Memorials
They have gone, not a trace left, but memories
leaves are getting yellow. No denying fall is here
Me, a sole survivor, standing on a plateau
of nothingness where the dust of years blows.
It was those years who supported you here,
I shall not climb the outside pf the Eifel tower
honours the army of welders; forgotten now
Eifel tower lives, but the man lost his glory crown
when trying to build the Panama Canal.
This long way so, many doors to open and close
he sees shadows the welders are here
perhaps Eifel also lurks behind a locked door.
Ego forms into a spoke
person's vocation
As eco-political wisdom
flowers in a wheel.
Ego
is to left brain dominance
as eco-habitat
is to interdependent
elder
right hemisphere prominence.
Ego
is to internal wealth
as cooperative Eco-nomics
is to external polynomial health.
Ego
healthy roots
from resonant compassion,
co-enlightenment;
EcoSystems
wealthy flower
in resilient communion,
co-empowerment.
Ego
is to power of day
as Eco
is to moonlight's
fluid night.
Ego
is to patriarchal Yang
as Eco
is to womanist Yin.
Ego
is to competitive,
yet integral, Truths
as Eco
is to cooperative Beauty.
Ego
is to dance
as Eco
is to music.
The way one touches the hearts and minds of others
would become memorials of his passage through life!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 MAY 2020
They stand there. these enigmas of time
placard markings, memorialized remembrances refined
of less than a better age,
seemingly forever on wars rampage.
The making of immortalized imposing images dissidents
destruction of both soldier and innocent citizens
that paint a picture blackened to dark and gray
for those who endured in living that day
and the struggles that took others away
in bombs, debris, and democracy exploding to decay.
A war in no uncertain words swirled
the shot of guns and ammo took round the world
to share the hurt, the anguish, and the pain endured to defend
the threat to never retaliate again without an end.
Too long the wars, the battles fought
brief interludes of peace are never bought
and the battles rage, and the missiles roar
as we stand in tears and memory at freedom's shore.
Light the lanterns, shed some light
is peace lost forever in its flight?
Speak now, speak loud
never hold your peace
or the battle cries
lay forever in repeat.
Vines shroud headstones on graves
like veils that that cover the face,
like sunglasses the hide the eyes reddened with tears,
like arms of strangers, en-wrapping sympathy with hugs.
Dust to dust, even the headstone decays in time
as vines spreads their tendrils over headstone faces,
as roots invade and crumble the rock face to sand,
as rock surfaces are kept wet with dew tears to hasten decay.
Vines are welcome in cemeteries despite being weeds
because vines spread and cover headstones in purl rows,
because vines entwine and knit a soft green garment for graves,
because vines mellow the harshness of hard rock stone memorials.
I roam through cactus and moonlight,
never knowing how old marrow can be fleshed
from pores sewn in blank lines of endings ~
and here I am among rows of a year’s diary;
these hands sanded by memorials
of famine and feast ; sometimes wrinkled
by the laundry of evenings’ regret.
At times, like a torn gypsy rose burned in coal,
I remember the faces of my family smelling
of tar and mint , knitting arms flamed
though midnight’s love, then doused
by autumn’s muddy rain ~ gone just like that.
12/28/2015
For the Contest Deep and Dark
Sponsor; Broken Wings
I used to live in France, near the Champagne region.
My favorite Notre Dame cathedral is not the one in Paris;
Rather it is Notre Dame de Rheims.
After many battles, Jeanne D'Arc helped the Dauphin Charles
Be crowned the king of France there.
There are many statues in France of Jeanne D'Arc.
Most of them show her riding a horse with sword held high.
I've see that image in many Places in the north.
My favorite statue of her is in Notre Dame de Rheims.
She looks to be standing a vigil in her armor
With her battle flag posted behind her.
I've also been to Place Jeanne D'Arc in the city of Rouen,
Where the British tormented, interrogated, and immolated her.
It didn't look like a sad place, but I felt sad there for her.
I don't know if she really heard angelic voices,
But her story always inspired me--
Probably the only non-Biblical saint that ever did.
My father's bone is in his grave
My mother's bone the same
But your bones battered by the wave
Are found in children's game
They collect them for their colors
The nearest thing to pearl
A child may own; time murmurs
Against our sandy world
Mollusk shrines and cockle shells
It's all your kingdom leaves
And evening with purples spells
O heart that ever grieves.
The year is run, many gone
I shall not see again
Still will come a new dawn
Till then I keep my pain.
Rank me in the dimmest of lights
sweet salvation deliver me into his bliss
mark my heart with the eternal desire to be one of them
fitting in the most exposed weeds
filter my soul and make me believe
i can wake up tomorrow and he will be there
bittersweet oblivion, mothers milk
taste each tear, each foreign virtue
let them fall like rain and dampen my sheets
virgin orchid climb higher into the clouds
farther away from the fields of forever
give birth into the now
leap freely with your true stag
welcome me forest and dance into my minds eye
blinking eye can wonder what it must
water it, creation... again play on
this flower is wilting
its sour and unforgiven
turning faster in the wind