They lived as ghosts
Between the light and the dark
Leading their lives as dead men
Gone without the funeral
Buried beneath headstones without dates
No green fields to tread upon
And see their names
No flowered coffin to cry upon
They were the chosen
The few
To fight
Chasing the wraiths of freedom
A ghost as elusive as themselves

a day on the beach
empty sands stretch with lovers
and the heartships sail

“We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practising sands.”

-Emily Dickinson.

I am boiling and bursting forth
from black sands where the waves whisper.
I am born again,
with the ferocity of ten-million suns,
and all the serenity of
learned men will remain
unsatisfactory.
For it is better to be alive,
a drum which draws the tribe
to bloodlust.

who really knows
who really understands
how is it true
or not
does the homeless person know what time it is
did the ant you stepped on feel anything
the sunset shared by millions across the globe, was it appreciated
was it valued
desert winds, stirring up the ancient sands, is it admired
is it honored
waters in the clouds, falling with raw force to the earth, is it glorified
is it
how do you know
how do you know

Brian Hill - 2020 # 168