On finishing a cup of tea
The humming bird is back,
amid fountain drops,
an silence framed,
behind this glass door.
It is warm already
and blue past my window.
My room is chilled silent,
Except for the ticking of an ancient clock
just wound. Tick Tick
for a hundred years of filling ancient rooms
with Tick Tick.
All is OK and
I know you are alright.
Smile and hugs await
when I hear you rise from the cool sheets.
The humming bird is back
It is not going well
the souffle is collasping
the path ahead is closing in
Overgrown with vines that can’t be cut away.
There is a galaxy of beauty
in the twinkle of a snowflake
A drape of velvet
over shoulders of fairies
who toast cheery mead
at long table, ripe with plenty.
As I pass
a hand reaches out toward me,
a fairies hand grasps a ciboria
lid lifted to reveal
two crossed spice leaves
and aureole from a single ripe berry
topped with a single sparkle of honey.
Ancient strings, faint sounds
drift cross still blue waters
I am sitting on a single rock
and patient wait for a passing ship.
In a soggy ditch,
clenched flintlock and face
caked with mud, and a dream filled
With a farm and children and smell of baked pie,
He lay still, watching overhead with one eye
As proud gloss booted soldiers march,
sun red uniforms trimmed in black
march overhead, proudly down the center of a dirt road
eyes forward and the silence of thought
In a shell hole filled with wet and filth
A G.I. lies silent, dreaming of a Saturday night
And a pretty girl in pigtails and full pack of Lucky Strikes
While jack booted troops from a thousand miles away
grey and silence against a grey French country morn,
march overhead, eyes forward and the silence of thought
In oven sweat heat, pressed tight against an ancient stone wall,
A soldier weighted down by the supplies of war,
watches a scorpion scramble useless up a sand hill
and he listens for the silence of the men rushing past
strange men who have come from the hills
to kill him and his brothers.
Today is our day of Independence
A day someone has laid chilled in a ditch to end our suppression
A day some dirt stranger felt it was better to die
so others could be Jews or gypsies
or not live of fear of what they read or
what they uttered in a tiny coffee café.
Our own children bravely passed through every stone portal
Expecting the flash of unseen bomb,
of the piercing burn of a waiting bullet
Our children crossed half a world away
So those who would slaughter us, slaughter their own
could be punished and crushed,
by the rights and equalities
we hold so dear, so self-evident.
Whether they lay in a muddy ditch 225 years in the past
or bury deep in a shell hole pit of mud,
Each unnamed soul, men and women, young and old, brothers, sisters, fathers and daughters,
fought against those who would take away this day
This day of our Independence