My mouth is dry.

Drink.

I spoke all the words, though not necessarily of wisdom.
You respond with your patented silence.
And what little of my soul remains,
Seeps out from my pores to further stain the floor.

Drink.

Then, like a westerly wind you sweep through,
Temporarily rattling my leaves
Upsetting the rhythm of my heartbeat
And dividing the spoils of my treasures
Then everything turns calm.  Everything is dim.

Drink.

Somehow, you always avoid reaping what you sow
Nothing ever changes, be it from scream or whisper
So I salvage my belongings
And build a foundation that's at least stronger than before

Westerlies.

The mortar in the cracks of my heart soften and crumble at your feet
The crevices are just enough to slither your way inside
And like a termite, you devour all that's within
Do you have no conscience?
Are you pre-disposed to destroy?

My mouth is dry.

My mouth is unfathomably dry.

*Drink.

By Garpal stream the young men came
Decades before the flood
On Garpal field they started the game
Quenching the grass with blood.
Down by the hill, near the copse, they lie,
The first to score was the first to die.

Every year the young men came
Where the roses and dandelions bud
Eager to play the game
Decades before the flood.
Beyond the hedge these young men lie,
The last to score was the last to die.

It rained before Advent, it rained after Lent
The rain fell on pasture and town,
The interminable water did not relent
But poured remorselessly down
By the end of the year, under the thundering light,
The world was a place of night.

A sodden land bereft of men
Garpal field was covered with weeds
As the women waited for the sun again
Spreading a blanket of seeds.
They waited as glorious golden rays
Fell during everlasting unending days.

The sprouting seeds grew tall and thin
Turning slowly into beautiful men
In a country filled to the brim
With cattle, wheat and fruit again.
Beyond Garpal stream where the rushes grew
The youths strolled over the grey diaphanous dew.

By Garpal stream the young men came,
Decades before the flood,
On Garpal field they started the game
Quenching the grass with blood.
Down by the hill, near the copse, they lie,
The first to score was the first to die.

at times
we write out verses in a rush
    what we are feeling
believing this is poetry

we may do well to keep in our mind
how the grandfather of romantic poetry
defined his writing at the time

    powerful feelings
    recollected in tranquility

which means,
    in short
that just to let it all hang out

    is not poetic

only when given shape
by rhyme rhythm or meter

we recognize that personal experience
can be an image of much more

    an effort of how we admire
    the wish to articulate human desire

A baby was born
Not knowing his people
Or that his path had been chosen
When he realized the truth
Of his color and his world
He saw the struggle to keep his pride unbroken

He will never be free
Until a bullet learns how to love

He read the words
And saw the pictures
Of long ago dreamers and haters
Wondering if it was real
And what he should do
He had no idea he would die like his savior

He will never be free
Until a bullet learns how to confess

As the anthem was sung
His hand covered his heart
But his people continued to cry
His children tried to laugh
But someone told them no
He did not know how to tell them why

He will never be free
Until a bullet learns how to be equal

A boy was put in his place
He learned about rejection
All he wanted was to make a friend
A bullet punctured his dream
But his children still knew
That grace saves what men would condemn

He will never be free
Until a bullet learns how to be human

There's a simplicity to letting ourselves become what we fear most.

-B.R.M.