An old poem...

I believe I wrote this either during my teaching practicum or while I was living my old life...

The world from the sidelines

Who's on the sidelines when the world is at war?
Who speaks of justice as you walk out the door
On your way to your job or your kid or your car
When bombs are destroying our world from afar?
There are innocent victims who die everyday
While kids are in morgues when they just wanted to play
In the street near their home with a ball and a friend
How can we justify such tragic ends?

But we only hears cracks that resemble the whisper
Of the wind in the trees or the door on the crisper
We retreat to our 'burbs with our kids and our car
Dreaming big dreams while guns fire from afar.
We have all ten fingers, our toes are in tact
And we're free from most harms and the fear of attacks.
We look to our flag and most constantly we say
Freedom is here… that's all far away.

When you hear a small crack that resembles a breath
It's easy to ignore and to think not of death
But when guns come so close and you're crying with fear
You'll realize it's not far, but the violence is near.
We cannot retreat when we open our eyes
The world's a train wreck, even something to despise.
But that's not a reason to shut it all out
In the defense of injustice, we beg you to shout.

T

Dawn to dusk

Today brought another day full of thoughts
About those loves that never were
Filling up pages in a book
But as if they were dreams
Faded and lost as the morning rolls on
Or cut out
Like pictures chopped from magazines
For a high school collage project
The remnants abandoned
Upon the art room floor
And the words are cut into unintelligible pieces
Never to be reconciled again with language
Or the messages they carried

Now as the day rolls into darkness
I think about the world being a new dream
One that won't fade into obscurity
Or be carelessly abandoned to the dust pile
In a corner

No
It will hold on
Find roots
And grow

T

"When"... bad days

The morn began with sunlight
But faded quickly as the sand-filled skies
Seeped in past my windows 
And my mind
Quiet and sombre
Like a funeral procession

One fiery tongue was made known
Presenting itself in the waning morning hours
And then another
And even more still
Until the day filled up
With the bitter taste of battery acid
And only 
Escape 
Could soothe the burns remaining
And act as the salve to take the pain away.

When the morning tastes
Like the blade of a scythe
The only release is the death of the day
Found in the starlit darkness of night.

Here I sit in the quiet

When the day has found it's end.

T

A day

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" is the ironic reference/inscription in the famous poem by Wilfred Owen. Sharing a moment of silence with my students who didn't understand the day but could understand the concept was a special experience. However, their connection with November 11th is much different. In the meantime...

Lest we forget.

T

Marks

I'm in a perpetual state of saying hello
And then immediately saying goodbye
Packing boxes and sending them abroad
Stepping foot in new, unfamiliar lands
Taking a photo
Then walking off toward the horizon

I smile, shake hands
And disappear in the distance

I wonder if, in my experiences with others,
If I tread lightly
Barely disturbing the slight film of dust
On the souls of my friends
Or exist as a breeze
Which barely caresses an ear or cheek

I want to leave a real mark
Stamp my initials on their hearts
With an iron brand
Or carve our story upon their flesh
Like a declaration of love
Upon an oak tree

I want the scar I leave to be cherished
And recalled for decades to come
Never to be mourned
Because I want people to know
That in those moments
We lived.

T