After the War, Poetry by Miriam Beza

 Genre: Family, Love, War

Sunday, April 27, 2014 MVB

After the war

He was six when he arrived- a refugee among the many.

At least he had his mother

A London grey, wet, full of blasts

Like old man’s teeth with empty gaps

At least he went to school.

A Church of England girl’s school.

The boys’ school lie there in a pile of rabble.

At least he made a friend

And found a cat.

It looked so hungry and he took it home

His mother said it was a she, her coat was black

The paws were white He called her ‘Socks.

At least she had a name now.

The war was over, the party had died down.

At least the mother’s lover went.

And dad, he only knew from stories came.

A stranger troubled by bad dreams

He said they had to go and start afresh.

Go home and leave the cat and friends

 

 

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After the War, Poetry by Stone Fox

There was nothing remotely familiar,
I could see no one and every one all at once.
These people were lost, they were all dead.
Salem grew dark-blushing from a freshly spent temptation.
A seduction created from the ideas of rash men,
that was then danced into destiny’s details by the devil.

Genre: War, Society, Political

After the War
by Stone Fox

There was nothing remotely familiar,
I could see no one and every one all at once.
These people were lost, they were all dead.
Salem grew dark-blushing from a freshly spent temptation.
A seduction created from the ideas of rash men,
that was then danced into destiny’s details by the devil.
It continued breeding shadow as every flame,
owned by the light was savagely snuffed-out.
Murder was now on a most elegant hunt.
Each diminishing spark documented each kill,
becoming a growing list of victims.
Meanwhile the thick lingering Blackness
kept a informal score as the shadow grew in strength.
Secretly, far off in the distance, a melody of sweetly soft smothered shrieks
signaled and started a symphony of serenely sobering sobs.
Sobs that began shaping and shifting into
unarticulated sighs and cries that never faltered.
But still, it was met with one lone menacing Nightmare.
A over stayed it’s welcome Terror.
It circled any remaining flame of light like a bottom feeding vulture.
Pushing it’s poor neglected lies unto any and all close by ears.
It could be heard loudly whispering to your hopes and dreams:
“Fret not” it almost always began,
“For though you have truly lost it all-your lives included-
there is a promise to clothe you.”
There was no hiding the disdain from it’s voice or face at the last two words.
But as quickly as the emotion appeared, it was replaced
with a plastic sneer as it finished with,
“All things look good, even better, dressed in our monograms.”
I found it’s night terror or tall tale amusing,
meeting this Nightmare face to face
as my insistent smirk escaped my control,
unnoticed by all including me.

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