Posts Tagged ‘History’

Wouldn’t Say

I wouldn’t say regret.
I would say too much
was still not enough.
That sweet future
with a cloying past
was, after all,
of poison.
I looked for the cure
in the kiss of a leech
with a French
but found that
the toxin
was me.

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Tentative Fate

Together they would come to know the cause.
Resolved as they were in their affection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Her look would have given Adam pause.
The fruit of choice being against perfection
Together they would come to know the cause.

His tongue gave name to her virtues and flaws.
The taste of it all provoked the infection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Upon the fall of night, the feeling gnaws
at the heart, the mind, and the midsection.
Together they would come to know the cause.

He cries “calamity” when winter thaws
receding ice shapes their indiscretion
to be a love greater than any laws.

How has this union made them outlaws?
Banished from God and Nature’s intersection
Together they would come to know the cause
to be a love greater than any laws.

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Older Still

I met her when
her eyes were
still juniper berries
wild and potent
if not slightly toxic
the way she could
stare you down.

Her kicks ran
constantly with
her arms indicating
the direction of her whims.
Toward or away the
tides moved with her will.
We feared the same things,
and fear is in us still.

For an entire summer
she said “Holy Land”
with a smirk. We drank
to the fallen so long
as they weren’t our friends.
We cussed and smoked.
She cooked and wished
I was someone else.
Not instead, but in addition,
to myself.

Through education
we were distilled.
Taken to the level of poison
we were poured
over the snow covered rocks
to be chilled.
We wanted eternity to end,
but even as time froze the cubes
between us,
we grew older still.

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This is a retelling more than a poem.
I, a historian, more than a poet.
For if this were a poem then the event
would be foreshadowing.

Gravity whipped by my face.
Weightless and falling I was exhilarated.
You taught me how to fly.
From a parking garage
in Worcester.

You did not
teach me to tuck and roll.
I forgive. We cannot
always be prepared
for when the ground hits us.

I dusted myself off and we limped
to the duck pond.
The smooth black surface
had a lone tree growing
from its banks and overhanging.
We discussed the sacraments
and blessed God for all he had
given us, and for the things
he had just recently taken

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Random Dots

Sometimes I desire
to connect
random dots.
The old master within
me scoffs.
Don’t connect dots
without a reason.

On the train
passing pictures
are a runner in motion
so real you could never
tell each lifeless
vision apart
without an unscheduled

History repeating?
Its still new
despite familiarity.
Repeats get a second
chance but the
stain still remains
for the second time
around. Even if you
still act the same.

The stain still
remains for the second
time around.
Even if you still
act the same.

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Philosophy is a foreign language
to us.
A dead one.
The harrowed phalanx
that once blocked the path
against countless
hateful men of old,
was flanked by a horse.
Driven as fast as the wind
by a new kind of master,
Odysseus would blush.
These beasts carried
men on their backs
rather than in their
womb. Who needs
to hide when you are
faster than the wind.
We often imagine
our lineage in
those noble shields,
but we are more like
the horse riders.
Odysseus’ words, to them,
are dead.

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Redacted – For WL

Feet tapping. Fingers failing
to shuffle tiles on a rack.
Eyes squinting, lips pressing
around glass, his next attack
a five letter word meaning
“a forceful verbal assault”
drops like a bomb on Bletchley town.
Another smooth drink goes down.

His mind, endlessly decoding
scrabbled simulacrums
on the old torn chair
he found forgotten.
It perpetually overlooked
a game board and a dictionary.
Summer and youth
mixing like mint and brandy
with a little ice.

He liked the chair
because it was textured
like music. It had a meaning.
It needed interpretation
and more
than the towering lamp could give.
Some veteran had sold it to him
because of memories
of World War II. It was a solid
lamp that towered toward a heaven
out of reach by the small
Scrabble board. Like Babel
for wooden tiles.

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East and West

Peaceful morning.
A coffee, black. Steam rolling.
Eyes shutting, hands tugging
at the white towel she wears.
Long night, quick morning
an unrolled newspaper
black and white
has a headline about
the West Bank.

Feet on cold bathroom tile.
Porcelain squares
arranged like a checker board.
She is careful not to step on the cracks.
Water from a recent shower clings
to the mirror. A curious finger
peels back a layer to reveal
two shoulders.

Fingers frantic discover new lines.
A naked mouth, a nose too big,
two brown eyes.
The towel drops, being untended,
and two hands claw at the opaque
dew. The puzzle comes together.
Her mother’s skin looks good on her.
She curses God’s abundance,
for hips too big.

Her finger tips are wet again
and shaking. Her arms weak.
Her stomach growling.
She puts her hand on her side
the dew clinging
to her milk and honey skin.
She struggled with herself.
Hot and cold, strong and weak,
wet and dry,
East and West.

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Every Fantasy Broken

I am an archer of ideas,
pointed, fast, and deadly.
I let them fly when I
probably shouldn’t.
They stick to targets,
bales of hay, off-center
bulls-eyes, and apples
with their soft red curves,
subtle artistry,
and elusive skin.

I am William Tell in the Garden of Eden.
Every god’s delicacy is a target.
The redness so becomes the apple
that it is one with her mouth
and every word that was breathed into her
is in it, and with it.

At the core there are seeds ready to be planted
from which will grow others just like her.
They haven’t change since that garden –
a blurred line between fantasy and time
every apple a symbol
for something she can never be,
a barely audible wind chime,
her lover’s cologne,
father’s chocolate chip cookies,
a newborn’s favorite blanket,
An arrow left to fly.

Next to her is every man through history
gazing upon their united fantasy –
a ribless Adam,
Poe and Paris,
Shakespeare and Tell
a heelless Achilles
and me.

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The tongue is a pillar of salt
it turned back against command
to see its kin burn.
Before it died it saw the sky kiln
churn and devour.
Before it died it heard the screams
and smelled the sulfur
of a dying race.

It didn’t say anything though.
How could it, when all of a sudden
it knew why it shouldn’t turn back.
It felt the bloodline pass
in the fire of justice
and new that it should’ve been there
with its neighbors, with its friends.

Love is a strange thing like that.
It moves through history-
like history – making endless connections.
The heart beats, the blood flows,
the tongue speaks because it loves.
Yet here at the edge of a turning world
our tongues turn back
and they are salt.

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