2d r
Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.  
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! –  An ecstasy of fumbling,  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,  
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .  
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est  
Pro patria mori.
(C) Wilfred Owen
r 3d
Death is using the moon as its perch
~ look how cold and bright it is
and the wind is blowing through
the window I leave cracked at night ~
holding up a branch to the light
where the last rose before winter rests
~ like a woman who has lost a breast
thinking she will lose you, too.
/\¥/\
    #
  / \
r Nov 5
It was cold for early November
and he was still working the hills
without a hat or a new pair of boots

Memory is like a shadow
throwing itself
into the river

A voice the years try
to disguise, I remember anyway
the way he said it, looking away

Son, someday you’ll understand
it’s hard to walk a straight line
as time takes its toll on a man

When I shut my eyes I can see
the snow floating down to the foot
of the mountain, it reminds me

The white of his hair
and the holes worn proud
in the loose soles of my old father’s boots.
  Nov 4 r
touka
"it's between the world, or me."

I drop the gun at my feet,
drop to my knees

and the sun swallows the earth up.
I lie in bed alone tonight,
because, once again
you've passed out drunk
on the couch.

I'm in my mind alone tonight,
because, unlike you
I don't allow myself
to opt out.

The truth is,
I was not being entirely truthful
when you asked
if something else was wrong
when we had our little spat

The truth is,
I crumbled
when you said
"I know the remedy"
and poured yourself another drink.

The truth is,
if you throw something across the room, out of anger
I'm going to cry (cause and effect).

The truth is,
I thought you would know this
by now.

This path in my brain
has deep grooves.

When, from drunkenness
sprouts anger
my body instinctively moves.

I'm alone tonight,
even though you've been here
the whole time.
Some nights will be hard
r Nov 3
Let us dream for a moment
the hour is two mourning doves
sadly in love, but not together
your soft feathers a sketch
I have drawn from memory
a thunder in the melody
of your cooing, your breath
in the mornings I remember
our nest disheveled as a shadow
but now, awake again and the hour
is just another lonely three: me,
a dog, and silence filling what feels
like all forty acres of a bed disheveled
as a shadow, but not a nest in a dream
when the hour was two mourning doves.
r Oct 30
Book shelves, nothing but
Hemingway first editions,
boat tied to a dock outback
a dark skinned woman named
Pilar running the bar, beautiful
María keeping the books, *******
bell for tolling at last call, a big blue
marlin hanging on the wall adorned
with a sunset mural, while sunrise
reflects in the mirror behind Pilar
mujeres fatales in short black dresses
serving the guests, and a snow white polydactyl cat wanders around
weathered wood constructed, an old
style diving helmet above the front door
advertising a home for lonely expats.
A man can dream.
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