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Open Poetry #50
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On The First Anniversary My Heart Finally Broke (a repost)
| Open Poetry #50 |
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On The First Anniversary My Heart Finally Broke (a repost) |
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icebox Member Elite
since 2003-05-03
Posts 4383in the shadows 
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Still, I hear the pipes sing Amazing Grace I hear them in my dreams, I heard the screams, an everyday parade in months of cadenced march out of an open pit mine of souls, all day long and through the night in and out of mind, until my heart ran out of song. In today's Remembrance bells ring, performers sing and everybody's priests ask gods for treats. Each name read a moment held in all solemnity on edge to slip into eternity; pomp and circumstance, ceremony's tears and choking fears that this will mean an end to the beginning of the years we mark remembering the dead, the living dead names all run together, labels on one giant blended bleeding soul. If one more plastic politician says, ‘Let's roll,' I think I will be sick. The dead can sleep, where is peace for heart and soul that could bring quiet to the living? For those who were then yet unborn on that flash of singularity, all lessons and hope's dreams torn from the living and the dead, should not be mislaid in time; rage still cries for reckoning and should not be forgotten as sad untidy memories, of lives lost in the moment, and of those who raced to help only now to find death hunting them from within its toxic cloud. We mourned a year. All that was allowed as Media chased the shiny bits and missed the greater scene. We watched cars in thousands towed from train lots, owners gone to dust and smoke. We buried buttons and a watch, a rock, handfuls of dirt and ash, a shoe or two, some bone fragments, photographs in empty caskets, memories in sleepless nights full of empty arms and empty beds, tears in empty hearts. It's time to leave the past, but never to forget. No, dear God, never to forget. For some, we became as Death in a time to stalk revenge cold and crafted with precision in deserts, fields and mountains, where we are hated for existing,where gods are left with questions, where evil breeds in men, where each victory brings two graves and self-serving politicians bend the world back into their greed. So, the need, the questions linger empty, there are no answers and so, the killings never end. There is no grief beyond the love of that which death can steal. There is no deal to make, no memorial to shake the monstrous memories, smell, and taste, of human flesh and blood reduced to ashes mixed with fuel melted steel vaporized concrete, grit that clogged our eyes a blessing in disguise; shame of hoping winds would change, the dream's there every day, turn back and turn away run, no where to go, who died when there is nothing left to hold but memories' deadly clouds thick choking terror floating wild in toxic air, horror grown so full that vision's lost, sounds of bodies hitting ground just beyond the reach of sight within the sounds, quick claws of fright, no where to hide. No where to hide. ©2003, 2005, 2006, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019 by icebox (written, September 11, 2002; edited as above) |
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| © Copyright 2019 icebox - All Rights Reserved | |||
Paul Wilson
since 2002-07-07
Posts 4711United States |
Icebox...Said with passion and conviction my friend. Amen...Paul Those to young to remember suffer from this as those that lived It, because they never got to know their fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters ~~To share my poems with you is to share my heart with you~~ |
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Ringo
since 2003-02-20
Posts 3684Saluting with misty eyes |
Finally finding my way back, Sir, I realize, I have missed your writing. This is as brilliant as I remember... We see the light of those who find the world has passed them by, too late to save a dream that's growing cold |
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Dark Angel Member Patricius
since 1999-08-04
Posts 10095 |
Charly, I remember this one, the title alone pulls at the heartstrings, and the rest... I found myself raising my voice with anger and then lowering with sadness. very moving. thank you Charly, have missed reading you. |
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David Young New Member Posts 8 |
Your words are sown within your poetic passion to reach inside to find your core conception composition of defining terse. |
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