father

by

accrued interest…

rate

war
does not
count the dead
mothers
count
the dead
war
does not
count lost dreams
mothers
count
the lost dreams
war
does not
count the empty beds
mothers
count
the empy beds
war
does not count
tears
in the night
fathers
count
the tears
in the night

by

a merrier christmas…

there was no need
to study the life line
coursing down the palm
of her hand
to know
of her past
one need only
to count the scars
on her face
stitches added
over the years
but this christmas
was different
she was alone
in the house her father built
atop a mountain
miles from the city
she thought she loved
in a one room cabin
with a small tree
adorned with left over
ornaments
but each one
was placed with love
upon those branches
and she
finally
felt loved
not by a man
but by
a simple
birth

by

a winter’s wind…

 

by River Urke and Charles Wm. Martin

these things you hold so dear
cradled in your hands
as if a delicate bloom
are mere shadows of your past
you long to hold as it was
cradling a memory
framed in yesterday
unwilling to set him free
but he is not yours to hold
he belongs to a winter’s wind
flowing through these barren trees
like his fingers once in your long hair
combing the woven threads of knowledge
the tangled web of life’s intrinsic collective
delicately kissing a union of unattainable love
knowing he has to walk the paths not taken
your ache bears the weight of drowned tears
tears flowing from a thousand souls
abandoned by the gods of peace
and so each warrior must leave this place
and those he loves for one last futile battle
a battle of man against the natural world
a ludicrous yet crucial clash of power
he stands not with men ~horrified by
the hundreds of years of rap and pillage
leaving the earth a barren tract of sand
sand moving in the hour-glass of history
through this narrow passage way of fate
to where his death will be found
the mere moment you know, stabbed
your heart bleeds for you and your unborn
a wail of agony escapes through silent cries
the loss of your beloved, her father
the time is here to set him free
his soul flies with a winters wind

Once again River Urke and I have entered into a duel poetry challenge and this is the resulting poem.  Duel Poetry:  a prearranged poetry writing challenge  between two people to evolve a new poem where each writer must respond to the other writer’s lines  (4 -5 ) until both parties agree that the poem is complete.