His daddy is fighting in Iraq.
His mommy is fighting tears.
His brother is fighting death.
He is fighting his desolation and fears.
Friends are but a dream
and companions are an illusion.
School is a concentration camp,
but he stands, though alone, in the midst of confusion.
His training school is loneliness.
His milestones are fears, thrust in lies.
His only weapon is faith
and his bullets are soft "hallelujah" cries.
Strength left his fragile body
and he lost the fight in life so coy,
yet on his knees he conquered agony
and I call him the little soldier boy.
Cold and dark, the eyes of the depths
glaring at the stars above.
Few dare descend the steps
which reach down to oblivion’s cove.
Heavy, the desire for truth,
like the chains dragging my body further down
unto fate unknown.
Beyond recompense, lies the ruin
sunken to forbidden ground,
now home only to the strangest of creations
and catacomb to the drowned slaves of history.
Will all memories be as this one day?
Ghosts that haunt the corpses of humanity’s ambition?
Black are the bells that once chimed to announce omen.
Buried are the thoughts that walked my mind.
Broken are the tables where ideas once feasted.
Bound are the hopes, eaten by preying sharks of doubt.
Weighing down, the garments choke the breath of life.
There, where insanity was sane, beneath facade’s streams
lies truth, in the sea of forgotten dreams.
Frightened and tired
his eyes stare into the distance
as he once again faces reality
in the ghastly fate that dealt its lot.
Beads of sweat fall down like stars;
like the storm pounding outside his window.
This is the dawn he rises to every morning.
I take hold of his frail hand beckoning tenderness
as one would a knife to the chest.
Yet his weak smile defies the eminent death
threatening to consume him.
He turns his gaze upon my eyes…
It won’t be long now…
The shadows lurk in his mind,
but he glimpses a tear slipping from my cheeks
and says, “No regrets. No hate. No fear.
It’s time to wake up, slumbering one.
The day is here.”
I manage a sorrowful smile
and reply, “Your heart has already won,
my brave one.” As he lies back once more,
the soft beeps counting down his final few breaths slow.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” he dreamily asks.
Leaning closer, I inquire, “Who?”
“The angels are singing.” he sighs.
As the green line finally stretches to a flat horizon,
I whisper brokenly to the rain, “Shhhh.”…
“ He is sleeping.”
*(A tribute to children that have lost the fight against cancer.)
Colours bounce in euphoric ecstasy
and another day is birthed, in melody,
as the dawn brings forth emerald reflection,
the sun playing on the looms of nature's glee
with the nightingale's whistle in a harmony.
Dull on it's perch,
determined in his search
for a jewel in creation's crown,
a partner for his song to emerge,
he prepares to lurch.
He spots her on a lake,
a white rose, a snowflake,
drifting on crystal serene,
a beautiful image to make,
her beauty in its surroundings partake.
This fragile goddess
with his best song he tries to caress
and the brooding bud,
a stunning glory ageless,
unfolds to his tune, guileless.
Yet when she tries,
her voice defies,
and he knows she will not sing.
A sudden sorrow in her eyes,
she bows her head and sighs.
But song, his voice like a lyre,
her beauty, her eyes of sapphire
make for a perfect match:
all creation they admire
together compensating for flaws like ice and fire.
There I stood, barely nine
as he was taken in the light of day.
A prisoner of fate was I, given no sign,
to witness his limp body bruised lay,
yet as adult walked away from his shrine.
There I stood, steeling my stance
for the sake of my silence
as children mocked, giving no chance.
From solitude I drew my resilience
and gave no second glance.
Let no shadow be cast in my soul
for I have seen the countenance of grace.
Let my heart not build a wall
to hide the furious compassion of Your face.
Let the rain of mercy fall
upon the dry wasteland of my memories.
Let my life answer to Your call
and my own stubbornness cease.
Let me not at the foot of the cross
resent precious blood splattered for me.
Let it cover the pain of loss
and from sin set me free.
Thank the Lord my soul can rejoice
for I am but a sinner whom You gave a choice.
Waking up in the dark of night
barely four years of age.
My world is wrought with fright
not knowing my life would be a stage.
That little girl long ago
was innocent… pure…
but now she is who I no longer know.
My mind is a disease for which there is no cure.
At day I have no rest.
At night I can not flee.
Sanity is a rare guest
and when he comes I can’t see.
This is my curse so real:
I can’t forget
the dreams, and ‘reality’ surreal
is something I’ve never met.
So chirp, little robin, chirp and sing!
For today once more you entertain well.
So be merry, let the world its troubles bring!
For tonight once more you feast in sheer, bloody Hell.
Your ability to remember
will be your curse to flee.
Each year, January to December
You will wish you had not known memory.
She prowls the night
with clenched jaw and pride,
nothing able to smite
her remorseless stride.
The ominous reflection of moon
shines forth from devouring eyes
of a nocturnal beauty spun on the loom
of the Creator's bid and sighs.
Grace moves her every limb
and she precedes an enraged scream
caused by ruins of a forest now grim
and held alive by all but one stream.
Her claws prophesy of vengeance
though her heart yearns for reconciliation.
Yet now there would be no leniency
for a soul's annihilation.
Now on journeys through lush valleys and ashes
she will embark
until all that remains after furious thrashes
will be the tigress' mark.
Many a mind hurries past
the gripping splendour
in search of beauty, not to last,
while continuing in rejection of grandeur.
I look as the moments pass
at the wounded walkway.
The sand flows through the hourglass
and time conforms to seconds and seconds to day.
There, in the heart of pain,
at the crack of dawn
grows through the mundane,
purity, life’s mystery in an image drawn
Red bursts open in colours array
but expectation it defied
as time had not intended bloom ‘till the following day
and still nature’s scarlet tears are cried.
Dusk was meant to encompass
the brooding gem in the snows
but the bud unfolded in its stubbornness
and yet not its pedals froze.
I suppose the dark of night
and the bitterness of day
could not smite
what would have its own way.
The bud grew beautifully in strength
and blossomed in wisdom,
knowledgeable in great length,
yet its leaves forbade a future grim.
Somehow it lacked endurance
and what blind humanity refused to meet
became the trampling of our innocence:
the rose that grew from concrete.
Sorrow chokes sanity
in the brimstone fumes of Hell
that consumes all but memory
plastered against the walls of his cell.
My mind can't comprehend...
Perhaps he did wrong
or mercy he did not lend,
but here resides the angel of song.
His wings are torn,
tattered like his serenity
when he fell into heat's scorn.
Once he was beauty's epiphany.
The shofar's sound dwindled
to let screams take stage.
The music he once kindled
turned against him in bloody rage.
Yet he will rise once more.
The fallen creature in his cell
and will play a new music's score
telling of the angel in Hell.