"combatant" poems - Hello Poetry

an old familiar, an adversary of the first degree, when we wrestle, me and this god disguised as an angel disguised as man, the door to where we tangle, clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding, a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities, that we are Occupado no stray observers permitted in, the room entrances locked, someone's two hands upon each temple, (cannot be mine, for) inside we combat literally, "mano-a-mano" hand to hand, word to word, gradually, continuously, up close and personally, one on One over the course of a lifetime, each battle named, famously borrowed and thus recorded, Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú, for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ****** historian the rules of engagement somewhat flexible, biting, choking, eye gouging, kicking when down, not just legal, encouraged, no holds barred, when we wrestle, the dirtier the better take turns declaring a victor, for that matters little, truly, just a record keeping notation, the battle and its aftermath, the waves of pain inflicted, the casualty count engorged, is the greatest glory, dans une manière de parler though sent away the children, our earthly goods, designating them purportedly, non-combatants observers, yet 'no rules' meant they could be accidentally drawn in, non-combatant status does not prevent them from being freely captured or killed the conflict ongoing, no one ever calls for a truce, for both unequal adversaries know, no quarter will ere be given, and though the tide shifts, each individual battle produces as always, a winner and a loser noisy affairs, long after the battle, the slain yet scream, perhaps I am confused, perhaps it is the day's survivors, announcing that sadly, they are still alive it must be the latter, for here I am writing and recording, and though alone, I hear an ever growing louder, gouging sine wave scream piercing, daring my soul to leave my wracked body for though mortal wounded, I am therefore both dead and alive, but which more so, none can surely say this conflict remains unconcluded the pain in my hip, now everywhere, my Jacob, now, Israel, marker so visible even if itself, unseen 3:59am

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May 17, 2014

May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Wrestling With God

an old familiar, an adversary of the first degree, when we wrestle, me and this god disguised as an angel disguised as man, the door to where we tangle, clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding, a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities, that we are Occupado no stray observers permitted in, the room entrances locked, someone's two hands upon each temple, (cannot be mine, for) inside we combat literally, "mano-a-mano" hand to hand, word to word, gradually, continuously, up close and personally, one on One over the course of a lifetime, each battle named, famously borrowed and thus recorded, Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú, for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ****** historian the rules of engagement somewhat flexible, biting, choking, eye gouging, kicking when down, not just legal, encouraged, no holds barred, when we wrestle, the dirtier the better take turns declaring a victor, for that matters little, truly, just a record keeping notation, the battle and its aftermath, the waves of pain inflicted, the casualty count engorged, is the greatest glory, dans une manière de parler though sent away the children, our earthly goods, designating them purportedly, non-combatants observers, yet 'no rules' meant they could be accidentally drawn in, non-combatant status does not prevent them from being freely captured or killed the conflict ongoing, no one ever calls for a truce, for both unequal adversaries know, no quarter will ere be given, and though the tide shifts, each individual battle produces as always, a winner and a loser noisy affairs, long after the battle, the slain yet scream, perhaps I am confused, perhaps it is the day's survivors, announcing that sadly, they are still alive it must be the latter, for here I am writing and recording, and though alone, I hear an ever growing louder, gouging sine wave scream piercing, daring my soul to leave my wracked body for though mortal wounded, I am therefore both dead and alive, but which more so, none can surely say this conflict remains unconcluded the pain in my hip, now everywhere, my Jacob, now, Israel, marker so visible even if itself, unseen 3:59am