dark poetry

dVerse Poetics: Why war?

It is not difficult for me to write about war or things military. My difficulty is to not.

I wrote this as directed by today’s dVerse prompt.

His Secret War

When he emotionally told me—
he confessed, he squirmed—
with the guilt and shame
that had long lived in his gut.

For him,
it was a hard story to tell.

Surrendering emotions,
“If evil were evil enough;
if good were good enough.

“I would find the courage.
I would fight for right,
one war to end war—forever!”

He was conscripted. Drafted!
It was what he could do
for his country. To serve. To kill
(or be killed).
Maybe he’d find glory. Heroism.
Maybe death.

But wait.
He opposed this war.
He was to fight and kill
but he hated this war.

“Is there another war
more to my liking?”

He felt that killing and dying
were not in his peacenik milk nor
cup of tea.

“Send another,” he protested.

He was ordered to report.
But he was too good for this war.
Too smart. Too woke!
Too compassionate.

He was above it.
But war he did.
And he killed so as not
to be killed. To survive.

And when his war
was no more,
he came home
to discover
that he too,
was no more.
Sadly, he missed it.

Look both ways in war and peace
because each is merely the absence of the other.
Mind the gaps, the traps, the mines, and bombs.
Win your battles to lose the war.

***

Inspired by “On the Rainy River,” a section in the book The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien.

Click here to read more poems based on the same prompt.

 

My book.

Click on the cover to see the Amazon page for either print or e-book.

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 27)

Today I was prompted to write a poem titled “The (blank) of (blank).” The first blank was to be a kind of plant or animal, the second blank an abstract noun.

The poem was to have at least one simile that plays on double meanings or otherwise doesn’t make “sense,” and describe things or beings from very different times or places as co-existing in the same space.

The Dove of Independence,
The Dove of Resistance

Are you Texan, Mexican, Mourning
or just a dove? Like a pigeon, a bird,
or an easy mark?

A Vlad target in late fall, even some of
the white wing clan; are you game
on those special occasions?

Does the cooing help you or me
make peace from your innocuous innocence
or your purity? Do you pacify or fight on?

Maybe a little less like white wing
and more like Blackhawk to win the war.
Can we deal with that winning pair?

Love conquers all, but right now
they need some hard ass, bald eagle, boom-boom.
May art like Palance be their winning war dance.

Or can VZ in the UKry find a winning way,
and stand up with humor to the wounded bear.
There’s no independence without resistance.

Look both ways at peace through conflict.
Mind the gaps but win the damn war.

Click on the meme for the NaPo page and more poetry.

Maybe I was a bit heavy with this prompt, but here is the story of Blackhawk and the white winged dove.

 

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 20)

What will future archaeologists from human or alien civilizations make of us? Today, I’m challenged to answer with a poem. My poem should explore an object or place from the point of view of the future scientist.

n Si(CH3)2Cl2 + n H2O → [Si(CH3)2O]n + 2n HCl

n Si(CH3)2(CH3COO)2 + n H2O → [Si(CH3)2O]n + 2n CH3COOH

They discovered it around the start of what they called
the Twentieth Century, which related to keeping track
of and measuring what they called time… beginning
with when one of their five thousand or so gods supposedly lived,
as best we can tell, given their early rudimentary measurement devices.

As far as we know, some called it rubber or plastic
but eventually virtually all said silicone because few could pronounce
polydimethylsiloxane in any one of their hundreds of languages.
Before they died off, this stuff was virtually everywhere
sometimes solving, and at times, causing problems.

We cannot examine or test anything they did anywhere
without finding this stuff in use by them, internally and externally.
We find it in all parts of their semi-decomposed bodies, mostly
to make lips, breasts, and other sexual organs look inflated
or larger. Eventually, it was everywhere. We find it in clothing,
on them as sexual lubricants and toys, and in everything they looked at or touched.

