Posts Tagged 'poetry defined'

Collateral Damage

Collateral Damage

 

They haunt me in my briefest sleep,

     They’re never far away,

Their shattered bodies stay with me

     In the night or light of day.


From somewhere came a storm of fire;

     We fired back at the place.

Women’s screams and children’s cries,

     Red-spattered on each face.


Mothers and their small children

     Lay in gory refrains,

And nowhere can the guns be found

     ‘Mid twisted, torn remains.


Shards of a loving family,

     A grimace shrouds each face,

Embrace in bloody agony, their

     Bodies like antique lace.


How can these be my enemies?

     No guns or arm held high,

There, children’s cherub faces

     Without a will to die.


I’m in a constant battle,

     And one I did not wage.

I’m here to do my duty,

     Then turn another page.


No stranger, then, to murder,

     But like a sin to me.

To take life from another,

     Not what I want to be.


In this keen internal strife,

     My mind cannot resolve.

The killer and compassion

     In acute torment revolve.


And so, I can’t get past the pain,

     The noise and solitude.

I see the masks of those I’ve slain,

     Feel guilt I can’t elude.


 

They visit me in briefest sleep.

     They do not go away.

Their anguished eyes stare back at me

     Through each tormented day.

Hal C Clark – November 11, 2010

Veterans Day

This is a tribute to the men and women who endanger their lives to fight in our wars. Some are killed, some have physical injuries, while others have psychological injuries not easily seen or evaluated. Trauma to the mind is just as debilitating as a physical injury, and to those brave men and women who suffer this kind of injury, I dedicate this poem.

Poetry

Fashion

Sagging pants, bagging pants,

Pants around the knees,

I don’t like the sight of them,

So hike ’em up there please,

And please…oh please…

Don’t sneeze.

Poetry

I used to know what poetry was, like Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven,” right? Everything had a certain rhythm and it all rhymed and sounded almost like song. Now we have free verse, pattern verse, terse verse, and a lot of other forms I don’t easily recognize as poetry. Sometimes I think I’m writing poetry, but how do you know?

It seems to me there should be some sort of guidelines to let you say, yes, this is poetry. Of course if there are no official guidelines, you can write almost anything and if it has some type of rhythm or musical quality to it, it is considered poetry.

The above verse, which flooded into my brain as I was awakening, has a certain Shel Silverstein sound to it which I like. I enjoyed all his poetry and was sad to see him go. I guess one of my favorite books by him was “The Giving Tree” which, I guess wasn’t really poetry at all. But look through “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” and you get a lot of enrichment from it even though much of it is rather nonsensical.

Anyway, If anyone knows how to tell if writing is poetry, I would appreciate your input.

P.S. Now this is really weird: I have just discovered a workshop on beginning poetry at our library tonight. I will be there. It’s almost like providence.


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