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: Ruins they say

Ruins, they say

The stones lie in plain view
for historians and other writers of fiction,
half standing, half fallen,
an imperfect patchwork

half fallen to time and folly,
the focus of speculation,
guesswork and false truths.
Ruins,they say, forgetting

the beauty of what has survived, or
the possibilities of what remains.

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This was inspired by a few days of being in Virginia, where I lived for several years, and visiting with friends who have seen me through divorce and rebuilding a life.

The picture was taken at Stonehenge, in England, while visiting with my kids. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: An Hour Before Dusk

An Hour Before Dusk

Late in the day, you sit and gaze over the valley.
a light wind blows, bringing the sweet smell of lilacs.
Somewhere, finches sing.

Your feet are bare, and the afternoon sun brings sweat
even as your feel wallow in the grass
and find the cool black earth below.

The day has been full
of love, anger, disquiet, confusion and tenderness
but now it is time to cease,

to allow God the time to wreak peace in you,
despite the thunderstorms that echo
on the far side of the mountain.

The storm will sweep across the valley tonight.
It will not be denied, but for now, it is distant,
and you have the time to be, and you shut your eyes, remembering

that in faraway china, the dragon sings of vigor,
not destruction, and your imagine the roar of the storm as yours,
the dragon rising, strong, despite the stillness

or because of it.

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