Author: poetryfest

The soldier waged a lonely war,
as all around him fell,
The corpses of his friends and foes,
shielding him like a shell.

Neither guns nor bombs, or weaponry,
could save him from his fate,
His time had come, or so he felt,
It was now just too late!

But when he had shut eye in defeat,
and surrendered to what may,
A heavenly voice rang in his ears,
and it had this to say :

“This war is different, o my friend,
you’ve lost your kith and kin,
What you are fighting outside you,
actually lies within!

The foe is clever and unseen,
constantly changing shape,
And if you do not fight with guile,
am afraid there’s no escape!

But there is hope, do not despair,
new weapons you must use.
Those that you already possess,
but never did you choose!

Sit silently and meditate,
fill your own lungs with air,
Let gratitude exhale from you,
and then see how you fare!

Now bathe yourself in rays of light,
let the sun, shine on your face,
Feel all that love encompassing you,
in nature’s own embrace!”

The soldier did as he was told,
till he felt as whole once more,
His body, once a battlefield,
now a new look wore.
Opening his eyes, what did he see,
but a sea of white,
Those that spread most selflessly,
the gifts of love and light.

He then resolved, no more to be,
a soldier of the night,
Transformed, he set forth and became,
A warrior of the light!

——- The End ——–

So here we are, Dad,
your worse fear came to pass,
now you’re in the chair.

How you pushed yourself
to walk again after the fall—
we all rallied around you.

Then reality settled in:
baby steps, even if with
one leg dragging a bit.

You recall that
trek through France
watching truck after truck
drive by with bodies
of young and not so young
stacked like toothpicks.

Keep looking forward,
wanting the best.

A bit of happiness
when you saw Louie
near Luxembourg—
wondering if it
would be your last
time to see each
other but glad to hug,
praying brother Ernie
in Italy was okay.

Back to your troop,
filled with cheer,
you joined the march
to the battle—
then shrap metal hit your
back and buttocks—you
pulled through—others didn’t.

Wounded for life—
ignore the pain—
I’m strong—
yea, you are.

Then two years before
your 100th a simple turn,
a stray cane—
life changed in a flash.

A bolt of light
hit and poof,
the knight fell.

Now, you curse the chair.
Slowly, daily life has
dwindled to meals, short walks
and opening mail.

Wanting more with mind
sharp, you inhale,
exhaling exasperation,
recalling the trek
through England,
France, Luxembourg and
back to England for recovery.

They presented a Purple Heart—
you earned it.

Then seventy years
later with the help
of many, they gave
you the Bronze Star.

Proud of you, family
applauded once pinned.

Through the years, you kept
a distance, never sharing much.

Now that you’re bound
by the chair, we all have
seen the good and the bad.

The bad we’re all
capable of in despair.

Gently your body
fails, yet your mind
is sharp as glass.

A thought
flitters, captured
in space precious
as Mom all these years.

Though far and near,
we hold you
dear.

Have you ached so much you cry
Has it been so dark hope did die
Has life’s promises been just a lie
Has breath gone you cannot sigh

For so many life did do
Until one meets you

Soaring to my destiny
And it’s nice to know that
All at once you are with me
And you’re the only one I’m thanking
For all the love in my heart

Orange souls
Rosetta stones
And desert roses on a melting road
Spirits fly over head and hold me forever and ever

Nothing hurts more than a love that never began
When you lose more than just being friends
A sad clown can weep for a fool
Who gives away so foolishly
A heart that hasn’t earned the right to bleed

If I’m led and melt in the cold
As our breath preaches the lies we sold
I shout away at the dark of the moon
And weep into an empty room

Don’t leave me unless you really mean it
Don’t touch me unless you need it
Dont love me just to beat it
Don’t hate me just to feel it

crossing the tracks
among blue limecitylights and their skinny
cracked brick buildings still testing
time. I
noticed the railroad steam
doesn’t blow anymore, or their anvil
hammers shutter
less with their past echoes, but
with Sassy Ann’s at the
corner
I know Miss Sara will belt out her voice above
the late train’s blowhorn anyday. And

I still am mesmerized past the Tennessee line.

So, we
smoked
to ease our minds – a while, and let
Labron scream & fly
shaving his callused fingertips
along those thin-metal strands of
silver sheath,

to let us waltz on our bare
bended knees —
crawling
to end up on our hands:
dirty.
who cares
for I want to sleep
on these drunken blue streets.

