The Art of War
A ribbon blue for painting roses red,
An unnamed plaque for second place as well.
The first was he who made the paint to shed.
The second never lived to tell his tale.
Rewarded with a resting place of stone,
The runner up no consolation won.
His house of stone is home to him alone.
A piece of tin sent to his wife and son.
Particiation prize if you come back,
A mural for your mem'ry when you fall,
The brushstrokes red like sunset o'er the shore.
A ribbon for the widow all in black,
A ribbon in exchange for living soul,
The prizes for the crimson art of war.
And we fall
Like daises in a field
we fall
we fall like promises that slip off a necklace
like dogs that lie cold in the mud
the mud that’s like dark rain
it mixes with our tears and those of the sky
and it beautifies our blue eyes when we lay in it
makes our fallen blood take on a darker hue
when we fall
our moaning in fever heating up the beds
our arms and legs and torsos clawed
by mans hatred
personified
into the bang of a gun
some of us lack legs
and eyes
and arms
and the ability to stand and not cry
but our masters lack hearts
they send us to become some gruesome painting of their victory
as if our blood
can truly write the word “conquered” on the daisies
when we collapse onto them
when we fall.
It rained that day.
It rained that day.
You came into class late that day.
Soaked from head to toe,
you walked into the class,
your hair dripping water,
with you friend.
In your hand was a book,
that belonged to the class library.
You and your best friend had run in the rainstorm,
just to rescue a book,
that was already soaked.
I think,
maybe, just maybe,
it was that day,
I fell for you.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I know it is a bit late, but I only just got back into town from a work trip. If it had not been for all the cancelled flights that I kept getting, I would have been here to actually celebrate the day with you. Anyway, I... I brought you some flowers. Tulipes, and columbines. They were always your favorite. I know it has been three years, but I think about you when it rains and if somewhere else on those rainy days there is another family dealing with their own tragedy. It is sad Mom, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m sorry. So sorry. I guess you would say that what is even sadder is that even though I miss you, I dread coming here. Just like the last few times. I am sure you see it. I procrastinate coming here till I have only a few minutes of time to spend with you, but I have decided to get help again, so I hope that causes things to get better. I am already seeing some improvements, I mean I am taking classes again even though I still don’t know what my major should be yet..... I’m sorry so sorry, but I only have a few seconds left before the cemetery closes. I did have some news I wanted to share with you. Dad found someone else, and while I don’t really know what your thoughts are on it, I don’t like it. I don’t think he should be able to, I mean it is not like you can. Anyway, the caretaker is saying I am out of time, so I guess this is goodbye. I will be back in June. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”
Nothing
Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing. Sure, the air was cleaner and the people happy to be out once more. But everything else was exactly as it was before. Almost as if those two months of total isolation had never been. My friends still wanted to party and drink life away. People still polluted massively. Social injustice was stronger than ever. Nothing had changed.
I had hoped, so much hope, that an international crisis might allow us to put our society into perspective. But no, we still put economy before health, the rich before the poor, ourselves before others. Had this taught us nothing? Hadn’t it proved that money or fame couldn’t keep us safe?
Perhaps it taught me that we couldn't make a change. If this crisis couldn’t change humanity for the better, then nothing could. I watched the water flow at my feet, thinking about how nature was so beautiful if you took the time to look at it. But who had time anymore? The world spun back into its endless circle of money and consumption, where nature doesn’t have a place.
I had left the sweet shelter of my home, fantasising about change, only took walk out into a world that was exactly the same.
What do you call it?
What do you call it when you're sad from memories you never made and your eyes burn with tears you've never cried? What do you call it when your heart feels heavy from missing people you've never known, never seen, and yet they leave traces in the corner of your mind? What do you call it when you long for a childhood you never had and stolen moments you never took? What do you call it when a piece of you is missing but you don't know what it is or where to find it so your brain tries to fill the gap in but it's all so wrong? What do you call it when it feels like you're standing in line, waiting, just waiting for something and yet you've already missed everything?