Forth the skies
My fatal flaws to flee
Strength to rise
To face the man I see
Five little turkeys sitting on the ground
All smiles gobbles laughing, just lounging around
One turned to see the others, said, “hey I wish you the best!”
As farmer Frank came and walked him far away from the rest
Four little turkeys sitting on the ground
November 21st, when smiles still abound
Farmer Frank soon came a’ walking
Took two turkeys who were talking
They bumped feathers and they cheered
While the others stood, revered
Two little turkeys left sitting on the ground
One looked to the other, said,
“Hey look at this” and stopped
Held up a tool or something
Farmer Frank must’ve dropped
A captive bolt pistol
Still loaded for use
Their fates quickly discovered
Their destination now uncovered
One looked to see the other
Saw feathers neatly plucked
Opened his beak to quickly udder
“Hey dude, I think we’re fucked!”
I am lulled to silence by darkness and the dulling hum of the air conditioner.
I am quieted by the space between your deep breaths while your eyes close and you relish your dreams.
I am caressed to wonder if sometimes, even for a moment, you dream of me.
I am lulled to stillness by the warmth of your body pressed against mine,
And I am ached to remember the imprint of your body in my sheets.
I did not have elegy owed, nor did I respects to pay or closure to chase.
But the procession of cars keeping me bayed at the two-way-stop droned a doleful tune of graveled pain dulled by the panes of glass in my windshield.
ten fifteen I stopped counting the cars
All elderly, or atleast most, save for the young people
They followed head to tail-light and I needn’t hear a single word of Eulogy to know the lives this man touched.
And my ephemeral moment of empathy morphed to apathy as it transitioned, as all my selfless thoughts do, to selfish, and I wondered if I would be followed by my own procession of sad cars.
Buried beneath the feet of the footsteps I admired, by the hands I often held, and held often by the hearts I held in my own.
I do have one hope for my end, and it’s just that.
For the people I love to trap some poor selfish teenager at a two-way-stop, and leave him with a driving need to become a better man.
A blue-eyed boy from Kanas sat
Covered in leaves and blood and sweat
And miles away from hoping.
The Medevac could not come through
The landing zone was closed off due
To the Cong and their machine guns.
The blue-eyed boy from Kansas wept
With thoughts of home and all he left
To come and fight the commies.
His mom had begged him not to go
For fear that he would not come home
And now his world faded.
But through the haze and fog of war
What sound tore through in thunderous roar?
The Captain and his Huey!
Though on and on the guns they went,
He landed there to save those men,
The Captain and his Huey.
And on the day her son came home
A blue-eyed mom from Kansas cried
And thanked the gods and stars alike
That he was there and still alive.
And when she asked what saved his life
He smiled and looked into her eyes,
“The Captain and his Huey”.
I had a dream that we treated people like socks.
And we brought them with us everyday, and we filled them up, and they covered our smelly parts.
But when they got too dirty, or had too many holes in them where our toes should sit
We did not scrub the stains we left, or sew the holes we tore. We simply threw them away.
And shopped for another pack of disposable friends.
I think sometimes we treat people like socks.
And when it finally bathes me in your light,
I will smile and whisper to the you and the sun and myself
“My god, It is so good to be Alive.”
Do you know approximately how many cells compose all the tissue in your body?
Can you count the synapses that fire in order for your heart to pump an ounce of blood to your toes?
All these complexities of breathing are wrapped in one thought.
To be Alive, is to Love.
Let my fingers pierce the tension on the surface of the water. Let my hand be held by the pressure it pounds. And when I lift it from the depths let my mind believe that the trickling drops of water that leap from my palm are all the smiles that you pulled from my lips. Let the memories with the water slip from my fingers and disappear into the sand we’ve made from billions of years of abrasion. And let all the whisperings of everything that still reverberate in my ear become distant sounds of uncharted ocean, new and awaiting my dried fingers to pierce the tension of its surface.
And when I opened my eyes I saw him standing there.
There was no flash of light; there was no fade to black.
There was only one breath, then the next.
And he laughed in a funny kind of way, “Is everything spinning?”
“No, It just feels like the trees are breathing.”