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Question: what poetic form would anyone suggest for this piece?
The Silence of the Assassins
(1942, France)
It is not death I fear-
I have, after all, come to terms
With nightly visits to its dreamy sidekick,
Where I have no free will.
My brain concocts a landscape
Of unfamiliar collages, unremembered;
Why should death be any different?
Mirror, Mirror Tell the Truth
As I stand here, at last I see my face
in carnival’s unflattering fun house glass,
the mirror that reveals the truth. It unveils
the facade I have used to hide myself within.
These eyes … so insincere! They lack the essence
of a human soul, and though I can conceal
each lying eye behind a shutter lid,
it still sees what it want to see.
a swell in my heart
eyes, ears & heart
within silent pain lights the flame of deeper desire
you unlocked a dream to unfold
She dances on a ring of fire
Yet throws off its challenge with a shrug
how great a poet knows
let the truth be told onto a newer episode
Torn illumination
Cascading briars taunt the inner radiance inside
Satanic demons in the wine you had for supper
Alone in a fever pitched aside
I kneel in reverence to ember dulling
then blow in a prayer hissed
rushed dragon kiss
of life into the night's glowing coals
I exhale with a fury of love,
having imagined the world
has taken your face, your form
and more
replaced you with mere
frail memory-
And so the kiss of fire,
hiss and crackle
pyre and pile
on furnace face
glows in rapt attention
at the light thrown red
as heat and life is given
Don't ever sleep over
it’s dangerous
not worth half a night
spent with the one you really love
and
as you seem to be married
or at least have a boy friend
do adjust
beneath its burdensome adventure
rolling far above
my shoes kiss the smile
in its dark lair pocket
of glistening gulps
broken shards
stuttering
sizzling like a cold fire
these lights
thesis of mirth
exposing a fang
for throats
Let me taste the
fury of this gloat
gushing in its
creek bed wilds
latent brush
corpulent need
My son, the drummer boy.
Barely thirteen, will march off
To this civil war.
I hope and pray
I will see him again on earth
Before I see him in heaven.
His father is dead.
His brothers are lost.
There will be no man of the house left.
His sisters and I fear for his life.
The enemy cares not if
They cause me another reason to grieve.
I told my son, the drummer boy,
That the most important thing of all
To remember is to keep your mother's
And sisters' love in your heart.
Architecture is a wonderful expression.
Granite blocks, copper and slate,
stained glass—impressive impressions.
Spires and gargoyles high above
where no one can see but stray gulls
and doves that circle, dive—scrounge
from the waste on the ground.
The church had always forced our lives upon us
until one day the line was crossed
until one day the stone was crushed.
Revelation at 25,000 Volts
When high voltage strikes a man,
one wonders what his briefest
thought might be before life
dissolves in sparks of electricity—
Will he submit that his demise
is quite in order with the nature
of this world, maybe rejoice
in believing that he is free
to join his deity forevermore?