We do not hand out pills, but shells,
as out of battlefields they stare
from over sixty years ago
on far-off Guam or Guadalcanal.
With trembling hands they try to show
how the bravest or youngest fell.
We console them with a cold cup,
and a tender tap on the shoulder.
What haunts them, though, will not give up,
nor the fallen boys grow older.
Similar Posts
They all have mouths that tire,
And longing (for sin’s mire)passes through their dreams.Almost alike they stride,silent beneath the Tree,like intervals insidegreat God’s grand symphony.But when one of them rages,spread wings set tempests spinning,as if God, sculpting ages,huge-handed, leafed through pages,the dark book of beginning.after Rainer Maria Rilke
Abba, Pantocrator,
but to You, the Most High,You who lit the starsand gave a heartbeat to time.On my knees before the night,in every star I see you.Lift me from this realmof the lion eating the lamb,of the leopard eating the hare.Take me there where the fleshis neither hunted nor lusted,where the meek are meek,where the haughty are…
Amid the sudden flurries, shrill
Martha opens lids, her willone with the rooks that curse out loud:*another day on bitter earthpasses over Tinker Hill.*Reeking of mackerel culled from tins,she bends for something of true worth,reaches into a toppled barrelthe moment a miracle begins,and, off-key, sings a Christmas carolto celebrate a kitten’s birth.
The silverfish climb walls
eat peeled wallpaper, ballsof lint in broken drawers;across veneer, find pairsof thick and chipped wenge legs,art deco chaise lounge chairs,upholstery now in rags.And under the gold transom,the stained glass, bas-reliefsof pelicans held in ransom—enter and exit thieves—three archeologists:Jamal, Kordell, and Floydwho count on their proud listsZimbabwe and Detroit.
Visiting her cottage I remember ripe ears of corn,
high shelves of hoary berry jams, curtains threadbare and torn,and an axe brighter than the cracks in the wall near a bedbereft of her broken body for three months and one week.Through a veranda window I recall a thistled yard,and still hear portents issuing from a fat raven’s beak.A bucket of stagnant water mirrors the…
Armoires collect fine dustas wood cracks, hinges rust,but bakelite enduresin handles on warped drawers.Like burnished tangerine,fine stone turquoise greenit houses oldie static,art deco in the attic.The brown switch, the black phone,bracelet beads shaped like conecome from your mortal hand,Leo Baekeland.We come now to ask pardonwith flowers from your garden.Eternity is sweetand salty as the meatyou…