He must be deaf
God, that is
I've been cursing him for days
And I'm not dead yet

Sitting up there on his throne
Eating cheese on Ritz
All gray-haired without a care
Not hearing my pleading tones

Maybe the choir's making too much sound
Or perhaps he's jamming with Townes
Possibly; passing a bottle 'round
Gettin' down to Snake Mountain Blues
With Townes Van Zandt. Yeah. That's it.

r ~ 5/16/14

He was a West Virginia farm boy.
His name was Walton, Cpl. John.
I **** thee not; we called him John Boy.

Two bunks down from me
in a barracks at Fort sux Dix, NJ,
he would write poetry after lights out
by penlight. Drill Sergeants called him a *****
when one of the recruits hung a poem in the chow hall
that Boy had written about missing his little sister.

Boy could weave a line from Whitman
or Frost or Byron, even Emily
flawlessly into a conversation.
I would try hard as hell to keep a straight face.
Boy never cracked a smile. No one else ever caught on.
Funny as hell. And pretty **** cool.

Like during the class on E and E
when asked to summarize lessons learned.
"Resist much. Obey little, Drill Sergeant".
He earned a smoke break for that.

When asked where his home was during an inspection
by the company commander, Boy replied
"Perhaps it is everywhere-on water and land" or
"under the soles of your boots, Captain".  
That one got him two days KP.

Most famously, when asked how battles are lost he replied
"Battles are lost in the same spirit as which they are won, Drill Sergeant".
That one got a big Ooorah and earned him his corporal stripe.
Drill Sergeant wasn't sure what he meant, but liked the sound of it.

We were stationed together for almost two years, Boy and I.
We deployed together. He would scribble by penlight in the bunker,
then scramble across the sand and call in close-air, then back to the poem
while the ground was still shaking, constantly blowing sand off of his journal.

Boy was hit in the left femur by a ****** round one night
while calling artillery coordinates down range.
He always left his field book in his sleeping bag.
I looked through it before it was gathered up
with the rest of his gear for shipping over to Ramstein.

Eighty-three pages of ******* awesome poetry about his daddy's farm,
his grandfather's mountain home, the snowy woods during deer season,
the first girl he loved, dogwoods in bloom, his mother's death in an auto accident.
A beagle pup that he once had.

Boy went home to West Virginia with one less leg.
I called him one Christmas a few years ago
after finding his phone number through a mutual friend.
We shot the usual ****. We were both a little drunk.
I asked Boy if he still wrote poetry. He said no,
he didn't have time with all the ***** that needed drinking.
Not much left to write about, he said. Anyway, poetry's for sissies.

r ~ 5/17/14

There has to be a common bond that joins us all as one
That is the poetic glue that forms the common bond
I think of names that stand out proud here  on this fine site
The names who write the words to be read into the night
Sverre,  Billy, the Petal Pie to mention but a few
And lets not forget the lovely Sye
One of our poets new
So many contribute to make this site what it is
So many words do cross the world
To make our poetry live
I applaud you all, mediocre or poets of note
The good who offer wisdom here where so few do ever glote
Never stop the flowing words my friends, never stop the flow
Your fine words can take us
To places where so few will ever go

I dedicate this to every member of Hello Poetry

Look around you,
A world of fraud.
All these lies
Deserve an applaud.

You hide yourselves
With thick fake masks,
Dropping the ensemble
In the safety of your casks.

You plead for reality
Yet do so cloaked.
Open your eyes,
This fate, you've evoked.

To the few
Vulnerable and bare,
I have a favor to ask
If you truly care.

So those of you
Free of feign and guilt
I ask that you tear down
What we have built.

The clock is a lie,
Imposter of time.
An original word,
Represented with rhyme.

The clock is insignificant,
Time though, is power.
The space between breaths,
Not the chime of the hour.

Similar in nature,
The difference is clear.
The clock Is a tool,
Yet time we fear.

Trying to stop it,
The clock was made,
But you can't stop reality.
Eventually we all fade.

I swerve in the distance
I sink through the sky
Pink patches of dead bliss
Pass me by

Light filters my eyelids
I flutter alive
Depart through my cold skin
We drive

Don’t arrive, don’t arrive, oh, please don’t
Don’t arrive, don’t arrive, don’t arrive
Don’t arrive, don’t arrive, oh, please don’t
Don’t arrive, don’t arrive

I’m holes in your ceiling
I’m shades in your mind
Cracks, between your sleeping
Eyes

Won’t arrive, won’t arrive, no, I know
Won’t arrive, won’t arrive, won’t arrive
Won’t arrive, won’t arrive, no, I know
You’ve passed me by

The wine plays tricks on young mortals
On occasions bathed in pale sunlight
Reason will be lost lost well before dawn
The youth cannot rest
Till only caveman instincts persist

Do not try and hid, nor sleep
The youth will scream you awake
And the youth will give you drugs
And the youth will drag you across town
And shove you into basements, backseats,
Dive bars, dorm rooms, and late night beaches
With swimsuits strongly discouraged.

And the youth will leave you be
Only when the youth has burned you up
Leaving you to the heap of a soul you have left
The youth came last night
To finish me off.
They came with whiskey and women.
And I succumbed to the temptation
Of another blurred night.

Everyone you meet takes something,
Leaves something with you.
Some get their hooks in and stay.
And stay.
And it will hurt to tear them out.
I close my eyes and pull.

I pull because we are the words of those around us.
So I pull
And pull more,
and pull more.
And tear more,
and give more .

Then I look back and see all the hooks behind me,
The hooks I put in other.
I hope they hurt,
Simply to balance the equation

London,
Beating heart of England,
Charismatic time-capsule thrumming to its own rhythm,
History looming, akin to massive waves splashing down,
Drenching all, the unwary, the scholar, soaking it up,
Savouring every scintillating droplet, blissful, hopeful,
Weaving through lives, changing with every moment,
Variety of race and creed, intermingling, jostling, noticing,
Sharing sight, sound, colour, scents, smiles and frowns,
Pulsing soul of people, thriving and alive, buzzing with spirit,
In Camden, easy-going, a friendly riot of textured-hazy-peace,
Artful structures of Belgravia, magnolia temples of affluence,
Lauding architectural finery while mere mortals pass through,
Mind swinging through centuries, flowing along the river artery,
Bridges carrying us home, keeping their own dark secrets,
Cranes rising high, creating modern palaces, new beginnings,
Old lives wreathed in the foggy past of legendry deeds,
Embellished beyond reality, ghosts crying out, warning,
We can never own this city, never know this city, not really,
Guardian dragon allows us entrance, pours herself upon us,
Takes our love, progresses while we observe,
All left behind, knowing, feeling, sensing,
We are but shadows in her Light,
Dust on her famous streets,
Blessed to know her,
To breathe her,
Love her,
London.

©Paul Chafer 2014