Bullet and blade
Have ended
Many a friend.

Some were warriors
Living by sword, others
Just unlucky.

No one safe from
Anything. I buy her
Pepperspray instead of

Flowers these days.
Keep leaving
Butterfly knives in the

Pockets of her coats.
I am a man of non-violence,
But one with worlds to lose.

I miss the days when the fight
Ended as ground was hit.
Knuckles and bones were

All we needed; men fencing
For themselves with nothing
But themselves,  

And women were there to be
Charmed and fought over. Not
Left torn and terrified

In a ditch, broken beyond repair,
Their men helplessly wielding
Lead and steel at the absence

Of the animal responsible.
I'll buy her flowers today.
Flowers, and walk her home.

Bullet and blade
Have ended
Many a friend.

The weight of their
Tragedies is about the
Same

As that of the crates of ammunition
It takes to keep the world
Safe from the threat of itself.

This one time, Eddie and I were in his house, their neighbor fed the squirrels and they had over run Eddie's backyard. He saw one on the fence and asked me to grab his bow. Standing at the back door he drew back an arrow, took a deep breath in, let it out slow, and let the arrow fly. It struck the squirrel right through the eye and flung it from the fence top. Eddie's pops saw and congratulated him on the shot, but said we were not to waste the squirrel so Eddie cooked it up on the BBQ and we ate it. It tasted terrible, but I'm ****** if that wasn't the best shot I've ever seen. And I'm ****** if we didn't eat every last bit. And I'm ****** if Eddie ever dies for a second time, when no one remembers him.

All things come to those who wait.
Unfortunately, I cannot wait for life is but a flash and my youth is but the first spark of light.
I waited tho, for you, and like for so many others the wait was terminal.

A blank canvas on an easel
Not splashed with hues, yet
Yearning for the stroke of a brush
And be painted with the painter’s dream
Most intimate of moments coming alive
Reflecting the colors of the heart and mind
Stroke after stroke, brushes caresses it
Coming alive, with passionate undertones
In cahoots with the painter, an **** of colors
Brushes of passion, colors the emptiness
A masterstroke of the painter; the canvas is filled
With these kaleidoscopic moments
Vivid imagery of the painter’s heart, is an Arts saga  *




© Amitav (Radiance)

I still have a hard time not crying
whenever I hear your name
and I still have a hard time facing the fact
that I will never see you in physical form again
I guess when you are faced with the choice of letting go or holding on and you're caught in the middle of an attempt to compromise
emotions you feel equally as strong

Let me replay in my mind that beautiful smile and contagious laugh
before I fully let go and let you be gone
But my mind won't let me forget you
and my heart tells me it's wrong
So please come and see me and know my friendship is beyond true
You took a huge part of the world from our lives when you left us
and we felt you left us far too soon
It will be five months on the fourth of June
and I still constantly, thoroughly, unconditionally think of you
My love for your family is unending and my love for you still remains
even amidst the saddest and deepest of pain
your smile still brings the sun to my rain

Oh Eric, so many of us want to know why;
so many of us desperately need answers
but all we can do is cry
...and carry on your legacy of being kind
...of being loyal
...and having fun
Though sadly your work here is done
God has given you brand new wings
and a perfect set of lungs
So you breathe baby,
you breathe the Breath of Life
and you continue to be the angel you were on earth;
today the angel in our minds
You have left a job behind, but please know it can be done
We stand behind you still
and I speak for everyone
Go where you want to go
and be who you want to be
but most importantly and above all else my friend

Be free

Eric,

be *free

once i met a man
with a broken wing
a voice of a nightingale
but sad shynesss was his song.

he would sing only when
alone...
yet the beauty of his song
would carry on the wind..
and the earth would stop to listen...

after time his wing healed
he went about his daily chores....the song he sang
forgotten....

the wind howled....and the world went on, but lesser for
the loss of the momentary angelic pause....
the song was lost....and so the beauty too....

but the man had a bumper
crop of apples and pears to make to ciderand perry  that year....the year he was broken.

Our love, little girl
Our love is not a castle  
No palace of gold, no fortress
Or stronghold
No cathedral or church

It is a tiny tree house
Where we sit
Dangling lazy legs
Holding hands

Rope ladder pulled up
No grown-ups allowed
And no single idea
About any love
Outside
Ours.