All white perspective
Cut down the plow pile
Find an eye hole
Explore more than your white world.
When it’s a bad day,
the pain is there with waking.
Constriction or stabbing,
nausea or aching;
it fills the head until there is nothing in the world
but the hopeless frustration,
that I will never be well again.
When it’s a bad day,
there are no conversations,
no outings or errands,
only holding the head,
taking another pill,
and praying tomorrow will be
a better day.
Hey, headphone man
with your head cast down,
I drive past you each day as you soldier on your way,
Always in the same place, unless you are late,
or I am early.
I try to catch your eye, but you march with determination
toward your destination.
I want to share our small connection, give a wave, or smile,
but you just stare at the ground, absorbed in the sound in your head.
Hey headphone man!
I’ve been working on this one for ages, as I do pass this guy every day on my way to work.
What I want to know
is what the magical ingredient is.
What’s that essential something
that makes this kid go “WOW!”?
Not just this kid, but that kid, too.
You know how some will not be moved,
never seem to find their groove?
I want the magical ingredient for them all,
so when they’re pushed from their nests
they don’t fall, they aim for the skies with eyes
open to opportunity, head full of curiosity.
Every time I think I know the secret
I see another one sneaking by,
not willing to try or
What’s broken their curiosity?
Taught them to close out possibility?
It hurts me.
I want to know if that kid
is going to move to his groove later.
Will he save his curiosity to ride a wave
at twenty instead?
I want to see it now,
but late is better than never.
I hope when it happens,
It’s a grey day
frost in the air,
but at least I’m greeting it
in a great pair of shoes.
A hundred years ago these fields yielded
grief, fear, bodies, blood, and mud.
Now, wheat dries golden in the sun,
leaves wave in the breeze over crater scars,
While the earth returns bones and bombshells
to the surface: a century of slowly expulsing the detritus of war
extruding shrapnel from its pockmarked body with the new grass.
Watching the history channel, and amazed to learn that even today, Belgian farmers keep bins in their yards for unexploded shells they find, and the army comes by regularly to collect and destroy them. What a legacy a hundred years later! I’m just finishing Anne Perry’s World War One series which has made trench warfare very vivid.