The Eve of War

Not an early bird.
10 a.m. Sunday
I skipped church
for extra hours
in a soothing dream.

Up in five minutes -
shave,
shower
brush my teeth,
repeat after me:

I am not
the man in the mirror.
English breakfast.
Call Dad.
Fresh tulips.

The ground under my feet
has already been painted red.
Buy milk and bandage.
Work the night shift.
Watch Ms. Revolution's sleep.

if I cried tonight, what would it be about?

of the life we lead:
the love I could not seed
or the one I've put on hold?

of final conversations:
the words I successfully bleed
or the ones which rest untold?

of the people we meet:
those who were mild and sweet
or those who shook my world?

of the paths we miss:
the dreams they could well feed
or the ones I'd chase, fool's gold?

(shared with The Imaginary Garden)

(as you may well have noticed, I have problems rhyming but now and then I insist on trying)

The fear of the fear of saying goodbye

how accurate can
the account of a story be
when it's told
by both sides involved?

it was spring.
or was it a week before it?

it was sunny.
or had it just finished raining?

it was mid afternoon.
or was it late?

you ran for the bus
never saying goodbye,
never looking back -
this we remember.

Get on your bike son

Get on your bike son,
this is a fragile time
to be awake in the city,

Carry back home
your collection of bodies
and bombs,

It's enough frolicking
on the burning streets.
you know what they say

of boys who play with fire.
The future won't be written
in the dark, small hours.

Go get some sleep.

(Shared with the Real Toads)

(I had no idea what to write about until I saw this photo TB took on the inflamed streets of Kiev, 25 people were killed yesterday and I find it awfully sad to imagine how many other lives will be lost until the problem is solved. Because I found TB's title quite sarcastic, I wrote on the same tone, from an authority point of view. The poem doesn't represent my opinion on the actions people in the streets of Ukraine should take. People must hold strong.)

Stumped

I read it in The Tibetan Book of the Dead
that the last thought on your mind when you're dying

will become the first seed of your next life.
I'd like to see the people I love last thing.

Other than a child?

A tree.

Yes.

Yellow.

A polar bear.

Because despite of their size,
they have light, gentle steps.

Because they understand
what it's like to be alone.

(Shared with Poets United)