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Jordan N Dingle Apr 2018
I long for the days forgotten,
Days huddled along the bed of an old swamp,
For days old and rotten,
Days boundless, crushed by his weightless stomp.
Nor let me arouse the familiar occasion,
To tones of crackling ends,
Let me not wither in sensation,
Rather wander until I reach the old bends.
Is it all round and fair?
To care for his certain demise,
But torment and rattle deep within my lair,
Groaning my ascent into his holy skies.
I too shall wait among his prescence,
The Creator of darkness and fate, I shall know my essence.
Jordan N Dingle Apr 2018
“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late
And how can man die better
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods”

Soft murmurs along the front line crackle like a broken prairie plough,
The maples and oaks snapping with
Every burst of the cannon.
Crested breaths choked out by
The ferocious blasts of this entrenched
Shrieks punctuate the deathly silence,
And sobers the divisions thirst for war.
I, a dead soul among the living.

The soft wind at night is the nefarious fingers of death,
Soaking the earth and ****** boughs
Of the old oaks with the veins
Of golden purity.

(I am standing on an eagles skull.)

I can hear the Rebel yell beyond the tree line,
BLASTING the barreling notion of liberty,
Stacked within our Union souls.

A Bundren coffin takes form in the mist beyond the wasteland.

My kin lay wait at home,
Shall I return one day and parade through pastures
And creeks until the days grow old
and so shall I.
With kin side by side.

My vacant mind floats off to distant lands along the
timbered forests of the Free North.

Orations from my Grandfather resonate like wind chimes
Rattling among the inner confines of my sanity,
Strewn images flash like the lines of Virginian regulars,
A sparse reminder of my ever so soon fate
In the Wilderness.
Jordan N Dingle Feb 2018
Four blocks, yet more to come
Derelict hopes are crushed by the
Perpetual, cacophonous blast of the
My brethren wail for fears their mothers will pay them a visit.
I juxtapose my own existence in this war machine.

(I can hear them in my sleep)

My ears are ringing a ballad,
A barber shop quartet echoing;
Paradox’s that fester in the inferno.
A ticket to my ever-so soon visit,

Am I but mere kindling to the flames of the Somme?
The madness of a First World War soldier.
Jordan N Dingle Oct 2017
I feel the shutter of my curtains,
Stare into the Madness,
Where curiosity and dissidence
lay side by side.

My bed quivers in the early mornings
Pausing only to Juxtapose the desolation of

The floorboards beneath my very feet
Tremble as my consciousness
lay siege to the rational.
As if a sadist has purged the inner
of my Rage.

The stars stand still,
perhaps a welcoming message to my
overwhelming question.
Do we wander the world transfixed on doom,
or see that goodness and glory penetrates the
deepest of trenches?

The ceiling fan bumbles it's absurd existence
into my frontal lobe,
its tense relationship with the air,
Massacring it's way along the roots
of my
Perplexing the cause for which I
have lost my thoughts to,
And cultivating the seeds
Jordan N Dingle Aug 2017
The man sat precariously
Between malice and forgone destitute.

Marooned in his rambunctious desire to view through a port, nothing but envy.

Shattering wine glasses and screams into the inferno uphold this one man's bough of uncertainty.

Tralfamadorian trauma eats away at his grotesque painting of the rational.

He walks but an invisible eye among strangers.
Jordan N Dingle Jul 2017
Underneath the bough of an old oak,
The ***** is being flogged as he kneeled.
A bright ray of sun pierces my cornea,
As I peer upon this white field,
I can see his tears, glistening in the light.
I can see his fear, in the darkest night.
I can see him leer, into the white.

For he has done no wrong,
No wrong at all.
But the obvious crime of being black.
A tangled and ****** mess, his back.
The ominous call, echoes the whiteness into the mans eyes.

Fearsome ideas tug my innards, pulling me to submission.
But calls from old Abe,
Talks of long forgone freedom,
Keep me with it.

I feel the archaic man, turn his muddy grin,
Upon me.
Jordan N Dingle May 2017
I've never starred a thousand yards.

Waiting _
Waiting until,
Those doors breach, fly open, and I reach the sky.
The final pin drop, imminent demise.
Crackling in the near,
I wonder if it'll ever come here?
How naive can I be?
Rolling dunes and tightly wadded tourniquets
Fill my memory to its limit.
I wonder if I'll ever stay with it?

Two dawns ago, between the irrational and sand, lay a post.
Two posts.
Shriveling in the destitute runes of the old Mesopotamia kings,
Angels soar above with iron wings.

One more road, a house to be cleared,
Yet not one, but two dozen.
A dozen baptisms by fire,
A dozen deaths.
The thought of the lurking beast beneath the road,
Lurks in shadows of the night.

For honor I kneel,
To the men I've lost,
They will never be forgotten.
Memorial Day-RIP MA2 Michael Monsoor
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