Poetry from the Blue Break Room 6
June 18, 2011
On the Meadow
In the fields of Hades, the soldiers run away
Talking of the greatness to be achieved today.
The rotting trees I have seen
The rusty sap I saw descend
The broken night skies I glimpsed in sudden lights
Scrawled into memory as poppies do blow.
And the dust swirls around
Squeaking about on the ground,
Whipping its tail of precipitate,
Hesitating, failing to find escape.
The grass ticks, and the tree tocks
The finger is glued to the trigger and the shoulder to the stock.
And if I lie here, thumbs frozen, legs broken,
And if I listen to the ticking grass and the tocking tree,
Who will ever know that I am here, and how long will I stay?
And what will become of me?
These fields and forests loom like palisades in my path.
And what should I do?
Should I stand up and die?
Maybe I shall lift myself like fallen trees do
From time to time.
In the fields of Hades the soldiers run away
Talking of the greatness to be achieved today.
And the dust that circles around,
The dust that settles on my scarlet clothes
And nibbles me away
Like cheeses on a silver plate
Seem to be as trapped as I am.
And in the distance, I hear the shrill voices of women;
I will never see them.
I hear the cocking of a rifle,
And the cries of lost children fluttering through the night.
And in the distance, I hear the clanging of canteens.
I will never quench my thirst.
I hear the fumbling of a magazine,
And the fuming of cigarettes hissing by my face.
The green prison bars ahead disable,
Fingers twitch, barrels smile,
And hateful embers impale.
