaves flourishing
with evergreen fruit
Love endures