Sister Magdalene had her own parking space
in the lot of the church where my grandfather
placed his hand on my shoulder.
Over the other, Joan of Arc whispered a joke
about the Father.
Something about bad breath.
I giggled a fragmented
Amen.

As a young girl I dreamt of the honor
of battle and the burden
of armor. Each morning I’d awake,
my wrist sore from painting fields
menstrual red. My thighs ached.
My horse's name was Gust.
She was the color of overcast.
Once, she got so tired
she kneeled. When she stood
her stomach held the night sky.
I laid beneath her and named stars
from bits of her fur
until the field began to whisper so loud
that I woke.

Sister Magdalene sat in the first row of pews.
Her skeleton hands held a candle. The flame
tip-toed up her habit with the resolve
of a field of corpses rolling their eyes
toward salvation. When the flame
reached her chin I bit my lip.
Joan asked what’s wrong
or what’s right.
My mouth was full.

The flame grew to reach the Father,
kneeling at the feet of a cadaver.

I listened to the church bend
in the heat until Joan begged that we leave.

Inside on a wintery day
Sky heavy as granite is grey
The window tells lies without shame
Whisky Jack 'lights on the post cap
The Chick-a-dees vie in a scrap
Pretending their life is a game
A bitter and guileless fact
In nature a price will exact
Mortality seen through my pane
                               rc

Down where the river flows
   This is where the old souls go
Where water dances in lustrous blues & bright yellows
   Some died old & others were young fellows
They play jazz & R&B tunes
   Drowning out their gray moods
Each one shows up sad
   Then leave with a smile worth a grand
But none are here for money, no
   They're here to forget the ones they let go
Heartbreak hurts indeed
   But having a broken soul, nothing competes
Down by the swaying willow tree
   Old souls become free
Dressed in the hues of their stories
   Sneaky eyes have tried to read
Careful! Don't be seen
Humans shouldn't intervene
For there is a soul from the past
   A boy who's last breath was a laugh
Still young & naive
   He craved a new world to see
The sight of a girl led him to the town
  And his laugh became an alarming sound
All souls searched and seeked
  Braylen Otto Oakley
Whizzing past familiar places
   And seeing grieving faces
They shouted his name
   Wanting the pain to go away
Rummaged through their past
   Hoping these feelings wouldn't last
"What is it you look for?"
   BOO
Where did he go?
   Nobody knew
Till then they scream out Boo

~ Otto Dix Plate 22 ~

Each night I meet myself in nightmares
I am my own enemy fighting in No-man’s land
I am material and real, yet I barely exist
in my imagination.

There is nothing whole and complete
nothing has retained its shape or structure
everything is splintered into surfaces
in my imagination.

There can be only shreds and shards
only textures, hard lines and spaces
where white light can dance free
in my imagination.

Each night I crawl through ruined houses
along dark passages that close me in
dropping to bottomless depths of myself
in my imagination

There are only axons and dendrites in my mind
electric sparking, all atoms in a crystal night
a grasping hand, a gaping eye disconnected
in my imagination.

Each night I try to find myself in nightmares
I am my own enemy fighting in No-man’s land
I am dark energy and matter, yet I barely exist
in my imagination.


© M.L.Emmett

For nine days the artillery barrage
rained down on us
that June of summer in the Somme
machine gunners like me waited
in our concrete bunkers deep in the earth

When the shelling stopped
we rushed to the surface
and began our job of mowing down
the slow walking British Infantry
stoically advancing as if in another war
in another time where they might choose
to die bravely and with honour
a hero fighting for his life
his king and country

But here he dies unknown
by the chance turning of my gun
in his direction at that one moment
and the random number of bullets
left to fire.



© M.L.Emmett

It has a new scale of reference
vast, vicious and unforgiving
death for millions will be anonymous
machine gun arbitrary and indiscriminate
shelled and shocked, barraged and buried
no whole corpse to recognise as human
no remains to mourn and grieve
just rich blood and bone for Poppies
growing strong in the Flanders' fields.

Landscape resculpted to barest bone
earth desecrated and destroyed
every old tree and young bush uprooted
tossed like feathers to the blackened sky
debris swirling in the clouds of poison
gas and the putrid stench of burning flesh
in pyres that smoke and stink for days
just fertile ash and dust for Poppies
growing strong in the Flanders' fields.


© M.L.Emmett