We mostly take it for granted now and we suspect
they did, too. They used it for rudimentary rockets but when
they failed to test it completely, it let them down and caused
many deaths. In fact, we can accurately determine when
things happened by how they used silicone before what they called
“artificial intelligence” (which was real) made their existence redundant.

Look both ways.
But study the past and appreciate the present.
Mind the gaps when the AI starts working together at night in your garage.

 

Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

 

This is very brief clip from The Graduate:

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 15)

This is Saturday. This morning, I had a two-hour online meeting with my writer group. I left that meeting early to make an open mic poetry reading. I drove 40 minutes each way and read five poems. Now, I am to write a poem. I should also find time for things like exercise, reading, and whatever else comes into my life. Retirement—right.

Today’s NaPo poem should exaggerate some (supposedly) admirable qualities of a person in a way that exposes my doubts about them. This person may be real or imagined. A person who was held up as an example of how to be, but one about whom I had doubts.

Doug was a tall and handsome fellow,
a man of means,
a legend in his own time
and perhaps
in his own mind.
He was untouchable. Until he wasn’t.

Normally, when someone, either man or woman,
falls from the grace of celebrity status
and the pillar we place them on,
the reason is either drugs, alcohol, or sex
(predatory, paid for, consensual, or otherwise).

But this guy’s demise was precipitated by
pride and a godlike belief
in himself and his mind and spirit.

As it turned out,
His Nibs was replaceable after all.

Look both ways in the mirror of confidence.
Thankfully, no one is irreplaceable.
Mind the gaps because everyone is vulnerable, lies, and eventually dies.

 

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 4)

I write many poems. But I’m a lazy poet. Nowadays, I lean heavily on free verse, simply because it is easier.

My Day 4 NaPo (I pronounce, ‘nay-poe’) assignment was to write a triolet poem. It is a short, but strict form of eight lines, some repeating (verbatim), with a strict meter (iambic tetrameter) and rhyme scheme (ABaAabAB).

Except for NaPo, I would not have written this today. I seldom post on Tuesday. I confess to being inspired and influenced by the Bard’s Julius Caesar (3.1. 273), at least thematically. And yes, it did happen on a Tuesday. I changed my lines so as not to use exact lines from Shakespeare.

Love’s Rath

He said, “Let loose the dogs of war.”

Let Hell be sent for you, dear friend.

Caesar lies there! Dead on the floor!

He said, “Let lose the dog of war.”

Let gods avenge my angry scorn.

Unsheathe my sword, my soul to mend.

He said, “Let lose the dogs of war.”

Let Hell be sent for you, dear friend.

Look both ways.
Forgive some, not all.
Mind the gaps and pitfalls along the road to vengeance.

 

Click on the NaPo button to see the challenge and more poems (not all are on prompt).

Sammi’s Weekender #298 (jejune)

Click this graphic for Sammi’s page where you’ll find more fine prose/poetry.

I had to look it up. Jejune means devoid of significance and dull. Its many synonyms include stodgy, insipid, vapid, banal, and boring.

Jerkoff

I don’t care
what you think
about
long dead
bukowski.

I read/re-read
(either way)
his non-stuffy
prose or poems.

why do I care?
he’s not jejune.

his paradigm
or mine?

Look both ways for truth and reality.
Mind your gaps but admit not your secret pleasures.

Sammi’s Weekender #297 (key)

Click on graphic to go to Sammi’s blog page where more 71-word poetry or prose are key.

 

 

Whispering Cuts

Lost in a familiar sea of grave reality, my dysfunctional heart not yet surrendered, something of which none are certain. Worry descended like a pall over my will. Sadness has taken control of my soul. Well-intentioned, high-riding key influencers are wheedling me into their delusional corner. Life, lies, and what matters: shut down before I hit the ground. I ponder death, or better, conceivably, never to have been born at all.

Look both ways, but in the end, it is just the end.
Nothing more.
Mind the gaps of life’s traps.
Sometimes it’s your fault. Sometimes it’s not.

