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 Feb 2011 Kassiani
Sara L Russell
The ripening berries
Summer's last blaze
when her breath is of jasmine
and phlox is her sigh
Let me dream then,
of summer
and float through the haze
peaceful breath
bed of poppies
ceiling of blue sky


Let me float
like a feather
in the arms
of the breeze
Let me drift
like a leaf
on a tide, upstream
with the murmur of water
the soft hum of bees
in a garden
in peace
in sleep
in a dream


Send me love's angels
to watch at my bed
golden of voice
and silver of wing;
two at the far corners
two at my head
with my dreams
all of heaven
when softly
they sing


Send me a light
that can never grow dim
love, like a candle
to lighten my heart
empty my mind
of each worry and whim
and the ghosts
of nights demons
that tear me apart


Till I float
like a feather
in the arms
of the breeze
and drift
like a leaf
on a tide, upstream
love make me wise
through life's cruelties
sleep dry my eyes
make me still
let me dream.
A bedtime litany of self-healing. Written at a time when I used to suffer from sleep-paralysis nightmares.
 Jan 2011 Kassiani
ERR
Water and death; the grand unifiers
My descent from glacier-like nimbus
To emerald elevation
Teaches me
The Mexican mountains fast-approaching
Barren, hills enveloped in mossy fondant
To think man festers in our planet’s orifices
Unable to sip the trickling life for fear of illness
Spreading death like gossip
And I, cramped in drifting craft
Soaring in the former future
Am safe
If Da Vinci could see me now
We’d have a **** good laugh
Comparing ironies
 Nov 2010 Kassiani
ERR
Today probably marks one of the final occasions
Upon which I will visit my grandfather
Long years have made him weary
A war drawn through many winters
He is deceptively small, hardly more than five feet
But like an iceberg his hidden self is vast
Travelled the world on military campaign
He does not speak of this part of his past
My family makes prompts in asking
How he crossed the Channel, entered Germany
The frontline combat that ensued
Has never escaped his conscience
At the slightest mention of the Battle of the Bulge
His face glazes over, and he is brought back
He relives instantly, right in front of me
The soldiers who died, friendly or not
I never asked if he killed anyone
And he would never tell me
The men of his time were moved to terrible actions
They returned home numb or wrapped in plastic
I cannot imagine such an experience
To be held so near my age
Spent several fortnights living in a foxhole
The bloodiest battle, taken by surprise
My father’s father like many fathers
Did what he had to do
He remains a soldier to this day
My respect is endless for the mighty

— The End —