I was there
in the dirty, rotten
rat infested and mud caked
trenches of Gallipoli

Fighting and wrestling
with the Turks
with shells whizzing over head
not gaining much ground

Losing my leg
coming home to the awkward
stares of strangers on the streets

Having my own battle
in my mind never
leaving the field of battle

Watching from my porch
the swarms of uniform clad young men
marching to the music of battle
with senses of patriotism
flowing through their blood

A few full moons have passed
yet none
shone
on my face.

and of all the flocks that
have flown over  in my sky
little if any
of their chirps
filled
my space

As you can see,
 on the so *cold long run
only silence rang
 or  knocked on my place.
 

*called

I recall climbing pecan trees
up limbs as far as I could go
cooled by a light late autumn breeze
with people standing down below.

Then like a squirrel I would shake
releasing mast into the air
( without a thought my perch might break)
in days of youth and thick brown hair.

Nuts ricocheted off their heads,
those below would dodge and scurry,
but they'd not curse, they'd laugh instead.
Their buckets filled up in a hurry.

A mermaid by the ocean
her accompaniment the tide,
sings to every sailor
a song shared deep inside.

True sea lovers will hear her
as she serenades the moon,
finding a lonely comfort
as she sings her haunting tune.

At times the sea feels angry
raising doubts and causing fear,
but the magic of her melody
falls on every sailors ear;

warning them of danger
from the sea or other boats,
leading them to safety
as she hits her piercing notes.

Comes another hero from the fray,
No tall steed to ride this day.
A shield and sword are neither had,
No metal suit the blows to pad.

This other hero is of course,
Who steels the blade and shoes the horse.
Who shines the armor mirror bright,
Preparing those who are to fight.

The least among victorious bands,
And with defeat in slavery's hands.
A battle lost for shoe not nailed,
How frequently is smithy hailed?

The spade bites deep into the sod.....
He never minded my slow gait
which at high speed is still a plod.
He'd run ahead then sit and wait.

The hole grows deep, the dirt piles higher.....
He'd seldom fail to lift my mood
when I was filled with some dark ire.
I was not allowed to sit and brood.

He'll like it on this brushy hill.....
He was a friend to everyone
but still had his own strong will
and yellowjackets made him run.

Mapwork by RW
-
Mapwork
inside my eyelids
pressed
white flash
-
traces of magnesium stars flutter
-
fireflies in May between retina and lens
-
is this the stroke, where it begins
-
extremities are feeling numb
-
pay to live now pay to crumble
-
-
Striking laughter winds in rage
-
ripping ground does it assauge?
-
or is it just another reminder
-
of the ants under the spyglass
-
our human race
-

I heard a song yesterday
so familiar to me
took me home to a place way back when,
the melody was strong
and I just sang along;
it took me back to my father again.

I remembered we'd sing
as we rode in the car
sometimes we would sing it again;
we made the choices
as we blended our voices;
I'd like to sing with my father again.

Summer 1947
[Grandma Longo :1874-1947]

She walked in slow motion
with the soft summer breeze
black cotton dress swaying
past her knees
strands of white and yellow hair
floating gently in the air
the ponies had come that day
grandma was blind
I took her by the hand
and she showed me the way.

SS Judas

paper boat
afloat
a massive
puddle
matchstick man
at the helm
papyrus sails
pregnant
by sneeze
your cruiser
catching up
with
my progress
no warning shot
fired
across my bow
you waved a white flag
of slick betrayal
then rammed me broadside