One Day When I Have Had Enough

One day, when I have had enough,
I shall toss dusty tools
Into the air. Clouds and pieces
Of unfinished work will sail
In shards across a floor that
Has, for too long, caused
My bones to ache and
My feet to swell.

I shall clean blood
From my hands with
Clear running water,
Tend to cuts
And count my scars.
I will name each one,
And curse the steel
That caused them.

I shall close my ears
To criticism, seek chaos,
Shun order, leave requests
And questions unanswered.
I will sit down and sigh,
Close my eyes and smile
For the child I once was when
Walking through those gates.

One day, when I have had enough,
I shall go home.

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In Response to Youth.

 

Shaw said that it
was wasted
on the young.
Is youth
better vested in
the old man who
stares at the stars?
Imagine the damage
we could do if
energy, without innocence,
is married to
experience,
regret,
revenge.
The stars are dead
for us, old man.
In the gutter
the well travelled
pinpricks of light
that entertain our night
are ghosts haunting
the ancient black sky.

Bats

One cloud moves low,
well below another,
pasting a midsummer sky
with smoky blue.
In the shadowing house
I sit quietly alone.
The glass walls
that I have built
contain me.
As I write, swallows
sweep, gathering
insects from the air.
I wait for the
bats to arrive
flittering in the gloom.
Blind innocence, faith
guiding their paths.
The final act
before darkness
closes the curtains.

Memorial 1 and 2.

Memorial

1.

Remember
The human.
A curse on
The uniform.

Isn’t it enough that
He is dead?
Torn from his
Mother’s grasp.

Rent asunder,
Ripped,
Shredded,
Buried.

He shall not
Grow old….
As if he had
A choice.

Glorious dead?
There is no glory
In fear, in pain,
In cold wet clay.

 

They are all the same
These memorials.
Old men cry out
For the next generation
To poison.

 

2.

Don’t poison my boys
as we were poisoned
with dreams of freedoms
that never occur.
Heroes puddled in blood.
Monuments, graves to visit,
murals to the dead.
The notion that they
can gain by sacrificing
themselves for a nation,
as if any scrap of ground
is worth their beautiful lives.

Some Thoughts At Fifty

Tiny waves, in circles,
Ripple the surface,
Fading to shimmers,
Melting gently into
Each other.

I am fifty years old.
One half century.
Fifty years before
My birth
World War one raged still.

We are but specks, floating
On an ocean of time.
For fleeting instants
We brush our fingers
Through still water.

I am a lucky man.
Effortlessly, without trying,
I find myself surrounded
With love and laughter
And beautiful people.

There is nothing left to fear.
Together, we will not drown.