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Tom Leveille Apr 2014
let it not be confused
let no one else's name
ring throughout these sentences
let this be a hatchet
let me put this to rest
this is not a test
i don't want to think
about shipwrecks anymore
i am tired of folding apologies
into origami birds
and placing them
at the headstones to your tantrums
this is not is not geology class
these are promises
written on razorblades
      & if you are getting choked up
        then maybe you should be

maybe we should be buried
with our telescopes face down
my mouth is full of sorry
all for being honest
we are falling out of orbit
we are burning bystanders
so cast away your callous condolences
because no one is clapping
in this waist deep water
this is not a baptism
so do not tell strangers
that this was a chance to drown
any differently
i am not a catalogue
of constellations you cannot name
this is not mythology
so stop believing your horoscope
i am not a wishing well
i am just a wall for you
to paint post nuclear fallout & antonyms for catharsis on
we destroy the things
that are not ours-
the wanton ways
we embody wrecking *****
and then cry over the rubble
this is not a heap or a mosaic
this is leaping
off a thousand story building
with no one to catch you
at the bottom & maybe
that's why some quiet moments
are so fragile, maybe that's why butterflies have mimicry
your words are black powder
and poetry is your musketry
i guess that makes me your blindfold
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
    Like a huge *****, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
    Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
    When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
    Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
    The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
    In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
    Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
    O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
    Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
    Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
    The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
    The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
    The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder
    The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
    With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
    And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
    Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
    There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred!
    And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
    Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
    The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
    I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
    The blast of War’s great ***** shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
    The holy melodies of love arise.
(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)

He was a soldier in that fight
Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
The stealthy foemen come.

Year in, year out, by day and night
They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
No fife was blown, and no drum beat.

In winter fog, in gathering mist
The gray grim battle had its end—
And at the very last we knew
His enemy had turned his friend.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 3

Bad Morning, Viet-Nam

No music calls a teenager to war;
There is no American Bandstand of death,
No bugles sound a glorious John Wayne charge
For corpses floating down the Vam Co Tay

No rockin’ sounds for all the bodies bagged
No “Gerry Owen” to accompany
Obscene screams in the hot, rain-rotting night.
Bullets do not ****.  Mortars do not crump.

There is no rattle of musketry.
The racket and the horror are concussive.
Men – boys, really – do not choose to die,
“Willingly sacrifice their lives,” that lie;

They just writhe in blood, on a gunboat deck
Painted to Navy specifications.
Note re news from Texas and California: How bitterly ironic that attending a religious service in the USA is now as dangerous as combat.
Lawrence Hall May 2017
Bad Morning, Viet-Nam

No music calls a teenager to war;
There is no American Bandstand of death,
No bugles sound a glorious John Wayne charge
For corpses floating down the Vam Co Tay

No rockin’ sounds for all the bodies bagged
No “Gerry Owen” to accompany
Obscene screams in the hot, rain-rotting night.
Bullets do not ****.  Mortars do not crump.

There is no thin rattle of musketry.
The racket and the horror are concussive.
Men – boys, really – do not choose to die,
“Willingly sacrifice their lives,” that lie;

They just writhe in blood, on a gunboat deck
Painted to Navy specifications.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                          General Robert E. Lee Stands Down

                                       Richmond, Virginia
                                        8 September 2021

Today his statue will be lifted down
And broken up to be museumed somewhere
Beyond the roar of cannon and musketry
Beyond the hiss of tear gas and abuse

The most sentimental mythologies
Might be the worst: moonlight and magnolias
And sweet old songs softening and perfuming
The memories of ****** chains and whips

Let us hope that the plinth is left intact -
For a new statue, a universal pact
Tim Deere-Jones Apr 2021
In the wind from the sea
my house was a singing throat last night.
Bass drone in chimney flue and round the gable end
and those vibrating window panes,
thin wandering harmonics
between the doors and frames.

Percussion of unseen things
a-rolling and a-roiling in the world outside.
A troop of intermittent gallopers trampling through the dark  
musketry of rain upon the roof
cracking of wind’s whip.

Waking to the morning, exhausted from the listening
it is as if the wild hunt had past us gone
overrode us as we cowering sought for sleep
laid waste our garden’s order
broken down the daffodils and snowdrops
that we’d cherished as the harbingers of spring.
Kicked flowerpots and water cans around and flattened fences
made the hedges look as if they had been backwards dragged

Carefully I prised my front door open
pushed aside the debris that had been cast upon my threshold
but they had gone and all was calm
one robin in the silver birch sang clear and sweet and unconcerned
a film of salt, dried tears, upon the window’s glass.

— The End —