Members
“Thank god for my bad memory. I've forgotten some of the stupid things that I've done. I've come to a little wisdom, through a whole ...
I write not because I am a writer...
29/M/VA
words fill and fuck me up
Poems
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
Under the Veranda
Nigel Morgan
Nov 2012
After the painting by Leonard John Fuller
I had promised I would arrive in good time for afternoon tea with Edith and the Aunt. Angela was nervous.
‘Edith scares me,’ she said. ‘I feel a foolish girl. I have so little to say that she could possibly be interested in.’
She had sat up in bed that morning as I dressed. She had frowned, pushed her hair back behind her ears, then curled herself up like a child against my empty pillow. I sat on the bed and then stroked the hand she had reached out to touch me. She was still warm from sleep.
‘They are coming to see you,’ she whispered, ‘and to make sure I’m not fooling about with your mother’s house.’
‘I’ve told you, you may do what you like . . .’
‘But I’m not ready . . . and I don’t know how.’
‘Regard it as an adventure my dear, just like everything else.’
‘Well that had been such an adventure,’ she thought. ‘When you drive off each morning I can hardly bare it. It’s good you can’t see how silly I am, and what I do when you are not here.’
I could imagine, or thought I could imagine. I’d never known such abandon; such a giving that seemed to consume her utterly. She would open herself to this passion of hers and pass out into the deepest sleep, only to wake suddenly and begin again.
Angela felt she had done her best. They’d been here since three, poked about the house and garden for an hour, and then Millicent had brought tea to the veranda. Jack had promised, promised he would look in before surgery, but by 4.30 she had abandoned hope in that safety net, and now launched out yet again onto the tightrope of conversation.
Edith and the Aunt asked for the fourth time when Dr Phillips would be home. How strange. she thought, to refer to their near relative so, but, she supposed, doctor felt grander and more important than plain Jack. It carried weight, significance, *gravitas.
Angela hid her hands, turning her bitten to the quick nails into her lilac frock, hunching her shoulders, feeling a patch of nervous sweat under her thighs.
‘He’s probably still at the Cottage Hospital,’ she said gaily, ‘Reassuring his patients before the holiday weekend.’
She and Jack had planned to drive to St Ives tomorrow, stay at the Mermaid, swim at ‘their’ bay, and sleep in the sun until their bodies dried and they could swim again.
‘How strange this situation,’ she considered. ‘Edith and the Aunt in the role of visitors to a house they knew infinitely better than she ever could.’
The task ahead seemed formidable: being Jack’s wife, bearing Jack’s children, replacing Jack’s mother.
Edith was thinking,’ What would mother have made of this girl?’ She’s so insipid, so ‘nothing at all’, there wasn’t even a book beside her bed, and her underwear, what little she seemed to wear, all over the place.'
Edith just had to survey the marital bedroom, the room she had been born in, where she had lost her virginity during Daddy’s 60th party – Alan had been efficient and later pretended it hadn’t happened – she was sixteen and had hardly realised that was ***. Years later she had sat for hours with her mother in this room as, slipping in and out of her morphia-induced sleep, her mother had surveyed her life in short, sometimes surprising statements.
Meanwhile the Aunt, Daddy’s unmarried younger sister had opened drawers, checked the paintings, looked at Angela’s slight wardrobe, fingered Jack’s ties.
Edith remembered her as a twenty-something, painfully shy, too shy to swim with her young niece and nephew, always looking towards the house on the cliffs where they lived.
They were those London artists with their unassorted and various children, negligent clothes and raised voices. The Aunt would wait until they all went into St Ives, for what ever they did in St Ives – drink probably, and creep up to the house and peer into the downstairs windows. It was all so strange what they made, nothing like the art she had seen in Florence with Daddy. It didn’t seem to represent anything. It seemed to be about nothing.
Downstairs Angela knew. The visit to the bathroom was just too long and unnecessary. She didn’t care, but she did care, as she had cared at her wedding when the Aunt had said how sad it was that she had so little family, so few friends.
Yet meeting Jack had changed everything. He wanted her to be as she was, she thought. And so she continued to be. All she felt she was this ripe body waiting to be impregnated with her husband’s child. Maybe then she would become someone, fit the Phillips mould, be the good wife, and then be able to deal with Edith and the Aunt.
That cherub in the alcove, how grotesque! As Edith droned on about the research on her latest historical romance, Angela wondered at its provenance. ‘Daddy ‘ loved that sort of thing, Jack had told her. The house was full of her late father-in-law’s pictures, a compendium of Cornish scenes purchased from the St Ives people. She would burn the lot if she could, and fill the house with those startling canvases she occasionally glimpsed through studio doors in town. She knew one name, Terry Frost. She imagined for a moment covering up the cherub with one of his giant ecstatic spirals of form and colour.
The chairs and the occasional tables she would disappear to the loft, she would make the veranda a space for walking too and fro. There would be an orange tree at one end and a lemon tree at the other; then a vast bowl on a white plinth in which she could place her garden treasures, rose petals, autumn leaves, feathers and stones. There might be a small sculpture, perhaps something by that gaunt woman with the loud voice, and those three children. Angela had been told she was significant, with a studio at the top of Church Lane.
Edith had run out of experiences regarding her monthly visits to the reading room of the British Museum. She was doing the ’ two thousand a day, darling’, and The Dowager of Glenriven would be ‘out’ for the Christmas lists. The Aunt had remained silent, motionless, as though conserving her energies for the walk through the cool house to the car.
‘Oh Darlings,’ Jack shouted from the hall, ‘I’m just so late.’ Then entering the veranda, ‘Will you forgive me? Edith? Aunt Josie? (kiss, kiss) Such an afternoon . . .’
Surveying the cluttered veranda Angela now knew she would take this house apart. She had nothing to lose except her sanity. Everything would go, particularly the cherub. She would never repeat such an afternoon.
She stood up, smoothed her frock, put her arms around Jack and kissed him as passionately as she knew how.
I had promised I would arrive in good time for afternoon tea with Edith and the Aunt. Angela was nervous.
‘Edith scares me,’ she said. ‘I feel a foolish girl. I have so little to say that she could possibly be interested in.’
She had sat up in bed that morning as I dressed. She had frowned, pushed her hair back behind her ears, then curled herself up like a child against my empty pillow. I sat on the bed and then stroked the hand she had reached out to touch me. She was still warm from sleep.
‘They are coming to see you,’ she whispered, ‘and to make sure I’m not fooling about with your mother’s house.’
‘I’ve told you, you may do what you like . . .’
‘But I’m not ready . . . and I don’t know how.’
‘Regard it as an adventure my dear, just like everything else.’
‘Well that had been such an adventure,’ she thought. ‘When you drive off each morning I can hardly bare it. It’s good you can’t see how silly I am, and what I do when you are not here.’
I could imagine, or thought I could imagine. I’d never known such abandon; such a giving that seemed to consume her utterly. She would open herself to this passion of hers and pass out into the deepest sleep, only to wake suddenly and begin again.
Angela felt she had done her best. They’d been here since three, poked about the house and garden for an hour, and then Millicent had brought tea to the veranda. Jack had promised, promised he would look in before surgery, but by 4.30 she had abandoned hope in that safety net, and now launched out yet again onto the tightrope of conversation.
Edith and the Aunt asked for the fourth time when Dr Phillips would be home. How strange. she thought, to refer to their near relative so, but, she supposed, doctor felt grander and more important than plain Jack. It carried weight, significance, *gravitas.
Angela hid her hands, turning her bitten to the quick nails into her lilac frock, hunching her shoulders, feeling a patch of nervous sweat under her thighs.
‘He’s probably still at the Cottage Hospital,’ she said gaily, ‘Reassuring his patients before the holiday weekend.’
She and Jack had planned to drive to St Ives tomorrow, stay at the Mermaid, swim at ‘their’ bay, and sleep in the sun until their bodies dried and they could swim again.
‘How strange this situation,’ she considered. ‘Edith and the Aunt in the role of visitors to a house they knew infinitely better than she ever could.’
The task ahead seemed formidable: being Jack’s wife, bearing Jack’s children, replacing Jack’s mother.
Edith was thinking,’ What would mother have made of this girl?’ She’s so insipid, so ‘nothing at all’, there wasn’t even a book beside her bed, and her underwear, what little she seemed to wear, all over the place.'
Edith just had to survey the marital bedroom, the room she had been born in, where she had lost her virginity during Daddy’s 60th party – Alan had been efficient and later pretended it hadn’t happened – she was sixteen and had hardly realised that was ***. Years later she had sat for hours with her mother in this room as, slipping in and out of her morphia-induced sleep, her mother had surveyed her life in short, sometimes surprising statements.
Meanwhile the Aunt, Daddy’s unmarried younger sister had opened drawers, checked the paintings, looked at Angela’s slight wardrobe, fingered Jack’s ties.
Edith remembered her as a twenty-something, painfully shy, too shy to swim with her young niece and nephew, always looking towards the house on the cliffs where they lived.
They were those London artists with their unassorted and various children, negligent clothes and raised voices. The Aunt would wait until they all went into St Ives, for what ever they did in St Ives – drink probably, and creep up to the house and peer into the downstairs windows. It was all so strange what they made, nothing like the art she had seen in Florence with Daddy. It didn’t seem to represent anything. It seemed to be about nothing.
Downstairs Angela knew. The visit to the bathroom was just too long and unnecessary. She didn’t care, but she did care, as she had cared at her wedding when the Aunt had said how sad it was that she had so little family, so few friends.
Yet meeting Jack had changed everything. He wanted her to be as she was, she thought. And so she continued to be. All she felt she was this ripe body waiting to be impregnated with her husband’s child. Maybe then she would become someone, fit the Phillips mould, be the good wife, and then be able to deal with Edith and the Aunt.
That cherub in the alcove, how grotesque! As Edith droned on about the research on her latest historical romance, Angela wondered at its provenance. ‘Daddy ‘ loved that sort of thing, Jack had told her. The house was full of her late father-in-law’s pictures, a compendium of Cornish scenes purchased from the St Ives people. She would burn the lot if she could, and fill the house with those startling canvases she occasionally glimpsed through studio doors in town. She knew one name, Terry Frost. She imagined for a moment covering up the cherub with one of his giant ecstatic spirals of form and colour.
The chairs and the occasional tables she would disappear to the loft, she would make the veranda a space for walking too and fro. There would be an orange tree at one end and a lemon tree at the other; then a vast bowl on a white plinth in which she could place her garden treasures, rose petals, autumn leaves, feathers and stones. There might be a small sculpture, perhaps something by that gaunt woman with the loud voice, and those three children. Angela had been told she was significant, with a studio at the top of Church Lane.
Edith had run out of experiences regarding her monthly visits to the reading room of the British Museum. She was doing the ’ two thousand a day, darling’, and The Dowager of Glenriven would be ‘out’ for the Christmas lists. The Aunt had remained silent, motionless, as though conserving her energies for the walk through the cool house to the car.
‘Oh Darlings,’ Jack shouted from the hall, ‘I’m just so late.’ Then entering the veranda, ‘Will you forgive me? Edith? Aunt Josie? (kiss, kiss) Such an afternoon . . .’
Surveying the cluttered veranda Angela now knew she would take this house apart. She had nothing to lose except her sanity. Everything would go, particularly the cherub. She would never repeat such an afternoon.
She stood up, smoothed her frock, put her arms around Jack and kissed him as passionately as she knew how.
This is the first of my PostCard Pieces - very short stories and prose poems based on postcards I've collected or been given from galleries and museums. I have a box of them, pick one out at random - and see what happens!
James Bradley McCallum
Nov 2013
Staff Sgt. Joseph D'Augustine
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blessed
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
April 4, 2012
1.
in a far off province of
God forsaken Helmand,
our dear son Joey
met his untimely end
an explosive crack
a most terrible sound
felled a beloved Jersey son
to the cold cruel ground
working the live wires
of a well placed IED
a deathly burst killed him
it was awful to see
Staff Sgt. Joseph D’Augustine
in solemn duty fell
fellow brothers in arms
will forever reverently tell
of courage and character
of a dear fallen friend
and how the valiant warrior
met with death at his end
for he was always faithful
to his beloved corps
comrades couldn't ask
a valiant marine for more
2.
details of his death
are not the real story
selflessness and bravery
are but part of his glory
is it brash to
question why he fell?
in a useless bitter war
an embroiled senseless hell
a generation mustered
to fight in the war on terror
serving four tours of duty
in a lost decade of errors
two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq
could a nation ask a man for more?
for he was always faithful to the call
upholding pledges he hath sworn
3.
the burden of war
to a few confined
it rarely crosses
an American’s mind
incessant war machine
drones on apace
the horror of conflict
so cleverly displaced
with afternoon baseball
and super bowl parties
big disco paychecks
and other selfish priorities
pay hollow tribute
to dear weary troops
when valor is mentioned
we gather in groups
we’ll raise the flag
sing stirring anthems
than its back to the party
pay it no more attention
self styled patriots
wave handfuls of flags
but ask them to contribute
the zeal soon lags
its left to the few
to shoulder burdens of many
fairness is lost
its a democratic calamity
four tours in a decade
an inhumane task
burdens require sharing
its only fair to ask
Joey was always faithful
to the task at hand
willing to step forward
to serve his homeland
4.
in the wake of 9/11
a nation deeply shaken
young patriots stirred
liberty’s call not forsaken
a call to serve answered
to quell the rise of terror
a clear clarion alarm
marks the nature of the era
Joey boldly came forward
to train and learn
the art of warriors
his bright patriotism burned
deployed to Afghanistan
to capture Osama
routing the Taliban
without much problem
but a pacified Afghan
not enough for Bush
he invaded Iraq
another military push
we rolled into Baghdad
adorned with victors garlands
Saddam’s statue toppled
our troops were honored
deposing a dictators
soon turned to occupation
a ****** mission transformed
to build the Iraqi and Afghan nations
once honored liberators
now a conquering force
bestriding broken nations
on a civil war course
military industrialists
stood to profit most
sweet protracted conflict
record earnings to boast
lives bartered for lucre
a region held hostage
the conflict deepened
hostilities hardened
America dipped into
a great recession
the war machine
bled money and
kept on ticking
scooping up contracts
rewarding investors
the dividends of war
heaven sent treasure
continuation of hostilities
preys on a nation's youth
as casualties mount
ill portents forsoothed
a fraction of citizens
bare heartaches of war
gulping measures of despair
to guard a nations door
a nation always faithful
to the holy pursuit of profit
a highest citizens calling
put money into your pocket
5.
our beloved Jersey son
gave a full measure of devotion
in dress blues they shipped him
back across the ocean
on the Dover tarmac
they received his remains
for a last ride northward
to his hometown terrain
repatriated body
bereft of soul saluted
solemn escort knelt
hearts trembled, tears muted
a hearse for a gallant man
flanked by state troop cruisers
to escort the funeral train
assure an honored movement
one last trip up
old thunder road
the storied highway
Joey often trod
the last detail legged up 17
reverent firefighters saluted
from overpasses
to honor the woeful scene
as the motorcade passed
the Garden State Malls
frenzied consumers
failed to notice at all
busy window shoppers
didn't to turn an eye
as Joey rolled home
to the sweet by and by
vets interred at the
Old Paramus Church
gently stirred in their graves
reasons for war they search
Channel 12 Chopper
circled its eye in the sky
televised the sad parade
captured many teary eyes
the early spring blooms
colorful petals displayed
maples and forsythias
a royal carpet laid
spring remains always faithful
as the new season turns
offer sunshine and glory
as our sinking hearts burn
6.
motorcycle escort
northbound lane clear
rolling homeward
Waldwick was near
leaves exploding
green shoots budding
****** white maple blooms
natures accolades stunning
the oaks yet bare
just waking from slumber
winters death passing
a sad day put asunder
the motorcade passed
Joey’s home on Prospect Ave
few envision lifes endings
this woefully sad
red chevy pickup idles
in hoop crowned driveway
never to drain jumpers again
departed children can’t play
the eye in the sky
framed neighbors in mourning
welcoming back a fallen hero
unsettled emotions dawning
neighbors waved Old Glory
from painted stoops and curbs
unsure how this tragedy
visits this blessed suburb
green grass of home
always flush with spirit
tears welled in the eyes
most difficult to bear it
last cruise of the town
sad neighbors stand witness
paying final due respects
and ponder from a distance
what purpose is served
by this man’s passing?
the dead cannot speak
rationale is for the living
the terrible herse
death circles our town
moves through our day
hope of spring drowned
murderer of sunshine
killer of young flowers
budding trees breaking
our hearts an ashen pallor
we remember the beauty
of Joey’s stout face
as it looked on your finest day
exuding pure honor and grace
old vets gather
donning caps and pins
boasting semper fi jackets
jutting tear dripping chins
shaking hands, giving hugs
bearing tattered banners
the hearse ambles onward
we head home in solemn manner
good folks are always faithful
where beloved ones grew
the death of our children
we sadly cannot undo
7.
the bells of St. Lukes
called out from the sky
platoons of limping vets
marched in with pride
pomp and circumstance
requisite dress blues
family, friends, townsfolk
overflowed the pews
doleful bells resound
tolling a mournful reckon
the cost of war mounts
a family’s loss beckons
the casualties of war
falls upon a nation's youth
a seasons page not turned
a flowing wound not soothed
the wistful cornet calling
floats on the fluted air
the bereaved ***** gently sounds
a congregations somber despair
an unsettling dirge
the parish grows uneasy
nationalist bravado wanes
in the forlorn sanctuary
both church and flag
draped in colors of war
mock stain glass windows
communicants adore
is it a betrayal of the flag
to offer enemies
psalms of reconciliation?
where does true loyalty lay
with God or a warring nation?
afterall this is a sanctuary
where peace and harmony reigns
are we not called to beat swords
into ploughshares as the highest
calling of our Lord?
we are always faithful
to the pathways to war
when the practice of peace
is what we should adore
8.
coughing and whispers
incessant low murmur
a baby cries out
we sit and remember
the crucifers process
in solemnity to greet
subtle ***** notes salute
a coffin draped in Old Glory sheets
the beloved child welcomed
to his eternal repose
priests splash holy water
within the sacred dome
an amazing grace revealed
lifted by marine pallbearers
dearly departed body presented
gently placed at the altar
a grief struck sister
lovingly eulogizes
recalls tonka trucks,
GI Joe’s and cool transformers
a punch in the nose
an approaching wedding
beckoning Eastertide
vacation plans left begging
my second grade class sent
Christmas cookies and cards
to dear Joey and warrior friends
he said it warmed stark winter hearts
he was raised in this church
taught trust and reconciliation
the comfort of the Lords peace
may it surely go with him
for he was always faithful
to sisters, family and faith
his resurrection service
imbues sacredness
to this space
9.
sharp in dress blues
Eddie T USMC Gunny
big 50 caliber smile
offers his eulogy
Bada Bing Jersey Humvee
we called him Joey Calzones
good mood, loved sausages
he tickled the funny bone
always willing to sacrifice
loved the Patriots Tom Brady
a women dominated household
gave him a way with the ladies
his calling explosive ordinances
he said he was livin the dream
March 6th last time we met
knocking frost off cold ones
man whatta scream
a gallant marine,
beloved brother,
a sure friend
he was always faithful
I’m deeply wounded
by his untimely end
10.
the gospel read
the homily offered
Ecclesiastes wisdom
a time for everything
proffered
God never turns
an eye from the beloved
though seasons change
we are not forsaken
never unloved
as loss arrives
surely grief grows
turn away not
wisdom knows
in resignation
love lay dead
diligent intention
banishes dread
our rekindled hope
we rend and sow
our beloved Joey
knew this was so
our favorite son’s
example taught us
now rises on eagle’s wings
to claim his divine justice
Jesus faithfully tramped
the path to an awful death
Joey too fought the good fight
a warrior now gratefully at rest
The Lord holds him close
to the ***** of sure love
a cantors beatific voice incants
Joey’s spirit that forever enchants
The Lord is always faithful
to the bereaved and beloved
no one ever forsaken
all unconditionally loved
11.
the Holy Eucharistic cup
affirms everlasting giving
tasted to nourish evermore
a libation for the living
singing the Beatitudes
praising peace makers
mercy filled voice and song
pallbearers lift Joey’s coffin
off to seek his final peace
an earthly occupation ended
he’ll suffer worldly hate no more
down the aisle his coffin wended
the family closely followed
a mother haltingly sobbing
faithful marines came forth
to steady her wobbling
there is no sudden waking
from this terrible dream
the pungent incense rose
to the chapels sacred beams
the stained glass murals depict
the passion of Jesus’s story
illuming a consuming sorrow
in all its grace filled glory
the ***** of death slinks on again
we search for consolation
the recompense of honor blest
leaves a hollow heart wanting
no answers offered to quell the dark
of these terrible life’s moments
only the desperate need to hold onto
beleaguered treasure that sustains us
for we are always faithful
to the things we know
always faithful to the
things we refuse to let go
12.
the color guard and funeral detail
assembled in front of St. Luke’s
the cemetery right next door
the procession a short troop
the living will stumble through
the darkness of separation
seeking elusive answers
of poignant uncertainty;
all gave some, Joey gave all
nothing more required for his
journey through eternity
Joey will always be with us
his stories forever retold
as long as the machinery of
great nations engage
the gears of wasteful war
Joey’s spirit lives
in a peoples desire
for freedom, only if
our hope of peace
is greater than the
need for conflict
Joey’s lifes work
is sure to bear fruit
if those remaining
fight the good fight
by taking up the
task to protect and
expand the values
of liberty we
hold most dear
like our good
friend Jesus
Joey wears a crown
bejeweled with
a ring of thorns
hoisted on a
terrible cross
the sweet
incense of you
meets our nose
we inhale your
earthly presence
beholding beautifully
adorned crucifix,
a reminder of
unjust persecution
and a perfect
resurrection
yet this wretched
coffin remains
pledging allegiance
we rationalize our
stories, articulating
our small parts
in heroic sagas,
reciting myths of
ourselves, recording
the grim history of
a young marine
surrounded by
a smart color guard,
feasting on todays
eucharist, this
days sweet taste
of the daily bread
of human sorrow
The priest finishes
his graveside
commendation
of Joey D
Taps conclude
a wind rises
crows take flight
winging over
a stand of budding
Sugar Maples
exploding in white
blooms, reveling
in the glorious
sunshine of this
magnificent day
St. Luke’s stairway to
God Country and Home
smiling portrait of you
forever young
we surround your grave
to bless the earth
you've returned home
to your place of birth
our flowing pride
and salty tears bless
the anointed ground
that you loved best
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blest
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
for he was always faithful
to the blessed land
forever at peace
in the soils sure hands
Charles Ives
The Unanswered Question
Oakland
11/10/13
jbm
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blessed
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
April 4, 2012
1.
in a far off province of
God forsaken Helmand,
our dear son Joey
met his untimely end
an explosive crack
a most terrible sound
felled a beloved Jersey son
to the cold cruel ground
working the live wires
of a well placed IED
a deathly burst killed him
it was awful to see
Staff Sgt. Joseph D’Augustine
in solemn duty fell
fellow brothers in arms
will forever reverently tell
of courage and character
of a dear fallen friend
and how the valiant warrior
met with death at his end
for he was always faithful
to his beloved corps
comrades couldn't ask
a valiant marine for more
2.
details of his death
are not the real story
selflessness and bravery
are but part of his glory
is it brash to
question why he fell?
in a useless bitter war
an embroiled senseless hell
a generation mustered
to fight in the war on terror
serving four tours of duty
in a lost decade of errors
two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq
could a nation ask a man for more?
for he was always faithful to the call
upholding pledges he hath sworn
3.
the burden of war
to a few confined
it rarely crosses
an American’s mind
incessant war machine
drones on apace
the horror of conflict
so cleverly displaced
with afternoon baseball
and super bowl parties
big disco paychecks
and other selfish priorities
pay hollow tribute
to dear weary troops
when valor is mentioned
we gather in groups
we’ll raise the flag
sing stirring anthems
than its back to the party
pay it no more attention
self styled patriots
wave handfuls of flags
but ask them to contribute
the zeal soon lags
its left to the few
to shoulder burdens of many
fairness is lost
its a democratic calamity
four tours in a decade
an inhumane task
burdens require sharing
its only fair to ask
Joey was always faithful
to the task at hand
willing to step forward
to serve his homeland
4.
in the wake of 9/11
a nation deeply shaken
young patriots stirred
liberty’s call not forsaken
a call to serve answered
to quell the rise of terror
a clear clarion alarm
marks the nature of the era
Joey boldly came forward
to train and learn
the art of warriors
his bright patriotism burned
deployed to Afghanistan
to capture Osama
routing the Taliban
without much problem
but a pacified Afghan
not enough for Bush
he invaded Iraq
another military push
we rolled into Baghdad
adorned with victors garlands
Saddam’s statue toppled
our troops were honored
deposing a dictators
soon turned to occupation
a ****** mission transformed
to build the Iraqi and Afghan nations
once honored liberators
now a conquering force
bestriding broken nations
on a civil war course
military industrialists
stood to profit most
sweet protracted conflict
record earnings to boast
lives bartered for lucre
a region held hostage
the conflict deepened
hostilities hardened
America dipped into
a great recession
the war machine
bled money and
kept on ticking
scooping up contracts
rewarding investors
the dividends of war
heaven sent treasure
continuation of hostilities
preys on a nation's youth
as casualties mount
ill portents forsoothed
a fraction of citizens
bare heartaches of war
gulping measures of despair
to guard a nations door
a nation always faithful
to the holy pursuit of profit
a highest citizens calling
put money into your pocket
5.
our beloved Jersey son
gave a full measure of devotion
in dress blues they shipped him
back across the ocean
on the Dover tarmac
they received his remains
for a last ride northward
to his hometown terrain
repatriated body
bereft of soul saluted
solemn escort knelt
hearts trembled, tears muted
a hearse for a gallant man
flanked by state troop cruisers
to escort the funeral train
assure an honored movement
one last trip up
old thunder road
the storied highway
Joey often trod
the last detail legged up 17
reverent firefighters saluted
from overpasses
to honor the woeful scene
as the motorcade passed
the Garden State Malls
frenzied consumers
failed to notice at all
busy window shoppers
didn't to turn an eye
as Joey rolled home
to the sweet by and by
vets interred at the
Old Paramus Church
gently stirred in their graves
reasons for war they search
Channel 12 Chopper
circled its eye in the sky
televised the sad parade
captured many teary eyes
the early spring blooms
colorful petals displayed
maples and forsythias
a royal carpet laid
spring remains always faithful
as the new season turns
offer sunshine and glory
as our sinking hearts burn
6.
motorcycle escort
northbound lane clear
rolling homeward
Waldwick was near
leaves exploding
green shoots budding
****** white maple blooms
natures accolades stunning
the oaks yet bare
just waking from slumber
winters death passing
a sad day put asunder
the motorcade passed
Joey’s home on Prospect Ave
few envision lifes endings
this woefully sad
red chevy pickup idles
in hoop crowned driveway
never to drain jumpers again
departed children can’t play
the eye in the sky
framed neighbors in mourning
welcoming back a fallen hero
unsettled emotions dawning
neighbors waved Old Glory
from painted stoops and curbs
unsure how this tragedy
visits this blessed suburb
green grass of home
always flush with spirit
tears welled in the eyes
most difficult to bear it
last cruise of the town
sad neighbors stand witness
paying final due respects
and ponder from a distance
what purpose is served
by this man’s passing?
the dead cannot speak
rationale is for the living
the terrible herse
death circles our town
moves through our day
hope of spring drowned
murderer of sunshine
killer of young flowers
budding trees breaking
our hearts an ashen pallor
we remember the beauty
of Joey’s stout face
as it looked on your finest day
exuding pure honor and grace
old vets gather
donning caps and pins
boasting semper fi jackets
jutting tear dripping chins
shaking hands, giving hugs
bearing tattered banners
the hearse ambles onward
we head home in solemn manner
good folks are always faithful
where beloved ones grew
the death of our children
we sadly cannot undo
7.
the bells of St. Lukes
called out from the sky
platoons of limping vets
marched in with pride
pomp and circumstance
requisite dress blues
family, friends, townsfolk
overflowed the pews
doleful bells resound
tolling a mournful reckon
the cost of war mounts
a family’s loss beckons
the casualties of war
falls upon a nation's youth
a seasons page not turned
a flowing wound not soothed
the wistful cornet calling
floats on the fluted air
the bereaved ***** gently sounds
a congregations somber despair
an unsettling dirge
the parish grows uneasy
nationalist bravado wanes
in the forlorn sanctuary
both church and flag
draped in colors of war
mock stain glass windows
communicants adore
is it a betrayal of the flag
to offer enemies
psalms of reconciliation?
where does true loyalty lay
with God or a warring nation?
afterall this is a sanctuary
where peace and harmony reigns
are we not called to beat swords
into ploughshares as the highest
calling of our Lord?
we are always faithful
to the pathways to war
when the practice of peace
is what we should adore
8.
coughing and whispers
incessant low murmur
a baby cries out
we sit and remember
the crucifers process
in solemnity to greet
subtle ***** notes salute
a coffin draped in Old Glory sheets
the beloved child welcomed
to his eternal repose
priests splash holy water
within the sacred dome
an amazing grace revealed
lifted by marine pallbearers
dearly departed body presented
gently placed at the altar
a grief struck sister
lovingly eulogizes
recalls tonka trucks,
GI Joe’s and cool transformers
a punch in the nose
an approaching wedding
beckoning Eastertide
vacation plans left begging
my second grade class sent
Christmas cookies and cards
to dear Joey and warrior friends
he said it warmed stark winter hearts
he was raised in this church
taught trust and reconciliation
the comfort of the Lords peace
may it surely go with him
for he was always faithful
to sisters, family and faith
his resurrection service
imbues sacredness
to this space
9.
sharp in dress blues
Eddie T USMC Gunny
big 50 caliber smile
offers his eulogy
Bada Bing Jersey Humvee
we called him Joey Calzones
good mood, loved sausages
he tickled the funny bone
always willing to sacrifice
loved the Patriots Tom Brady
a women dominated household
gave him a way with the ladies
his calling explosive ordinances
he said he was livin the dream
March 6th last time we met
knocking frost off cold ones
man whatta scream
a gallant marine,
beloved brother,
a sure friend
he was always faithful
I’m deeply wounded
by his untimely end
10.
the gospel read
the homily offered
Ecclesiastes wisdom
a time for everything
proffered
God never turns
an eye from the beloved
though seasons change
we are not forsaken
never unloved
as loss arrives
surely grief grows
turn away not
wisdom knows
in resignation
love lay dead
diligent intention
banishes dread
our rekindled hope
we rend and sow
our beloved Joey
knew this was so
our favorite son’s
example taught us
now rises on eagle’s wings
to claim his divine justice
Jesus faithfully tramped
the path to an awful death
Joey too fought the good fight
a warrior now gratefully at rest
The Lord holds him close
to the ***** of sure love
a cantors beatific voice incants
Joey’s spirit that forever enchants
The Lord is always faithful
to the bereaved and beloved
no one ever forsaken
all unconditionally loved
11.
the Holy Eucharistic cup
affirms everlasting giving
tasted to nourish evermore
a libation for the living
singing the Beatitudes
praising peace makers
mercy filled voice and song
pallbearers lift Joey’s coffin
off to seek his final peace
an earthly occupation ended
he’ll suffer worldly hate no more
down the aisle his coffin wended
the family closely followed
a mother haltingly sobbing
faithful marines came forth
to steady her wobbling
there is no sudden waking
from this terrible dream
the pungent incense rose
to the chapels sacred beams
the stained glass murals depict
the passion of Jesus’s story
illuming a consuming sorrow
in all its grace filled glory
the ***** of death slinks on again
we search for consolation
the recompense of honor blest
leaves a hollow heart wanting
no answers offered to quell the dark
of these terrible life’s moments
only the desperate need to hold onto
beleaguered treasure that sustains us
for we are always faithful
to the things we know
always faithful to the
things we refuse to let go
12.
the color guard and funeral detail
assembled in front of St. Luke’s
the cemetery right next door
the procession a short troop
the living will stumble through
the darkness of separation
seeking elusive answers
of poignant uncertainty;
all gave some, Joey gave all
nothing more required for his
journey through eternity
Joey will always be with us
his stories forever retold
as long as the machinery of
great nations engage
the gears of wasteful war
Joey’s spirit lives
in a peoples desire
for freedom, only if
our hope of peace
is greater than the
need for conflict
Joey’s lifes work
is sure to bear fruit
if those remaining
fight the good fight
by taking up the
task to protect and
expand the values
of liberty we
hold most dear
like our good
friend Jesus
Joey wears a crown
bejeweled with
a ring of thorns
hoisted on a
terrible cross
the sweet
incense of you
meets our nose
we inhale your
earthly presence
beholding beautifully
adorned crucifix,
a reminder of
unjust persecution
and a perfect
resurrection
yet this wretched
coffin remains
pledging allegiance
we rationalize our
stories, articulating
our small parts
in heroic sagas,
reciting myths of
ourselves, recording
the grim history of
a young marine
surrounded by
a smart color guard,
feasting on todays
eucharist, this
days sweet taste
of the daily bread
of human sorrow
The priest finishes
his graveside
commendation
of Joey D
Taps conclude
a wind rises
crows take flight
winging over
a stand of budding
Sugar Maples
exploding in white
blooms, reveling
in the glorious
sunshine of this
magnificent day
St. Luke’s stairway to
God Country and Home
smiling portrait of you
forever young
we surround your grave
to bless the earth
you've returned home
to your place of birth
our flowing pride
and salty tears bless
the anointed ground
that you loved best
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blest
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
for he was always faithful
to the blessed land
forever at peace
in the soils sure hands
Charles Ives
The Unanswered Question
Oakland
11/10/13
jbm
Roger Turner - Poet
Oct 2012
Don't you wish that Christmas
Was a Currier and Ives scene
Where the snow was falling softly
In the woods of evergreen
Where horses pulled the sleighs
Through the village and the fields
Where the children played at snowballs
With just scarves to act as shields
A time of innocence gone by
Where Christmas was serene
Where the world was fairly limited
And not shown on a screen
A time where people had some class
And Christmas was a day
For families to just spend some time
Not compare how much they paid
A painting showing everyone
Out skating on the lake
While carol singers sang their songs
To see the joy that they could make
I would love to have a Christmas
Like an old time Christmas card
But today, it would be difficult
It could be done, but would be hard
A Child's Christmas in Wales we'd read
And we'd follow it with more
We'd sing songs to our hearts delight
And we'd open up the door
for Christmas is for sharing
Not for self fulfilling greed
A Currier and Ives type Christmas
Might be just the thing we need
This year, I'll watch no movies
About Christmas elves and such
I'll make each treat we eat at home
And by the fire, stand a crutch
I'll volunteer and feed the poor
And I'll go to church as well
Wait....who am I kidding
Well, it was a nice thought....What The Hell!!
Merry Christmas
Was a Currier and Ives scene
Where the snow was falling softly
In the woods of evergreen
Where horses pulled the sleighs
Through the village and the fields
Where the children played at snowballs
With just scarves to act as shields
A time of innocence gone by
Where Christmas was serene
Where the world was fairly limited
And not shown on a screen
A time where people had some class
And Christmas was a day
For families to just spend some time
Not compare how much they paid
A painting showing everyone
Out skating on the lake
While carol singers sang their songs
To see the joy that they could make
I would love to have a Christmas
Like an old time Christmas card
But today, it would be difficult
It could be done, but would be hard
A Child's Christmas in Wales we'd read
And we'd follow it with more
We'd sing songs to our hearts delight
And we'd open up the door
for Christmas is for sharing
Not for self fulfilling greed
A Currier and Ives type Christmas
Might be just the thing we need
This year, I'll watch no movies
About Christmas elves and such
I'll make each treat we eat at home
And by the fire, stand a crutch
I'll volunteer and feed the poor
And I'll go to church as well
Wait....who am I kidding
Well, it was a nice thought....What The Hell!!
Merry Christmas