Monday’s Rune: Not looking so good.

 

They called him Tom—not his real name.
This guy was no head-hanging Tom Dooley.
Tom liked to watch. A voyeur. A peeking peeper.
A people watcher of the lowest and riskiest form.
Yet, old Tom was submissive. Not dangerous. But who knew?

Night was his time—windows framed his fantasies.

One day Tom saw something that made him
stop peeping—almost. “Now I’ve seen everything.
My life is complete. And I need to go to confession,
but not with that priest.” Tom, confided in himself.

Then, late one warm summer night, there was a scream.
Someone else yelled.
Dogs barked.
Tom ran.
He heard a gunshot.

Maybe Tom had seen everything. But he never made it
to confession. He died doing what he loved.
What he needed.
And he died running,
just not fast enough. Peeping Tom was no more.
“And another one gone” and
“Another one bites the dust.”

Look both ways.
Exhibitionists and watchers can work together,
each according to his, her, or their wants and needs.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #290 (perpetual)

Click this graphic to read more 84-word prose or poems from Sammi’s blog page.

Absurd Salt

Nothing is forever,
yet, the only thing that can never really be
is exactly nothing, that which never was,
and we can never really see.

We are here—together
only for a moment.
Then, the moment’s gone—forever!
Never to be again.
Everything
changes.

Our world is what was not before
and what will never be again.
We cannot capture time’s illusion.

There is no perpetual, everlasting life.
There is only this brief fleeting moment,
good or bad as life’s delusion would have it.

Look both ways all you want, but here and now, fear Sartre’s authentic freedom.
Mind the gaps for answers, but there is no objective truth.

Friday Fictioneers for November 18th, 2022

Rochelle, our dear dancing diva with big black boots and broken toes, has punted a Friday Fictioneers photo from Starsinclayjars to us, twice actually. Her intent is for us to score goals by netting our 100-word (or fewer) stories for mid-November. We are to look and see the picture, big or small, and then write a story from our mused inspiration. Thence, to blog post said fibs for all the world to admire and love.

Be bold and click on the boot by the bush for a fast flash over to Mistress Rochelle’s rockin’ blog to kick up some fun with micro fiction. Post your story in one of the squares thingies and jump in on others to tell them what you think, even if you don’t know who they are.

PHOTO PROMPT © Starsinclayjars

Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Canned English
Word Count: 100

***

The young Englishman intended to stand against the obstinate, award-winning poet, and sardonic senior citizen.

“You must wear the standard green uniform, Sir, or face the boot.”

Peter glared, “Unsatisfactory. I’ve done this vapid work well-enough for twenty-two years. I want the job. Not uniforms.”

“Sir, the National Agribusiness empowered me to inform you that you are suspended. Agree to our terms, the job is still yours.”

Peter watched a bird and sipped his wine, “You’re a callow, grotesquely inadequate twit. I’d rather live in Marfa bloody Texas than work for you jackasses.”

The young man was beet-red, “Where’s Marfan?”

***

Look both ways and be true to your conscience.
Mind the gaps, especially if your day job is on the proverbial line.

English poet Peter Reading and I were born an ocean apart on the same day, 27 July 1946. He was “one of Britan’s most original and controversial poets: angry, uncompromising, gruesomely ironic, hilarious, and heartbreaking. His scathing and grotesque accounts of lives blighted by greed, meanness, ignorance, and cultural impoverishment” captured this Bokowski-lover’s mind, heart, and imagination.

He was fired for refusing to wear a uniform, lived in Marfa, Texas, for a time, and titled the book about that experience Marfan. Peter died about 11 years ago, but his attitude and poetry live on.

Click on Peter enjoying his wine and giving some twit a look. Photo is the cover portrait (by Peter Edwards) of Reading’s Collected Poems (1970-1984), Blookaxe Books Ltd, Newcastle upon Tyne.