Mortars Poems

Longing Faiths

Let our clear eyes gaze
at the rising moon on the
shores of the Sahara, let
the evening stars shine,
holding the skies in their
         cosmic magnet, let the
tides cease their aggression
within the ocean, like the
brutish pain we feel as
we welcome and embrace
the oases of our longing
         faiths, our kisses
flirting on the shores
of the ocean’s lips,
resolute in our struggle.
We are sandwiched between
the blades and mortars of
these plains, bludgeoned on
the banks and rivers of
these burning forests,
our peace stolen by
hate, so we spend
      these silver years in
agony, asking the same
questions our ancestors
asked: shall our hopes be
burnished and taken away on
the lost bays of these curving
currents determined to throw
us into the pits of the boiling
gutters, or shall our longing
        faiths, like stones, outlast
the flames of the forest fires?

WWIII

It’s 2022, we’re in the final battle for the soul of the world.
There is no Indo-European root for soul,
the Greek and Germanic roots mean quick-moving, fleeting, mercurial.
I’d add evanescent, impermanent, ephemeral 
disappearing, diminishing, dwindling 
tenuous, brief, short-lived.
Whatever forever—that’s where we’ll be after WWIII.

World, home, think, breathe: man,
woman the vital force in man, the Anthropocene, men together 
violence, virtue, virility. Also, werewolf.
War: to confuse, mix up, make worse.
The old are paying close attention but my sons ignore the thunder, 
plate tectonics, gamma ray bursters and mortars on the Eurasian front. 
Peace out—the end, limit, boundary, never to have been. So long,
       sayonara, shalom, salaam. Take into eternity my hail and farewell.

I AM TIRED OF BEING NICE

I am tired. 
Usually in a “life has sapped itself out” 
But that isn’t what this is about. 

I. Am. Tired. 
Of my stupid styrofoam smile
Squeaking under pressure all the while. 
 
I am tired. 
Of being walkedranmoppedraked overthroughon. 
And of being treated as dumb spawn or clueless pawn. 

I am calm, patient, quiet, KIND. 
In the midst of grossness others spew against and on my mind. 
However. My still hand does NOT mean
That I don’t find your way of existing obscene. 
I may not lift my finger, 
But damn does wavering will barely linger. 
I am so tired of tulips and fields and eggshells.  
I am ready for mortars, more ammo, some bombshells. 
I am so tired of being the go-to-friend. 
You know I’ll be there in the end. 
I am so tired of “can I, may I, if it’s not too much”
After a while, doesn’t tired become the crutch? 
Tired, exhausted, drained, and used. 
Perhaps from the next I must recuse 
Myself not because interests conflicted, 
But rather because you don’t deserve a finger lifted. 
I am so tired of being my warmth of fiery nice. 
I’m so tempted to just let it all go. 
Be discompassionate ice.

Environmental Concerns

Ponder the old pestles and mortars
used at times in apothecaries,
older drug emporium quarters.

Some of the porous surface was shared
by grinding both mortar and pestle
ending up in medicines prepared.

Do today's microplastics alarm you?
Minute particles endanger us all;
microwavable repercussions? Whew!

First Kiss

A big warm hug, a strong embrace 
I brush the hair from off your face
Then look you deep into your eyes
So deep I find I'm lost inside

With both my hands, one on each cheek
I slowly bring your face towards me
I move towards yours, deadlocked in stare
Our eyes then close when halfway there

We know the way, our lips collide
Without a map, without a guide
And as we kiss the mortars fly
Chrysanthemums burst in the sky
Rivaling fourth of July 
First kiss, a second is implied

Freedom On the ballot 2024

I wish these were different times,
when I could write about pollen
and bee, when I could write about
silvery moons, and adventurous
pathways on uncharted romantic
sea -- 

But all I can write about is FREE!

I wish these were different times
when I could write of Light
and eternity -- when I could write
of my heart, of our growing brood,
the sole focus of mind, on joyfully 
interacting~ 

totally content with treasured company 
of my precious, evolving legacy, family-tree -- 

But all I can write about is FREE!

I'm certain Washington would have
loved to spend Christmas in front of 
a cozy fireplace, with loved ones, safe
and secure, his fingers wrapped around 
a mug of spicy holiday tea -- instead of 
the icy trigger of a musket, 

But all he could think of was FREE!

And all those who died at Normandy,
on Omaha Beach, in Okinawa on Hacksaw 
Ridge -- riddled with bullets, bodies shredded
by mortars -- never again to hold their
cherished wives and children

just so those loved ones could grow
up healthy and strong

in a world FREE from Tyranny!

Bricks

Brick by brick, I built this home,
each piece with purpose, in which it owns.
It was the hardest task I ever did face,
As I made sure everything was in its right place.
Yet, suddenly, my house collapsed, tumbling to the ground.
My heart started drumming, I felt every pound.
Confused by the aftermath, and all the destruction in sight,
what caused this to happen, I pondered through the night?
Was it the weight of my burdens too heavy to bear?
Or the cracks in my foundation, too deep to repair?
I stood amidst the rubble, feeling lost and alone,
wondering how to rebuild what was once my home.
But as I sifted through debris, a realization grew
that sometimes I must let go and build something new.
Through destruction, there lies something beautiful underneath,
just believe in yourself and let your heart guide your feet.
Remembering that sometimes good things rest in a pit
and faith holds the purpose that mortars each brick.

