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Words
"unhit" poems
to laugh at defeat you must sing it a beat and evertime its feels the heat is depleat, blow trumpet at it it will hear it and quit, the sound to it grit naturally it's hit. and when sometimes you think you've had enought of it play it a piano strict each note you unhit will glide it a stitch truncheon sit and glit. music does it fit calm as a mozart huit. a soprano seis never felt so bate.
0
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
cacia
defeat
to laugh at defeat you must sing it a beat and evertime its feels the heat is depleat, blow trumpet at it it will hear it and quit, the sound to it grit naturally it's hit. and when sometimes you think you've had enought of it play it a piano strict each note you unhit will glide it a stitch truncheon sit and glit. music does it fit calm as a mozart huit. a soprano seis never felt so bate.
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22
The day is grey, the clouds hang low, and, in the air, a winter chill. Upon the beach called Omaha an old soldier stands; a promise to fulfill. Full Seventy years ago this man, weighted down with gear and kit, raced across this wet grey sand, and, by some miracle, remained unhit. Friends who’d survived that longest day, and all the long days after it, had purchased the bottle held in his hands. As the last man standing he had charge of it: His eyes, watery from the wind, Looked at the bottle in his hands: A Dom Perignon Brut Champagne, the 47’ vintage year. He thought about his comrades gone. Surely they were heroes all Who spilled out from the Higgins boats to breach the Hun’s Atlantic wall. He felt the presence of the ghosts, all those who fell upon this shore. Boys, really, almost all eighteen, who’d died answering Freedom’s call . He tore the foil with old gnarled hands; His Arthritis made a chore of this. Thin wire held the cork in place and was so difficult to untwist. Once free his placed his thumbs upon the curved underbelly of the cork The cork shot free across the sand and bubbly foam chased after it. He was not a religious man, it seemed impious for him to pray Though he recalled so many had, that day they bled their lives away. How best to honor these fallen men? Who had pledged their lives, each to each. It was then he turned the bottle down and poured the contents on the beach. Some would declare it sacrilege to let that vintage go to waste. The old soldier smiled and felt at peace. He’d seen the vintage of 26’ poured out in buckets In this very place..
0
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
john-f-mccullagh
The Libation Bearer
The day is grey, the clouds hang low, and, in the air, a winter chill. Upon the beach called Omaha an old soldier stands; a promise to fulfill. Full Seventy years ago this man, weighted down with gear and kit, raced across this wet grey sand, and, by some miracle, remained unhit. Friends who’d survived that longest day, and all the long days after it, had purchased the bottle held in his hands. As the last man standing he had charge of it: His eyes, watery from the wind, Looked at the bottle in his hands: A Dom Perignon Brut Champagne, the 47’ vintage year. He thought about his comrades gone. Surely they were heroes all Who spilled out from the Higgins boats to breach the Hun’s Atlantic wall. He felt the presence of the ghosts, all those who fell upon this shore. Boys, really, almost all eighteen, who’d died answering Freedom’s call . He tore the foil with old gnarled hands; His Arthritis made a chore of this. Thin wire held the cork in place and was so difficult to untwist. Once free his placed his thumbs upon the curved underbelly of the cork The cork shot free across the sand and bubbly foam chased after it. He was not a religious man, it seemed impious for him to pray Though he recalled so many had, that day they bled their lives away. How best to honor these fallen men? Who had pledged their lives, each to each. It was then he turned the bottle down and poured the contents on the beach. Some would declare it sacrilege to let that vintage go to waste. The old soldier smiled and felt at peace. He’d seen the vintage of 26’ poured out in buckets In this very place..
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