EVERYTHING IN EXTREMIS -:-
unbridled
featured
feelings
unpredictable
genius
in CULTURED CIRCLES
confront
susceptible
concerns
sympathetically
supposed
in OVERT ALLEGIANCES
evoking
sublime
precedents
equivocably
redolent9
1. Firm and old, aging forever.
2. Touching the hard surface
It blooms with the little things
Seeing my face, smiling as I do it
It’s small, simple, and working.
3. Roots are strong and tight
It binds everything together
Spreading far and wide
To the cores of the Earth.
4. Look at the tree’s bark, so jagged and uncertain.
Like a maze for ants.
5. Feel the bark, where the heart is
It’s the pulse of a sad tree
Knowing, Remembering,
and Soon in extremis.
On the 70th of VJ Day we salute the Forgotten Service the Red Ensign heroes
of the longest battle of all, the whole war: the only good war for Freedom's cause.
When a merchantman got hit, the employers' did a nasty trick, stopping pay on the
day, one in four of the heroes all died in the forgotten the Mercantile Marine.
Not just Brits served their time, but others from the watery the globe, of all
religions and none; some sacked at the end of the War, to go home to wars.
Let us raise a glass or two to all our Allies too and be thankful that former enemies
are allies and friends now, and remember Milton who knew a thing or two about
war: "Peace hath her victories no less than war" yet if we really have to fight that
we have the people and the ships and allies if we are in extremis.
Salute the Red Duster All.
athat let us raise to ons and nonether countries different of different otemn afrredom's cause long bloody
It would be odd
but somehow comforting
knowing the exact moment
when I die
yet live on.
No, not a resurrection
or reincarnation,
but rather a destruction
of the facades I live behind.
Do you think what I see
in another’s eyes is real?
Or In the mirror each morning?
Do you believe that what
others see of me is the truth?
The answers are always “no.”
I am made of reference to myself.
I keep my true self from myself,
not even knowing who I am
until I am “in extremis,”
when I act without regard or filter,
when hard pain
or the pain of others
or death
or birth
or joy
or deep love
or touching God,
as did St. Joan inside the fire,
strips away vestiges of my last defenses.
I think about this:
To have a film,
made by some cosmic cinematographer,
capturing the instant
of subtraction of all my masks,
to be able to relive the moment
they are stripped from me,
to see the eyes that see me,
to see me,
to see it happen,
to know when it’s done.
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