“The Statue”

In the midst of untimely ocean waves

a tiny continent sits and broods.

Crabs silently click along the sand

seagulls perch atop leafy palms and look down

where old turtles peek out from their shells

and monkies pray and shout, dropping fruit as tribute.

They all stare at a misshapen rock,

jaggedly odd from the surrounding boulders,

stone obsidian and form terrible against the sun.

From the base of dirt rises, first, angled horse legs,

stout legs that daily conquer field and range.

The body is a dashing rock frozen in time

and the mane a sharp grey shriek of war.

The nostrils two scents for the damned,

the teeth a murderous snarl,

the eyes regal and intent.

But the beastly terror is owned

by two other legs jutting from its slated ribs.

Army boot and calvary thighs twist into

tall and straight back indented slab of black.

Symbols molded into the chest,

palpitations of a stony heart,

medals of honor to duty of country.

The right hand salutes across the brow,

gaze fixed toward sunrise, horizon, and sunset.

The eyes themselves,

calm as a mother’s,

cheeks, soft as a bride’s,

the smile, could be a woman’s too.

The hat is a double edged, rimmed, ancient sword

and the curvy hair a scream trying to break through tomb.

And the left hand seems to hold an extention;

Shaped like a finger of judgment,

a long gun unmolested by pitiful rain

points its barrel at the soldier’s brain.

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“Red Ocean”

The sign post reads: Red Ocean

ruby tears rose sickness cherry eyes crimson knives sanguine hatred grinning sharks

fireworked heads sunrise rifles grinning sharks vermilion hours hateful fire tomato saws

grinning sharks scarlet screams bloodshot cannons clothes-hanged apples fearful fever stopped hearts

carmine teeth cardinal laws loving axes grinning sharks strawberry iris sunset death

ketchup cars chestnut chests boundless blood dying stars grinning sharks pain with no exit

auburn life grinning sharks veins in waves ginger metal melting apples eternity in wine

Grinning sharks

“The Iron Seesaw”

The mountains attest that the world’s uneven;

no smooth plain of plenty everywhere,

no home of eternal, unconditional care.

A side of my face, whole and healthy,

the other, charred and worn,

while some laugh in the winter

and others weep in the spring.

 

This intolerable, heart-breaking canyon

splitting nation from nation,

fellow human from fellow human.

How daunting to the dreamer!

To the one longing for balance,

for Heaven to exist and never Hell.

 

A shifting monument stands in the world,

made of steel, coated with blood;

an iron seesaw,

fit for innocent kids who dream.

On each side and every pendulum wave

a childish chant: “I win! I win!”

 

So long, so long they play,

seizing their own moments of glory

when they touch the sky

and see all the world before them

laid out like a money-making blueprint.

The humbled somehow humble the proud

and the proud humble the humbled.

 

All you can see is the old, red metal

jaggedly pointing above dusty ground,

all you can hear is the screech of metal,

a life twisted into death.

 

 

“The Rainbow”

Everyday the weather is the same.

Calm light blue tranquility, a child’s blanket,

slowly invaded by ambiguous grenade smoke

which only grows over time, making me sick,

casting my hope in a grey and damp pallor.

 

The ashy fog barks. And barks. Rumbles softly. Rumbles loudly.

The sparks are like gunshots, the sky Satan’s smeared portrait.

My ears become an explosion. Light speeds over my eyes.

I run into the house like I run into my mind, whenever it storms.

 

The rain falls fast and wet as I sigh relief.

The thunder may rage, but the water doesn’t admit it homage.

Yet before I get used to the clear runny wall,

the sunlight swallows the stream and glows.

 

Back out on the gravel I look up:

a bridge of colors arcs from the smoke.

Though I only discern some of them,

I know life has many shades,

 

like the smooth yellow sands traversed by camel feet,

their riders laughing to an Arabic tune,

or the yellow warning sign over barbed wire

beyond where men enginner enigmatic evils,

 

like the rushing blue waves under an American surfer;

he smiles at the thriving lusty beach,

while in the northern, colder country

a lost hunter’s dead face waxes blue in the brush,

 

like the rolling green hills where little blondes

tumble and play with the fluffy dogs

and where, silent in the green grass,

snakes hiss, smelling where to strike the childrens’ feet,

 

or like pink ribbons symbolic of victory over death,

they march the streets cheering progress,

while in some abandoned apartment

pink eyes no longer shut themselves in ease.

 

So many colors, so many storms and bows.

Everyday the weather is the same.

Making me sick.

Yet I rejoice.

For though I know today that somewhere

red blood will be shed on the ground,

such ground was long ago purchased

with red blood eternally new.