The silence is sickening,
As I watch your expression change
Just after my confession, your heart flew into a rage,
You balled your fists in anger, holding with all your might,
I watched nervously as you did, then I closed my eyes tight
The pain struck me like a bullet, but was not what I thought
As I opened my eyes, you will still standing there, distraught,
I wanted to ask him why, but I did not let those words slip
As watch a hot tear fall down down his face, and he parted his lips,
"You know you have broken me"
He said with a crooked smile
And that was when I felt the real meaning of pain
The pain of a painted smile

If you say perfect again
I will point out
how perfectly insane
that is;
There is no such thing.

Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons

Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come


There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many

Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne

No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave


We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -

And the young.

r ~ 11/11/14

In the morning's chill,
The outside air is cold.
In the morning's hush,
the birds who sing are bold.
In the morning's light,
snow is all you see.
In the morning's beauty,
the world is so serene.