He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day.
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.

Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play        
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.

He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.

Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.

From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).

He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh)
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.

The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.

The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.

They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.

His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?

They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.

It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.

I remember the first time someone saw you push me.
She had turned to me , shocked ;
appalled at what she just witnessed... appalled I let it happen.

I remember the first time
you screamed at me,
your breath horrid , so close to my face..
reeking of beer and *****.

I remember the night your dad watched you
hold me against a wall,
not moving, not stopping,
not preventing. I pleaded, crying... He just pretended it wasn't his buisness .

I remember the night you threw me in the car
screaming over the bridge,
telling me you didn't care, my
eyes squeezed shut , 90 miles an hour.

I remember your hand around my throat,
that look you had. There was no one behind your eyes,
you were empty. A monster.

I remember the light switch.
The person I loved..to the demon I hated.
Your voice changed,  it was like I could you see falling into that blackness.

...I remember packing my things and being stronger then I thought..
I remember you screaming how much I would regret it.
I remember you begging for chances...I was tired.

I remember needing to love myself , more then I loved you .

If I was snow
Would you be my angel?
Leaving your imprint
Indentation upon my heart,
Footprints on the beaches
Of my mind
All your memories
Beckoning me
Like my own
Dark city,
I the constructor
Of my own reality,
You my shell beach
Inaccessible dream,
Or would you fly away?
Mistaking the white of me
For a cold barren world,
Though even in the depths
Of any wasteland
There is life
You cannot see,
Just waiting
For the warm sun to rise,
And as such I await you,
Frozen in a place
Time forgot,
My soul on ice
As you skate on by,
Maybe we'll meet
When the winter thaws
And the rivers flow
Life anew with you once more...

APAD13 - 147  © okpoet

let me crawl into the vastness of your soul
i am tired
.
i want to nap with your deepest thoughts
i am worn out
.
let me curl up with your darkest secrets
i am exhausted
.
i want to lay myself into your curves and nooks
i am drained
.
let me caress your damaged heart
i am fatigued
.
i want to nestle your bruises
i am sleepy
.
let me burrow into your lungs with all that smoke
i am stale
.
i want to kiss your agony
i am empty

To Post a Poem!

Find me a postage stamp to write a poem on.
In imagery implicit.
One tiny spot.
A need to fill with written power.
Finding language every hour.

Poetry intrinsic.
Intoxicates my heart.
My mind, my soul.
I shall write with graphite.
So if need I can erase,
As sometimes,
on my postage stamp.
I need to analyse my space.

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)