wounded warriors

life can hand us a hot coal, and there's no place to put it down...

killing

on dusty trails

over there

over here

already standing

in open graves

memory

stains tomorrow

beyond the relief

of child-graced glee

or a lady's hand

the imprecations

of ancient seers

arrived already named

Reviews

[David Scott]

There is a sadness here beyond circumstance. You poem spins visions of lost possibilities as if they were never even possible to begin with... We are all wounded and delusional in our expectations. Yet, their is a purpose and a victory worth the suffering. There is such a thing as honor and justice even in an unjust world where honorable men and women sacrifice while dishonorable politicians, philosophers, cowards, and self-serving men and women enjoy the comfort of convenience.

Ha, you have me thinking Ed.
Great write!

[Ed Hart]

thank you for your comments David...i always appreciate your visit

[An Ordinary Woman]

the hot coals always gets us...it burns and burns and burns. A little relief with words such as these glorious heartfelt ones. Much love to you my friend.

[Ed Hart]

so nice to see your tennies out and about, my mostest, bestest, longest time friend

[An Ordinary Woman]

[Bacchus]

beyond the relief
of child-graced glee
or a lady's hand

that is powerful right there...
short, but so strong.

[Ed Hart]

good to see you again

[h d e rushin]

Fact is that revenge is what kept the slaughter going on in WW1. Not any human sense of decency,
or a love for the survival of the seed of an generation of men. But revenge. Killing eventually becomes so easy, that compassion only makes it's sorrow, blossom.

Great poem dear friend. dana

[Ed Hart]

i know there are kinds of killing, where legality and morality don't cast a vote, and where righteousness and anger and the roar of the crowd fade in the mists; the kinds of killing that i speak of leave no blemish on the soul, nor interfere with a good lunch or trouble sleep; but the organized and sanctioned killing of the enemy and their kin, that becomes increasingly easy, constricts a life, and severs the doers from their own humanity, is the real wound of the warrior; there is no bandage for that

[Relic]

Life, to anyone who is aware of its dark side, becomes more sober and grim the more he or she looks around at the happenings of this world. "already standing in open graves" is a powerful statement. The monsters have the ability to carry out their attacks with no warning, and it is inevitable they will cause damage close to home sooner or later.

Those imprecations are being hurled our way on a regular basis. They come from a place with no trees or grass or modern conveniences. They dilute words to fit their goals. It is a sorry situation and one your poem describes perfectly to me.

[Ed Hart]

thank you for your thoughtful words

[Donald Meikle]

The poetry slams it home. The note is all you needed to say.
Well done again Ed.

[Ed Hart]

thank you for seeing all the way home Donald

[. serah .]

-- if sadness can be fierce, then it is so on this page... -- we grieve because we can grieve... we comprehend the nature of pain... -- ultimately, the only gift we truly possess is the gift of comprehension... -- when we comprehend good things, it feels like a blessing else it feels like a sordid curse...

[Ed Hart]

thank you serah, yes the pain of sadness can be so fierce it devours a life

[John]

The poem has no subject so the foreknowledge of death is not limited to any one individual. The poem describes a general state of affairs, death’s inevitability. Our normally incorrigible guide is curiously absent, as God will be, I imagine, when the lights go out. The palliatives on offer, which elsewhere might have worked their magic, the laughter of children for instance, are not working, even if felt and appreciated. There is only the open grave. We stand in it because we have always been there. As Philip Larkin might have put it: it was dug especially for us. The inevitable no-escape is laid down with those final ineluctable words – arrived, already, named - the hard ‘d’ (for death) helping to plant their feet irrevocably on the page.

[Ed Hart]

thank you John, you always tell a larger story than i do; in this case, gravely