Blue Moons

Blistering and scorching sands
  Land of the hushed and crushed hands
Up the creepy furs clasping 'round
  Ebbing scraped sand of ants' mound

Mortars of the deep and steamy skies
  O'er peals and dreamy flies
Off the reef passerine of stormy glides entreat
  New leaf flit, strength above my feet...

Sunsets tweak, marvels at its peak

Roads

Roads

Roads of concretes
Roads of tar and mortars takes
Us all around

Ode To Peace

I wake up with the sound of a cannonball 
on the third month in the season of fall,
finding courage to brave this storm, 
while its fierce wind blows my home.  

I look above and make the call 
as the mortars tear the wall,
but dark clouds block the sunlight
everytime I spread my sight.  

Heavens, please rescue me!
Bullets are ringing as I make the plea. 
Little children go astray. 
My tears fall as I watch them lay. 

Is it for dominion or for supremacy
that the mighty calls the tune of anarchy?
Isn't it better if the hands that slay
will build a niche for all to stay?

*For Ukraine* 

Edited: January 29, 2023 

2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 26 Poetry Contest 
Sponsored by: Mark Toney

A Forced Retiree

Who had gone to the Headquarters
With my real age and a wagging tongue?
Who at The Board pounded me with mortars
From a determined snitching lung?

I guess a fellow while still standing
Didn’t aromatic gossip mind
In the area of Image Rebranding
A trusted helper of cops to a crook find!

Though, I could’ve sworn
Some fluffy cushion was the chap offered
For the journey that should have one worn,
Signaling that an honor had been conferred.

And there his fee was cleanly settled 
For Good Flesh and Bones en-route rattled!

What next does A Forced Retiree:
New hopes recline on God, The Referee?

March of the Bulldog

Thirteen times that flag when down
Thirteen times picked from the ground
Thrust aloft by last man standing
With the mortar shells still landing

Wield the colours twenty paces 
Over fallen friendly faces
’til the mortars take a rest
Leaving shrapnel in his chest 

Man and colours, each goes down
To the muddied blooded ground
Laboured is his final breath
Raised the flag with all he’s left

Soon the battle no more loud
Flag of Britain flying proud
All her fallen sprawled around
Oberst doesn’t take it down

Shakes his head, he isn’t grinning
He says, ‘Wir können nicht gewinnen.’


Oberst = Colonel
Wir können nicht gewinnen = We cannot win

For Those Thrust Into War's Maw

For Those Thrust into War's Maw
by Michael R. Burch
 
This poem is dedicated to Harvey Stanbrough, an ex-marine who was nominated for the 1999 Pulitzer Prize and has written passionately and eloquently about the horror and absurdity of war in “Lessons for a Barren Population.”
 
No, I will never know
what you saw or what you felt,
thrust into the maw of Eternity,
 
watching the mortars nightly
greedily making their rounds,
hearing the soft damp hiss
 
of men’s souls like helium escaping
their collapsing torn bodies,
or lying alone, feeling the great roar
 
of your own heart.
But I know:
there is a bitter knowledge
 
of death I have not achieved,
and in thankful ignorance,
and especially for my son
 
and for all who benefit so easily
at so unthinkable a price,
I thank you.
 
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetic Reflections and Poetry Super Highway as "Privilege." Keywords/Tags: Vietnam War, marines, military, service, honor, duty, bravery, heroism, maw, mortars, rounds, souls, escaping, bodies, corpses, death, heart, roar, bitter, knowledge, thanks, thank you, war, violence, USA, military, courage, patriotic, hero

The Trench

We've dug down deep.
We've dug our trench.
This smell of death
We wish to quench.
The mortars fall on muddy field.
The bodies mount in no mans land.
The enemies fight neither wish to yield.
For freedom we wish to stand.
The rats they feed on the rotting flesh.
On friends that have fallen.
They felt the reapers caress.
This trench is evil
It's a living hell.
Filled with the dead,
and their putrid smell.
The trench surrounded by barbed wire.
It's shrouded in mist.
Attacked with machine gun fire.
The lives that are lost.
Their sacrifice made.
We owe them a debt that can never be paid

Fear

Fear

A dark night and all seems well 
When out of nowhere, the bright burst
This stirs so much to tell
People running to the berm
Rifles firing, mortars thumping and people screaming
  
I go my area and look into the night
There it is a big firefight
Red tracers, green ones too, crossing and hitting the berm
Like a fireworks display

The night seems like it will never end
In area's is louder and more
I wonder if people know the pain of war
As the sun begins to rise, you look out in the space
There are no bodies, nothing not even a trace that it all happened

Your mind starts to wonder if it even happened or was it a dream
You don't know until the end
When you hear who got hurt, or who is dead
Yes this is war, this is the price people pay to keep a nation free

Yet those at home don't understand
Children running around, people talking
When our national anthem is played
They don't know the price of freedom
Like those men and woman who are in graves.

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