Poem: The Trenches

The Trenches

This is where life is fought,
not on the parade ground with colors bright
and creases pin-sharp
create oohs and ahs from the spectators,
lined to watch the show,

Not in the battlefield
where bravery is expected
and reactions, not our minds
rule the day,

but here, in the dark holes
of the trenches,
where, helpless, our walls
protect us, and we hunker down,

preparing in silence
for that moment
where we charge,
or flee. 

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The picture was taken at the Army Heritage Center, in Carlyse, PA, where they have, among other things, a recreation of World War One trenches. This was the headquarters of this section of trenches. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Chains

Chains

Rusted, they no longer hold you,
no longer bind you to the past, straining
like Atlas holding a world not
of your making,

no longer wrapped around you
like a death embrace, false protection,
false love, false truth. No,
they are now

museum pieces, and you wonder
how you made them, what
madness caused you to forge each link,
one by slow one, what

blindness could not see the binding
was not theirs,
but yours and you laugh
even as you forge new links. 

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The picture was taken in Rupert, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Flood

Flood

It rains,
day after day of grey autumn
that floods the creeks
with painful water,
erodes the bridges,
tears at foundations and bridges
both physical and of the soul.

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The photography was taken in Rupert, Vermont, the next town over from me. You can click on it for a larger version. If you do, you can get some idea of the power of the flooding. This corn is in a field where the water had to come up over 7-8 feet from the creek (that's right, creek, not river) to even get to this field, much less come over in such force it could mow the corn down.

I like the sole stalk, still standing, in defiance of the storm. That stalk represents Vermonters to me in this time of recovery.

Tom

Poem: Once There Were Fields

Once There Were Fields

Once there were fields here.
Sheep grazed under weeping willows
that danced green in the evening breeze, sipping
from the stream so shallow
the smallest lambs clambered lightly
through, cooling their new wool
in the spring waters.

Now, the willows dance no longer,
corpses in the morass of angry water
that swallow fields and life and hope
in equal quantities.

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The picture was taken near Pawlet, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom