it just got personal…

 

reasons for entry
differ
patriotism
poverty
or
boredom
with
where one lives
for some
training builds
a sense of allegiance
to
the flag
for others
an outlet
for
emotions
regardless
battlefields
those human devised
disasters
like
all disasters
makes the unwilling participants
face
life’s uncertainties
and
how in the blink
of
an eye
death
that
primal disaster
can wipe away
existence
so
in that light
death becomes a teacher
teaching
what’s important
our
morality
and
community
a community
that
we would
die for
and
when
one is torn away
from
that community
like all families
there is
grief
but
there is an urgent need
for
revenge

 

no effort necessary…

hidden book of kali

kali
said
the warm taste
of blood
is an aphrodisiac
for men
war
gives them
more
than
any other lover
they long for it
in their loins
that
sense
of unbridled power
over another
men will leave
their wives
and
mistresses
for
the battlefield
wanting
the heart pounding
thrill
of tempting death
taking another’s life
and
playing god
men are
such
easy
prey

the goddess’ revenge…

hidden book of kali

kali’s eyes
brightened
as she
bent over
the dying men
on the battlefield
the men
who had beaten
their wives
without cause
men
now begging
for mercy
like frightened children
she smiled
as she stared
into the eyes
of those men
who had raped
village children
men
now stripped
of their flesh
and
pierced by
polished steel
kali
gently touched
the slim lines
of blood
flowing
across
their faces
and
drew
smiles
upon
their lips
and
laughed

 

nothing like a hard rain…

Image by David Wagner

my cousin
tommy and i
would go out
after a hard rain
at night
with old coffee cans
to collect
as many worms
as we could
for fishermen
our lights
exploring the landscape
probably better
than most snipers
scanning a battlefield
our goal
was not to kill anyone
but
just to collect
enough wiggling things
to buy
highly desired
baseball bubble gum cards
not
budgeted
by our parents
i think about it
every time it rains
as I drive
my beamer
towards
the beach

when pilate saw…

i am an old soldier
the scars i have
and the wars
i’ve fought
are many
each scar you see
is yours
for each war
has been for you
so my blood
runs in your veins
transfused there
by some battlefield medic
wars
that you have
only read about
not cared about
as you stood in line
at starbucks
holding the morning news
in hands now ink-stained
hands that you washed
as if the ink was blood
and you wash them again
when i returned home
scrubbing me from your memory
as well as any thought
of your part
in those deaths
upon the cross
of freedom