You were sharp|ning grass
With your eyes | sit & fixed
Again | a substitute for mow|n
Machine chug|ging along lug
Nuts, molar friction | u - r - n .
Lawn stretches of up|beat
Beach | was there even wind?
Filet a cannonade me | see
The crayons fly | in a circle
A head | towards blu|er | stretches
There | where clouds resemble.
Light is a commodity, scream!
Silly | man | omnibus no teacher
Not even a man. Well still: Lorine
Niedecker e|merges like new
Breath, pulp come together
Mis|hearing cranes, a making
Multicolor wax, bending fuse
Forge |X| fissure for left foot |
Right foot,—we'll find a job a kind
Of game | it’s just planes turned
Paper crane | creosote guardians
A dead lean-to shouldering volts.
Categories:
cannonade, anxiety, conflict, grief, hurt,
Form: Rhyme
Set me off.
I dare you.
I want you to feel my rage.
Taste my vindictiveness.
And swallow the bullets I've bled out from.
You made me like this..
Unsure, worthless, uncared for.
Look at yourself.
I hope your rotting heart flourishes throughout the physical beauty you obtain and charcoals it like it should be.
You write a cannonade.
Hurling daggers into everything lively in me.
Ripping and tearing my being into shrivel pieces.
Flinging my dead body across yours as a shield of your own self destruction.
Damn, you make me sick.
I'm eternally "thankful" to you.
For turning me into something I never imagined.
I am desolation.
Categories:
cannonade, abuse, bullying, deep, depression,
Form: Free verse
Memorial Day Tribute
© Ben Burton 5-25-2015
They stood up for America
And for their families left behind
Our soldiers sent to unknown lands
Secure that God was on their side
Esprit de corps was palpable
In every battle they engaged
Where many saw their brothers fall
From bombs on high and cannonade
That sacrifice was part of life
But those who lived would ne'er forget
Those pals interred in foreign soils
Or body parts themselves had left
And every Monday late in May
We think of those who toed the line
Who died too young, but made their mark
On those who still recall with pride
Our noble heroes lost in war
While we live in our comfort zone
We have a duty to defend
The hallowed shores that they called home
All those who think "hallowed" untrue
Remain entitled to their belief
Because of those with different views
Who died that we might freely speak
Categories:
cannonade, memorial day,
Form: Rhyme
My thoughts they roil like waters dark
in the abyss of blackest night,
with memories of mother’s bookmark,
of Longfellow read by lamp light.
She called, in the room around me,
the patter of other small feet.
Her gentle voice fetched angels .
Oh, the rhymes, they astounded me
like lullabies soft and so sweet.
All fearsome shadows, she’d dispel.
Maxine, my queen, read Tennyson
and the Charge of the Light Brigade.
A little girl dreamt of caissons
roll, and thunderous cannonade.
To be so brave, the small child mused,
mother her precious, heroine;
what would it take to stand so strong
without father, and not confused.
What words could be the linchpin
to right mother’s tell-tale wrong.
Such sad inspiration, mother,
oh, how I wronged you by being born,
though I loved you above all others.
Some thoughts of you make me forlorn.
Bring back the tales of mother goose,
three small kittens and their mittens.
Return the vision of your smile
the happiness your warmth induced,
let your spirit comfort, lighten
night, if only for a little while.
Categories:
cannonade, absence, loss, love, mother
Form: Ode
when I
a rock-chucking stick-slasher
patch-monger
was
there was a waterless
well
where we would await sprites and goblins in ambush
shoe-lace lariats
piles of rock for cannonade
this and all all the angels
at bay
for there is nothing gay grisly meaner than
restless
idleness
caked with efflorescing dandelions
raging raiding sun
Categories:
cannonade, angst, childhood,
Form: Free verse