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In The MorningAnd she said, "You are a fool,"
And lizards laughed and skipped away,
But, "One of this life's deepest pool,"
Said I, into the shining day,
And the faeries smiled behind the way,
Where no one marked their passing.
"It is a gift to laugh at men, perhaps,"
She said, and turned again,
And vanished back
To where I could not follow,
Nor call to her, nor send.
I frowned a while, and then I laughed,
"A curse, more like, but such is life,
That we all walk different paths,
And so, to find a most engaging one,
Fame is not my wife!"
My familiar found me, and we turned to go,
Having hunted our meal along the road,
And I said the prayers for its departing soul,
And the sacred fires burned bright that night.
Eostre found us in the morn,
Bringing blinding beauty with purest light.
copyright J. Shidler, 2012-04-04
Permanent WavesKarma is a fickle thing,
Full of twisting vagaries.
It takes an agile surfer
To carve these shark-filled seas.
It takes a hefty set of lungs
To hold one's breath so long,
But the ocean is so indomitable,
And there's room down there for all.
The waves crash over and we dive down deep
And see the murky shadows move,
But sweet oxygen pulls us up again,
And what we might have seen down there
Is nothing we can ever prove.
"If we play by the rules"...
We might get by--
I wish I knew the lexicon,
But we do the best we can
And perhaps we will go on
Swimming, floating, living
Along the shore and among the trees;
On top of breathless mountains;
Down crowded streets or by back-woods streams.
We can take a metal tube
Down concrete corridors of commercial lanes
And grace back rooms and tiny cubicles
Imagined by ant-like brains,
And break out again,
For nothing encloses imagination;
Nothing stifles the free-est souls;
Time and space are but another way-station;
As we swing between one and another po
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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