I held his hand, cold as ice
I held his gaze, fixed as ice
I held his heart, stiff as ice
I held his guts, pale as ice
I held his hair, thin as frost
I ripped it off
I held his hand
YOUNG
Young and strong and full of vigor
So proud to answer the call
Crisp new uniform
Standing sharp and tall
Solemn with intent
To serve for one and all
His country and comrades
He bravely manned the wall
To stand against the bitter foe
And endure war’s awful squall
With valor and service true
Til the fateful fall
Then home again and still young
But only full of rigor
That is one thing about rigor:
It can Intact Man disfigure;
Like a cell phone reconfigure
The Stout left A Sorry Figure…
You won’t yourself in public show;
Not a new thing in you did grow;
Slaving at a task “Your New Foe”
Hours taking to turn a toe!
It’s a big stab from stretched rigor:
It leaves not the same one’s Vigor:
I used to know a strong Igor,
Not dead before stripped of vigor…
Some men it’d enveloped in dust.
Good pipes now struggling with rust;
You don’t energy drink dismiss
Nor caffeine you can handle miss.
i know i will live beyond these weird moments
but I was cleaning the attic after the furious wind
when I found and caressed your crumpled photo
thought I was gradually forgetting you
the drunken cars and the rising sun
on that beach that won't come back
funny that this is the same wind
that took the love that would save us...
looks like he took the opportunity
and brought the hate that now seems to dominate...
the wind is taking everything
I looked where we left our smiles
but there was just a sign that said dead end
Rigor
The pond in the village had a film of ice
and the snow under the elm tree had the aroma of
roasted nuts and sweet honey
there were no old women in the village they had been
melted into lard, and old men were salted and put in barrels
they would last for years.
It was a place where survivors live and to do that one had
not to eat your own new-born.
Cabbage and carrots and the spindly arms of old men
Kept the village alive while bankers skiing in the Alps
The British full of discontent waited for the US
To rescue them Anglophone, never mind the rest.
The old hatred between the French and the Germans
Was making Europe healthy again with Belgium and
Holland with costmary cowardice sided with all
My bom bom pains me
In hurts very deep in a silent mode
And all luxury leads to no cozy
Cause, I’m beaten very hard by my subordinate
Am tired of this marathon to an endless road
The long awaited destination of no approach
The unreachable Canaan land
For a virtuous land, who can find?
Still, unimaginable heating thorns bake my ass
Into a piece of cake
And my knees jerk
In the presence of no stimulus
I wonder when this Canaan land shall be reached
And the heating thorns kissed off my crying ass
my death is so slow!...
its footsteps mark my seconds,
its breath veils my heart...
behold, with its frozen eyes
has touched the words between us...
The Madness Continues
Rigid as steel he sleeps, stiff and lifeless,
Inert, a shell of a man who liked to laugh.
Gone through the valley of death him who
Once was filled with much capacity to love.
Rest in peace, brother, whoever you are.
More of the same will most certainly ensue
Out in the harsh, unforgiving desert sands.
Rue the day when leaders set forth agenda
To pursue wily enemies with phantom WMD.
In the mortuary a chaplain kneels in prayer,
Soldier takes his last, long journey home.
I must have died,
but when -- I don't recall.
Some year, some day,
some crucial moment
came and went unnoticed,
upstaged, perhaps,
by a grocery list
or too-tight shoes.
A quiet time later, though,
when the world was out to lunch,
I thought of you --
and nothing happened.
No sprangling pain
felt keenest in the palms,
no paucity of breath,
no gallop in the veins.
Instead -- surprise,
a leaning toward regret,
then numbness all.
Still, I might a Lazarus prove
to word of yours --
but lacking that,
what wants of dying now
is just the public part.
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