8/31/08
A murder of autumn leaves played dodge ball
With me as I strolled Hebron Hills
Mausoleums, guardian angels, and plastic bouquets
Stand sentinel over reposing souls
180 days ago my anguish annointed this sacred ground
Homeless man to them, brother to me interred
Amongst paupers, convicts, and whores
Shyly, from the Periwinkle you watched me say good bye
Only your name remained
Detrition had commandeered everything else
As if leaving a note for a while
In case your loved ones came looking
I shared my Angels Trumpets hoping
You enjoy them as much as my brother did
This was a battlefield the day you died
Stars and Bars bleeding into Blue and Gray
Were you brave? Did you carry the flag?
Did your last epistle reach home?
“Henry…..his name is William, but we called him Bucky
You’ll know him by the flowers, if you see him
Tell him I said Love ya, tell the Creator I said Hi”
A contest entry
- The Invitations Keep Coming... by Dalaney.
1600 points, ended September 13, 2008, 4 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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Muffled drums of death blur the unities of time place and action, meditative quiet reflects back toward the life remembered. Angels Trumpets focus as metaphor.
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First class!
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Wow so sad
And heartfelt. Death is always painful, So emotional well written piece. I love so many stances great write.
LISA
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wow...a sad tale well told
Poesy
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heavy sigh.....
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wow.
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Those silent conversations that we have with the dead, when a spoken word would interrupt the whisperings of the spirits. I felt that I was there with you, just within range to pick up your thoughts. Your sharing of the flowers with a long dead soldier, just the right touch.
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