Fields of flowers
Planted in my mind
A garden for me(for us)

Memories and hopes
Marigolds and hydrangeas
Sunflowers to turn and admire you
As we walk along exploring.

My life, my world, my love, my loss
All contained in this little plot
A garden curated yet a bit of chaos
Maintained but allowed to grow.

Please take what you wish
Take care of it
Allow this piece of me
To flourish also with you
They will love our care
Together rather than alone.

When you aren’t there
to wander my field of flowers
Colors become more muted
Daffodils and Lilies, Irises and gardenias
All droop a little lower
But I still see you there
Flowers and memories.

In this age when bullying is such an item of concern I cannot help smiling whenever I recall my youth as a boy soldier; then it (bullying) was practiced as an art form, encouraged (I’m sure) by authority for its “character building aspects”. Thus:

When I was in the Army, well, that's Apprentice school,
Inspecting one's belongings, early morning seemed the rule.
And many hours spent beezing boots and ironing, folding, kit.
Taught me to carry on with smile and hate it every bit.
One had to lay one's kit on bed, and sleep by there on floor
To survive next morning's panicked fright begun by crashing door,
And that prancing A/T noncom., his ego, bully led,
Who would burst his way into our World and yell 'Stand by your bed'.

Then we'd all leap to attention, crumpled, ruffled hair.
And our eyes they'd be unseeing though we each knew he was there,
Looking straight ahead, just hoping, as he poked among our stuff,
As he picked up polished boots, that he wouldn't be too rough,
And hurl them through the window or against the fire door,
That he wouldn't scrape his own boot studs along our polished floor.
Of course, these hopes, these dreams of ours, were just pies in the sky.
As well to hope or dream like that, well, pigs might even fly.

Now he's checking button stick, and laces properly square
And the cardboard frame inside your shirt, the one you never wear.
The plimsoles stiffly black which you've polished shiny bright.
The dimensions of your bed block; that counterpane's real tight.
And its corners, every corner, must be folded tight to bed.
If it's not, you'll spend a morning drilling hard outside with Fred.
And now, today, I marvel that our masters thought it right
To let this sneering, snarling, youth on us vent all this spite.

But the proven test of character when all is said and done
Was despite the gruelling life we led, we jeeps, we still had fun.
And my particular little joy, the butter on my bread
Was thinking, when outside of School, I'm going to smash his head.
Some others might have thought the same not that it really matters,
For though I don't recall his name, his memory lies in tatters.
And after all, recalling life, those patterns on the quilt,
Can we be sure that what we write is free of any guilt?

When those who are broken
have emerged from the ruins
which they have undergone
they are each an eternal star born

never to fear again
nor have any need to moan:
all darkness has been dispelled
and the most endurable courage is earned.

A thousand people in a street,
A thousand eyes that’ll meet—
A million personalities in a street,

Some to work,
Some to school,
Some to steal,
Some to fool,

Few are drunk,
Few are poor,
Few to lie,
Few to fly.

A thousand sighs in a street,
A thousand sorrows to tolerate,
A million stories incomplete—

Few slept deep
Few wept in a sheet.

Few to study,
Few to work.

A thousand people in a street.
A thousand griefs that repeat,
A million hearts that skip a beat—

What matters
is personal freedom
that which is social, national
or international is bunkum

A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.

This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.

An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.

This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.

Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.

This is the ******, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.

This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.

If you find yourself wandering what this life is for,  look at your neighbor, smile, put wings on them, and let them learn to fly.

Pick that bit of ******* up, that dropped from the willing hand, replace the serenity in the one, who's off the wagon again.

Open and hold a door for  one, you never would dare.
Make a place at your table, for the stranger, sleeping under the walkway stairs.

Be kind even when  all around you, would disagree, cut out that root of bitterness, the people in your life, often see,

Work on being the master, of an honest smile, smiling rather quickly, than frowning all the time.

"Broken people break people," it's been said, but I chose to believe, " Healed people heal people," ©
Enough Said.......

Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE"