spysgrandson

spysgrandson Oct 2016

hunched over, a brown-skinned army,
picking, the field soon to be stripped of its bounty;
they will move to the next one, fast,
before the fruit falls to the ground

"los ninos, los viejos tambien"
the young, the old ones also help, though
they are slower and tote less a load

when the day is done, they build fires
for the frijoles, and to keep the night's spirits
at bay; they sleep in the shanties, the sheds
the master provides

the next day will be the same, though maybe
not as hot--maybe a rain will give them respite
from their labors

a gentle, short shower they pray,
for a storm might lay ruin to the crops, the treasure
they borrow only long enough
to basket and truck

not even a cloud visits the white sky
so the stooping, the loading drags on without relief
but from the north, a cool wind does blow

in it they hear a voice without cords vibrating,
yet one that speaks a language their hearts know well,
telling them their toil is to be brief, yet eternal: that winter
only whispers now, but soon commands all to rest

susurros en el viento translation: whispers in the wind

#life #death #nature #winter #cycle #myth #migrants #personificaton

spysgrandson Oct 2016

prescient

he saw him, the gun,
the uniform, not in a dream, but in between
sleep and wakefulness, when morning tugged
on him to start the day

while he lay, and recalled other mornings
when his eyes would open to the same gray walls,
the same black and white visions foretelling
what he would see:

the time he saw his brother dragged
through a field, a casualty of some grand battle
only hours later to discover, he was pulled from a fire,
a **** lab explosion, speed burned, ignoble

or one cold morning when he awakened
after a sensation of careening down a hill with others
around him screaming, and by noontide he read
of a bus going off a cliff into the sea,

and the cursed time he sat up suddenly, drenched in sweat,
after his dream of a child singing morphed into nightmare,
a little one struck with fever; of course, his niece was rushed
to the ER an hour later, mercury reading 104

this morning was different, for it was he
he saw as vision's victim, running down a street,
cop commanding halt, and seeing himself hit the asphalt, just after
he felt a thud--just before the world returned to black

spysgrandson Oct 2016

October's thirst

judicious July, two inches,
auspicious August, three; September sunk to half
an inch, but leaped to record heat for the month

October first, he was at the bank,
hat in hand and pride somewhere deep inside,
after he swallowed it two droughts ago

the banker would know, this time
he would not bother to ask--the reaping now
would be from blood, not soil

the blood of his ancestors
who fed a nation, anonymous plodders who plowed
the sod where they were now buried

he was the last; he would have to move fast
to get dollars for his dirt, before the loans came due,
before the wife, the children knew

they would soon be town dwellers--that October
would be the month "Farm For Sale" signs would hang from
his fences like mocking scoreboards

and the month he would feel like
he had drowned in drought, leaving no doubt
he had failed his father, and his sons

spysgrandson Sep 2016

ninety

they came
together to celebrate his life

how he made it this long,
he wondered; he saw them poking endless candles
into the white cake in front of him

behind him, his daughter
hand on his shoulder, insisting he have all ninety
instead of two fat wax digits "90" wedded,
a lone wick on top

ninety on June 6, 2016
he gave little thought to past birthdays
he forgot most, except one burned clear
in memory--his eighteenth, when
he landed on that beach

the sands and surf of his dreams for
three score and a dozen years since, eyes open,
or shut tight in deep sleep, he recalled that shore: someplace
between light and dark, between breath and air;
he saw the blood, he heard the cries,
he remembered his heart thumping

more than that he recalled jumping
over bodies on the beach, now beyond his reach
he could see only vague shapes of them--men
with whom he spent months sharing meals,
smokes and secrets

in all these long years,
he never understood why he received
not a scratch, while those only feet, even inches
from him were eviscerated

now, as ninety lightning years
flashed then flickered before him, he closed his eyes,
to ensure this waking dream was real

and those around him, singing, were not the angels
of death he eluded so long ago

#war #death #d-day

spysgrandson Sep 2016

dna

angels we are,
with cathedrals,
poems and prophets
to prove it

what species
is endowed with such gifts?

the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
the pyramids, loosing the bounds of earth to walk on a moon...
the atomic bomb, Anthrax,
and gunfire

are we maggots
on rotting fruit, sated now,
looking to escape before the fruit falls fast
to the ground, before the oceans rise
and the skies fill with ash?

can we not fly away?
no, for we are wingless angels,
killer angels

repost--sliced down version of one from a couple of weeks back that was written in the wake of two 13 year old girls shot walking home from school--one died after the deranged shooter put 14 bullets in her

spysgrandson Sep 2016

a cur's curse, in cursive

she penned a note
in girly curling cursive,
blue on white lined paper,
taped it to his carrier, a cage
one size too small

"he bit me, crapped on my floor,
made thousand anxious scratches
on my door"

she didn't intend to report his heinous
crimes in rhyme, but she did; they were enough to get him the needle, ministered mercifully, of course

though cursive's now a dying art,
it's sufficient to sign another death
decree--for slaughter, we know,
can be accomplished
with any font

spysgrandson Sep 2016

12:19 PM, Sunday

careful I was, not to step on the ants
on the trail--a red commando column, carrying crumbs
to their busy mound, on auto pilot

feet from their hidden queen, a felled oak,
infested with termites, gorging themselves
on its dying flesh, a cellulose feast

one day soon, when rain carries workers
off their course, these two industrious species shall meet
and their cryptic ******* will fail

leaving them with the choice of fight or flight;
the former will prevail, for they can run but never hide,
from treachery that comes from so deep inside

#war #death #destruction #instinct #allegory