a war poem
you told me one time
that your first memories
were of artillery shells
raining down on your orchard
for three months solid
no r.e.m. sleep for anyone
back in the bad old days
you were pushed down a well
to drown like a kitten
when you were just three
by a mother half-crazed
by fear of those ruskies
just a half a klick away
and goebbel's **** lies
you lost your dad
that very same day
marched off into a vastness
that he never marched back from
a simple fruit-grower
pressed into a service
where he had no choice
you spent your whole childhood
with siberian drunks
as your only day-care
as your mother and sisters
were worked half to death
in the fields every day
and back at the gulag
huts ***** in front of
you and uncle jake
every single night
forced to watch
escaping to the west
(could you ever escape?)
coming to that
small prairie town
where every family
had lost at least one member
to those **** blond-haired krauts
a **** blue-eyed ***** just like you
german as a first language
was not the best one to have
i don't blame you
anymore at all
for my childhood miseries
for drinking as you did
for cheating as you did
for beating as you did
i can't do that
it's not my place
to pass judgement
or assign or detract
from any capabilities
on a dad that just might
have been one of the very
the last casualties of the
second world war
i pray that much
of my past might be
understood by those
i hurt with some sort
of similar understanding
june 13, 1941 - june 11, 2015
simon % garfunkal - the boxer
the love becomes
weary the mind
out of fear.
and the world
in a thick
to be found
you’d try but
the heart is loud
hear my heart
so far away
I can’t hear
I cupped my hands
behind my ears
makes the heart
I think of ways and roads oh my!
And paths to take and travel by
And ways both false and sometimes true
But none of them leads me to you
Am chased by ghouls and wraiths of yours
The thought of you is now my curse
You never said we'd chart this course
Now am pursued by ghosts of you
Why? I'd ask. And my reply
Would be that love does multiply
And hearts are eager to comply
Am chased myself but not like you
I was captured and my captors taunt
They let me leave then set to hunt
They give me all the things i want
But deny me sweet old thoughts of you
The faces here are sweet and fair
The leaves are green and flowers here
Here's fragrance more than I can bear
But all is not that's not of you
All the land that has you not
All the games that played you not
All the tales you hadn't taught
Are false and so cannot be true.
I see your pain and feel it too
You swore as I and daily do
This depth that aches with woes and rue
Cannot be whole except with you
I know, but know thee I am naught
Then what? Pray tell becomes my lot
Am gone and life is what you've got
But life alone is life with you
I've broken turns and brokered terms
I've come to great tormenting harms
I've waited, prayed and done the psalms
Just to be again with you
Been years since your teeth were beams
And since my tears had streaked in streams
And since the earth had claimed your hymns
Since I'd been lost in dreams of you
The tales of loss are oh so common and they never grow old.
Talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
Anxiety can **** itself.
It sneaks up like a ninja;
It knows the art of stealth,
But I have to teach it new things;
Like how to go and **** itself.
It bothers me with social stuff,
It screams about my wealth,
Until I can simply take no more,
And scream right back; "Go **** yourself!"
It's a nasty little demon!
It's a horrid little elf!
It's the thing I hate the most,
And it needs to go and **** itself.
Yes- talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health,
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
"Anxiety can **** itself!"
Too many Poets dumbing down!
Look, I know its tempting
To just get stuff out,
To get your feelings up on the screen
Poetry is only more than what is said
If it says what it means?
Too many Poets thumping it out!
As if what's written
Doesn't have to mean anything at all.
When I read a poem I want emotion,
I don't want to think of the poet on a toilet
Just getting on with their daily motions!
Too many Poets shuffling synonyms!
Does all free speech have to be condoned,
As if everything said is a tamper-free zone,
As if anything on a page makes you part of the Tribe?
Like Fight Club, the Poet has to be about more than the poet -
Too many Poets just strutting their vibe.
I'm sure i read this somewhere or it was perhaps taught me in some context. That for a poem to be a poem 3 things should be there.
1) It must be about more than one thing, metaphorical in some way.
2) The voice of the poem should be discernible from other poets and be an interesting way of seeing.
3) It shouldn't be ultimately pointless and/or incoherent.
I know that's a 'hard' view of poetry BUT as a starting out point, a basic 'intent' if you like, it's good practice. Rhyme, meter, form etc can all be argued about but ...