The very earth turned bitter beneath the plodding feet
As the drums and trumpets sounded the lament of retreat.
The very skies were ashen and the rivers ceased to flow,
The bending backs were lifeless and the pock-marked heads hung low.

Each man was naught but shadow in a swirl of drifting snow
And the pounding heart within him meant for less than he could know.
The figures moved before him and the ghosts tramped loud behind
As the curse of dreams decaying bore its cancer of the mind.

Now the very heavens weep, convulse and rack and churn,
That men who lived such noble lives became interred in turn.
How absurdity and irony find true refinement here –
That brave young Gods should fall in war with none to shed a tear.

The river rises I know not where and it flows I know not where
Nor do I care to know.

They say it is born, a clear and insignificant afterthought, in the Northern hills; and that is empties, tainted and muddy, into the Southern sea.

It must know of grass and hill and pine, for it is said one can smell these things in its waters.

The river is broad and deep and free and it sings of love and wild passion – yet it is chained by its banks, and it cries of torment and flows as a wave of tears.

Off in the backwaters a white pelican drifts among the ripples in solemn concentration, his mantle a tarnished reflection of a dying day.

The sun is sweeping down to light the land across the mountain, turning the river to fire from its retreat.

The swells and undulations radiate mechanically from where I toss the pebbles, circles losing themselves in the darkening flow.

The moist bank chills quickly.

Crickets chant the processional of night.

I am alone.

I can see the river no longer, but I still feel it breathing next to me – the rhythmic flux is reassuring, a pulse promising life unending.

The waters are calling me now, demanding my presence.

They are not to be denied.

I commit myself this night to resurrection ‘neath the distant sea; the river shall bear my coffin, the hanging windows shall be my flowers, the night shall keep my vigil.

Let the foolish bullfrogs start the monotonous dirge, let the stars be my candles.

I am unafraid.

Somewhere North of yesterday
It all hung out of me,
a bit of gut,
a bloodied bone,
a twist of tendon,
striated pink interior structures
Just dripped from a flap
In my bruised blue skin,
and:
20 years of age
without passion
without rage
in my fashion
as a soldier
in a stream
as a flower
in a dream
I died.

The very earth turned bitter beneath the plodding feet
As the drums and trumpets sounded the lament of retreat,
And the very sky was ashen and the rivers ceased to flow –
The bending backs were lifeless and the pock-marked heads hung low.

The trees had lost their greenness and the sun its very kiss.
The dusk had lost its solitude and love its very bliss,
And all the Lord’s creations stood trembling at the sight
Of the evil wind and burning fire that dared corrupt the night.

Each man was naught but shadow in a swirl of drifting snow
And the pounding heart within him meant for less than he could know;
The figures moved before him and the ghosts tramped loud behind
As the curse of dreams decaying bore its cancer of the mind.

Now the very heavens weep, convulse and rack and churn
As men who thought of noble things become interred in turn –
How absurdity and irony find true refinement here –
That brave young gods should fall in war with none to shed a tear!

Swallow me, sea,
Into fossilized bowels,
Munched between jowls,
Digested by salines,
Sucked down by lust.

I am victim of unseen peristalsis.

I await regurgitation.

I am too hard a thing to osmose thru subtle tissue.

I hear now the clarion call
That, ringing forth against the night,
Heralds loud the speechless pall
And chills the air with hoary blight.

I see now the pulsing march
Of evil forms against the sky,
Beneath their heels the land turns parched,
Above their heads the beggars fly.

I feel now the steady tread
Of men upon a field of war,
Who wend their way among the dead
And flow as waves upon the shore.

I know now the pounding fear
Of hearts and heads resolved to rush
Before the bullets bounding near
Have time to seize them in their crush.

My blood is fled into the soil,
My heart is ebbed, an unborn tide,
The earth makes pledge to end my toil –
I pass my bones to its underside.

My hand falls heavy on your shoulder,
The shudder spreads to every bone.
Icy fingers pry for plunder,
Turning flesh to jagged stone.

Brown, rich and naked tumbling dampness
Fills the cracks, fulfills the pledge –
The very breath you drew propelled you
Nearer yet the dreaded edge.

Where now rest the myriad flashings,
Crashings, urgent blood and breath?
What? Would you even yet defy me?
Be not foolish, I am DEATH.

The unchained clouds would fain float free
And hover here above my grave,
Yet heavens, winds and gods conspire
Tormenting sun should make me slave.

The law prescribes I shall rest here
And undisturbed mark out my time.
Yet men, with evil spite, conspire
To seek me out, reraking slime.

Will righteous earth not guard her gates
And fend for me, her honest child?
Let all forget, I seek no fame,
I want to sleep — sleep undefiled.

I took the hand of the dead man’s wife
(She buried him today).
Her limp grip echoed the years of her life
Grown flaccid with soft decay.

She had no tears in clouded eyes,
No sobs, no heaves, no pain.
She had no sense of what death implies
Within its amber stain.

I said, “I’m sorry.” She said, “You’re kind.”
I poured myself some rye.
And as I drifted through my mind
She wandered off to die.

Here lyes Buried ye Body of
Mr. Winslow Warren,
Son of James Warren, Esq. of
Plymouth & Mrs. Penelope his wife,
A young gentleman of great Hopes,
Who died March ye 9th A.D. 1747.
Etatis 15.

Now hear this, Mr. Winslow Warren
I want to talk with you.
Buried in this Cambridge grave for 220 years,
I’m sure you’ve much to say.

You were too young to see the troops
In Continental Blue
Whose tromping, worn, prophetic boots
Marched past your placid grave.

Washington took command of his army
Just across the street.
I can see the spot from here.
You must have seen the event.
I am impressed.
Were you?

My daughter is learning to walk
By grasping hold of your gravestone.
You died too young to be of use –
Even if you were a gentlemen –
Now something will come of your question
And each step of her life
She’ll think of you,
Perhaps.

Now she claps between her tender hands
The grass that springs from out of your chest
And reenacts a sacred mass
And eats from sprigs transmuted flesh.

 
There are flowers elsewhere in the yard
And students pick them here and there
But none dare fall near your regard
For fear of sadness, fear of fear.

Well now, to the task at hand,
I came, my camera at my side,
To photograph the quaint grey stones
That mark these plots of land.

What angle is best
To capture my daughter?
Framed against your faded stone?
Shall I highlight the skull of death
Or have her kiss it, better yet?