

After the Loud
I keep waiting for noise.
My ears ring with its absence,
like phantom limb pain
for a sound that's gone.
The neighbor's wind chimes
still make me flinch.
But there's only breeze now,
no distant thunder of shells.
My tea grows cold
while I watch clouds.
They're just clouds now,
not signals or signs.
Sparrows have returned
to nest in broken eaves.
Strange how ordinary songs
fill spaces bombs left behind.
My hands remember
the weight of a rifle
but hold garden tools instead.
The dirt accepts them both.
The kids next door play war.
I want to tell them
they're doing it wrong—
too much laughing, too much joy.
But their peace is real,
not this quiet I wear
like borrowed clothes,
still stiff with tags.
At night I count heartbeats,
not casualties.
The numbers mean nothing now.
Nothing needs counting.
Sometimes I catch myself
planning escape routes
through my own garden.
Old habits die harder than people.
The silence stretches,
thick as armor.
I'm still learning
how to laugh again.
preface
war is always within and against the self
I.
the first War is against imposed order
from the cradle
of civilization
to the grave
of the soul
II.
the second War is against perceived other
a processing
of elimination
to iron our
difference
III.
the third War is against the internal org
neutralizing
of operation
to pin a
dying flesh
IV.
the fourth War is against the imagination
12.12.2024
War I, II, III, IV challenge @dctezcan
The Irish Child
The Irish Child gathered rocks to fling at the English soldiers in the streets of Belfast.
Fire, from molotov cocktails made from bottles filled with petrol, launched at tanks rattling in the streets.
The Irish Child only knew war, not caring about political affiliations or even the reasons why.
Or even knowing anything about the conflict itself, only that his parent's were against the soldiers, and he would protect them with his life.
The Irish Child grew a scatterwag in the streets, banging bin lids in cobblestone street at the approach of soldiers.
Burning bottle, rock, glass, wood and finally bullet, though that was a game the adults played. The deadliest game of all.
Vale the Irish Child, weep the Irish child,
Cry for innocence, all for the Irish child.
Gorgous As Could Be
Oh he was gorgous as could be. Seeing my silhouette in his eyes, feeling the breeze graze my white gown with life, and the kiss. The kiss every woman dreams about, wishing they had never woken. The kiss that elopes two and makes one love shatterproof.
This was our beginning, our bond, our everlasting companionship. We spent the rest of our days laughing. We spent the rest of our weeks running off and adventuring. We spent the rest of our months moving and making a place of our own. We spent the rest of our years starting a family. And, at last, we had our last breaths beside one another knowing this is the only life we would ever want to live.
You see, this is what I would have told my children. This is what I would have bragged about with my friends. This is the life I would have chosen over any other. But, I never had kids of my own. I never settled in and called one place home. I never explored and seen the world outside the one I grew up in. I never even laughed.
I lay here, coins over my eyes. Back aching from the stren wood I rest on. Lungs empty with no air to take in. And six feet of dirt to keep me in place.
He was gorgous as could be, but he was also more dangerous than ever. I made my mistake. I put myself into this grave. I married the man that put two bullets in my head. I never made it through my own honeymoon.
Love’s Death
Choice of words
Choice so obscure
Obscure mind
Obscure line
Line of sight
Line the sky
Sky that fell
Sky of poems
Poems for you
Poems that bled
Bled from soul
Bled for time
Time and laughter
Time well-spent
Spent so freely
Spent with you
You now busy
You now gone
Gone from me
Gone for good
Good things end
Good things die
Die like stars
Die so dark
Dark with despair
Dark falls over
Over my love
Over my spell
Spell is broken
Spell went wrong
Wrong was financed
Wrong plus tax
Tax my patience
Tax my effort
Effort so earnest
Effort was wasted
Wasted rough drafts
Wasted tears
Tears that choke
Tears that stain
Stain the memory
Stain the sheets
Sheets can strangle
Sheets that cover
Cover with soil
Cover a grave
Grave of love
Grave that's haunted
Haunted
Love