Let me tell you about my blue haired baby
How her pink leathers drive me crazy
How she wears a diamond death’s head stud upon her tongue
How the Metal band she leads
Has a drummer nicknamed BLEED
And her left thigh tattoo reads, I eat my young

Orange lipstick, neon hair
Spiked green leather underwear
Some folks may find her tastes a trifle strange
Blood red eyes, all wild and scary
Complexion like a dead canary
Underweight, on the run, bumming change

My baby rolls her blades or skates her board
To score free donuts “THANK THE LORD!”
Every Sunday midnight mass in Tompkins Square
Tabbouleh hot dogs, that’s her trip
Oreos with a salsa dip
And nothing beats a chocolate egg cream flavored beer

When we make love, sometimes my baby goes away
Huddles up deep, deep inside herself, but that’s okay
Cause we don’t just “do it” that’s not a song within our dance
And whatever scars she bears from her father’s loving touch
I try with kisses, whispers and embraces to heal as much
Cause my blue haired baby deserves a true romance

Her life’s a fall without the crash
So much time, so little cash
Her punkadelic soul burns dark to light
And with her slam dancing by my side
Life’s just a Harley barley ride
Our hearts ablaze up, up and out
Into the sweet and bitter Lower East Side night

A creative mind, a creative feel.
A touch of crafting and creating.
Stitched with a silk thread embroidered.
Boxes made of tin, stashed on shelves
Containing a mixture of contents rich.
There is the shine of card, newly gleaming
All with a glow of a mirrored sheen.
The stamps inked and marred with designs,
Celebrating and honouring something great!
Be blessed this gifting and for their receiving.
Be thankful for the wonderous touches of craft.

I’m pitching a script about a journey
discovering new lands. A clever captain
but he’s shipwrecked. A remarkable
love-and-murder story illustrated
by the captain and his new navigator;
he is English, and she Polynesian.

(Quick back-story about a Polynesian
woman who sets out on a journey
inspired by dreamed maps, a navigator
who steers to a fame-hungry captain.)
Same old love story, easily illustrated.
His insanity makes this one remarkable.

Native canoes are truly remarkable;
trees thanked before use, Polynesian
design, local rangatira illustrated –
leaf, tree, thicket. This new journey
worries the shipwrecked captain.
Can he really trust his navigator?

He’s lost his heart to his navigator.
She steers by stars through remarkably
open seas, subverting his role of captain.
In his mind history shifts, Polynesian
society beams him visions; a journey
through death, through fire, to life, illustrated.

His designs hatch into life, illustrated
dreams lie, show him his navigator
on a dangerous, double-crossing journey.
In a cataclysmic shift of passion, remarkable,
the once-beloved, once-worshipped Polynesian
is seized and tortured by her captain.

He’s no longer sane, her captain.
He kills her. And he eats her. Illustrated,
shocking. A woman, native Polynesian
in an alien world, brave navigator
of life, her way of death remarkable.
Imagine a movie of the whole troubled journey;

a lovely Polynesian navigator, wooed
by the shipwrecked captain; their remarkable,
sad, and morally illustrated journey.

—
http://www.amazon.com/author/mercedeswebbpullman

How can I still want you when i Know you’re toxic?

But when I’m not near you I can’t help it.

Hearing from your sweet voice makes my heart skip a beat.

For you…

I’d drop everything..

But…

would you do the same??

No..

you just leave the line to ring…

Unresponsive text messages and nights of the unknown.

Makes me question…”who you were with?” that you can’t answer your phone.

I know you deal to get by…

And liking you could be my demise…

Feeling so high when I’m with you I know I’m addicted.

Am I not enough for you to even send A simple text message.

I’ll forgive you again because in the end..

We are only just friends.

But..

boy you really got a hold on me..

And right now it’s hard to control these feelings.

Bear sets up a spike camp
closer to the fire.
A high meadow where lupine still bloom,
A meander between Ponderosa pines,
stately elders with corrugated bark
fragrant like caramel.

Bear fells a pine, limbs it, saws board lengths,
lines them atop crossed timbers
tables at waist height
so jumpers don’t have to crouch to eat
after digging fireline for hours, nights, days

Bear carves seats with backs
from the trunks of downed trees,
places them in conversational groupings.
Chainsaw aria.

On the west side of the meadow,
he ropes together bark-covered limbs
to make shower stalls.
Rigs bladders of water above them,
sunshine and gravity do the rest.
On the south end he drags away
elbows of deadfall,
elk scat, and stray rock,
to make
sleeping quarters on smooth ground.
Sets up a book exchange in an ammo box.
Free library in the woods.

At the center of spike camp,
he builds a bulletin board
where incident news gets posted.

Downwind, a good distance away,
Bear sets up an outdoor toilet
with its own graffiti board:
paper, Sharpies,
wood and carving tools.
Spike camp is better than home.